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redvexillum · 7 months ago

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A/N: Yep. Another Mandatory Overtime AU because my brain is incapable of coming up with a one shot, and again, the need to write this as a long fic is strong. Also, Kit, you better not be spreading weird untrue factoids about me >:U (I'm still away, this is past Vexi talking)

SUMMARY: You never imagined Vox would choose you, so when he surprised you by saying he’d spend both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with you, it left you speechless. Determined to make this a day to remember, you set aside any lingering doubts and focused on what truly mattered—the chance to share special moments with him. This Christmas would be different, a fresh start filled with joy, laughter, and unforgettable memories.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, mandatory overtime au, soft!vox, p in v, fluffy wuffy, jealous!vox, established relationship, sort of expanding on the lore of my series but do not need to read to enjoy this as a standalone piece

To Vox, power, fame, and wealth were mere trifles, luxuries that had long since lost their lustre. In Hell’s cutthroat world, he had scaled the heights, achieving a level of dominance where nothing material could elude him. Gifts were meaningless; a snap of his fingers could conjure any treasure, and the thrill of receiving had withered decades ago.

But you were different.

When he spotted you at the mall, his first instinct was to saunter over, his grin cocky and electric, ready to bask in your reaction. Yet, he stopped himself, his sharp eyes darting around the bustling public space. He couldn’t risk it.

To the world, Vox was still bound to Val—an image of a perfect, high-powered couple, their union as much about strategy as it was status. To be seen with you would fracture that carefully curated façade.

And so, he lingered in the shadows, torn between reason and an irrational surge of jealousy as he watched you browse a store. His gaze narrowed when he realized what you were inspecting: men’s watches.

A crackling spark escaped the side of his head, his irritation manifesting in a literal flash. It was small, but he felt it—a glitch in his carefully composed exterior. You were shopping for him, weren’t you? Not him, Vox, but for someone else. Someone who could be there when he couldn’t, who didn’t have to navigate the web of lies and appearances that tethered him to Val.

He clenched his fists, his sleek fingers curling against his palms. He hated how selfish he was, hated how much he demanded from you. You gave him so much—your time, your affection, your understanding—despite the precarious position he left you in.

And he?

He played his part with Val, smiling and posturing for cameras, aware that every stolen moment with you was another step closer to losing you.

He tried to rationalize it, repeating the words like a mantra in his head. You deserve more. You deserve someone who can give you what I can't. If you’ve found that, I should be happy for you.

But he wasn’t.

His vision blurred for a moment as he pulled up the mall’s pathetic excuse for security systems. Hacking into the camera feed was laughably easy; the hardest part was tamping down the frantic pace of his thoughts as he accessed the live footage of the store. Sitting on a bench, feigning indifference, he tapped into the audio feed, the tinny sound filtering into his ears.

“Oh, a special gift for someone perhaps?” the shopkeeper asked cheerfully, her hands deftly choosing a ribbon to wrap the watch in pristine packaging.

Vox’s pulse thrummed in his ears, the faint hum of static buzzing around him as he leaned forward. Who was it for? A friend? A lover? The thought churned uneasily in his gut, his calm exterior threatening to shatter as he waited for your reply.

Vox’s breath hitched, a rare falter in his perfectly curated demeanour. His crimson eyes widened as he recognized the watch on the counter—a limited edition masterpiece he’d admired for months. Though he typically donned his own brand, the Vwatch, this particular piece had captivated him: a sleek chrome finish encircling the face, golden hands tipped with tiny sapphire jewels, and a deep, almost-black leather strap that exuded sophistication.

You had once remarked how well it would complement his suits, your words lingering in his mind like a whisper of validation.

He had planned to buy it himself—eventually—but always pushed it aside, his focus consumed by grander schemes. Yet now, the sight of you purchasing it sent a nauseating churn through his stomach.

Could it be for someone else?

The thought clawed at him. Memories of Christmas spent where he would choose every other year to be with you and the next with Val. One particular moment surfaced unbidden, sharp as the static hum in his circuits. She had left him alone in her office on Christmas Eve. After that, he’d noticed the change between you two afterwards—your smiles a little softer, a little sadder, and your touch hesitant, as though holding back from a line you feared crossing.

“Something like that,” your voice floated through the audio feed, soft and melodic, setting his circuits alight. “I hope he likes it.”

Your cheeks flushed faintly as you smiled, radiant and genuine, and the sight pierced him in a way no weapon ever could.

Vox’s fingers curled into tight fists, pressing against his thighs, tension rippling through his frame. The unspoken truth of his situation—his entanglement with Valentino—hung between you like a spectre neither of you dared confront. It was the cruel cost of power, a strategic alliance that kept him tethered to a man he no longer needed but couldn’t yet discard.

Still, he clung to the hope that you would wait. That you would see through his machinations to the truth beneath: that he wanted you, only you. But hope was a fragile thing.

No woman could be expected to wait for scraps of affection, not when someone else—a simpler, hapless man—could offer you what he couldn’t: endless time, holidays spent together, and love unburdened by lies.

“Do you want to write a message to go with your gift, sweetie?” the shopkeeper asked, her tone saccharine.

You nodded eagerly, your bright smile lighting up the screen. Vox felt the breath he’d been holding escape in a shudder. Even now, even like this, you were utterly stunning.

He should cut the feed. He knew it was invasive, a violation of trust that he could never justify. But his hand trembled as he zoomed the camera, needing—aching—to see what you wrote.

His heart seized when your delicate, looping handwriting came into focus:

For a moment, his world stopped. The static hum in his circuits faded to nothing, replaced by the warmth blooming in his chest. It was for him. You had thought of him, even after everything.

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Vox felt human.

Vox’s heart stuttered, then raced, the static hum in his circuits drowned out by the pounding in his chest. His crimson eyes devoured the words on the card, reading them over and over as if they might change, as if he might wake from some impossible dream.

Merry Christmas, Vox. Love, Your Sunshine.

He barely registered the way your delicate fingers folded the card and nestled it into the white tissue paper sprouting elegantly from the gift bag. You hugged it close to your chest, cradling it like something precious, before stepping out of the store.

From his bench, he watched, transfixed. Your face glowed with a joy that seemed to light up the dreary mall. Each step you took was a little lighter, as if the act of gifting brought you as much happiness as it would bring him.

And that realization hit him like a jolt of electricity.

Suddenly, every extravagant gift he’d ever planned to lavish upon you felt hollow, insufficient. The jewels, the designer clothes, the world-class experiences—none of it could compare to the simple, heartfelt gesture you’d made. You knew he didn’t need anything, least of all a watch he could have purchased without a second thought. Yet, you’d chosen to give him something anyway, something meaningful.

It wasn’t the object itself that overwhelmed him; it was you. Your thoughtfulness, your care, the time and energy you’d poured into something just for him.

His head bowed, hands clenched tightly against his knees as he tried to steady the storm of emotions within him. When had he last felt like this? Anticipation, excitement—a childlike giddiness that left him breathless. The last time he had looked forward to receiving a gift seemed like lifetimes ago, buried beneath decades of power plays and hollow exchanges.

But this was different.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, lost in his thoughts. He couldn’t tear his mind away from the memory of your smile, the way your fingers had traced the edges of the bag as if sealing your affection within it.

Then, the soft beep of his penthouse’s security system jolted him upright. His eyes snapped open, and his chest tightened with anticipation. That sound could only mean one thing: you’d arrived.

Vox stood abruptly, smoothing the lines of his suit as he began to walk quickly until it became a light jog, unable to contain the electric energy buzzing beneath his skin. For once, it wasn’t nerves from a deal or tension from a scheme. It was something far more vulnerable, far more precious.

You were here, and in your hands was the gift that had left him, an Overlord, feeling utterly, beautifully human.

When you stepped into Vox’s penthouse, the warmth and sparkle of the space immediately enveloped you. Your gaze wandered over the extravagant decorations, and a soft giggle escaped your lips as you realized he’d transformed his usually sleek, modern lair into a festive wonderland—for you.

Your eyes were drawn to the centrepiece of his effort: a towering white Christmas tree, its branches adorned with glittering ornaments crafted from rare Hellgems. Their multifaceted surfaces refracted the golden glow of the room, casting shimmering patterns onto the walls. Typical Vox—nothing but the most extravagant display would suffice.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, a fond smile playing on your lips. The tinsel glinted like flakes of molten gold, and the lights wrapped around the living room bathed everything in a soft, romantic hue. It was breathtaking, almost dreamlike.

As you wandered closer to the tree, your gaze fell to the pile of gifts nestled beneath it. Each box was immaculately wrapped, ribbons curling like tendrils of flame, and every single one bore your name.

Your heart fluttered, but you also couldn’t suppress a quiet laugh. This man and his over-the-top antics…

Shaking your head, you crouched down to slide your own modest gift under the tree. It wasn’t much compared to his lavish displays, and you couldn’t help the flicker of doubt that crept into your mind. Would he even like it? Would he wear it, or would it sit in some forgotten drawer while he promoted his Vwatch brand instead?

Still, you had chosen this gift carefully. The watch was sleek, understated—a perfect contrast to his usual bold style. You’d even had it engraved on the back, a tiny, intimate detail just for him: the date you first met. In Hell, where time stretched endlessly and moments blurred into the infinite, you wanted to immortalize a memory that mattered.

The soft click of the door pulled you from your thoughts. You turned, the warm golden light catching Vox’s figure as he entered the room. He looked striking as ever, his sharp silhouette somehow both commanding and inviting.

“Vox!” you greeted warmly, but your words caught in your throat as his expression stopped you short. His crimson eyes were locked on you, burning with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

Before you could say another word, he crossed the room with purpose, his movements fluid yet charged with urgency. His hands cupped your face, and then his lips crashed against yours.

A surprised gasp escaped you, muffled by his fervent kiss. His tongue teased at your lips, seeking entrance, before slipping inside, slow and deliberate, tasting, claiming.

“Mmph—!” you started to protest, but his claws were already working with deft precision, undoing the buttons of your pants. His touch was frantic yet careful, as though he couldn’t bear the barrier between you a second longer.

“Vox, wait—” you managed to whisper between kisses, but his shirt was already sliding off his shoulders, revealing the sharp planes of his chest. His hands moved to yours, tugging at your clothes with equal urgency, his lips returning to yours with a hunger that stole your breath.

You couldn’t help the wry smile that curled your lips as you surrendered to the moment, equal parts amused and overwhelmed by his sudden intensity. Whatever had sparked this frenzy in him, it was clear—he wasn’t letting you go anytime soon.

“Well, what a welcoming surprise,” you giggled breathlessly as Vox unhooked your bra with practised ease, letting it slip from your shoulders and fall forgotten to the floor.

“Sunshine,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. Before you could tease him further, he pulled you into an embrace, his warmth enveloping you entirely. There was a tenderness in his touch, a vulnerability rarely seen in the man who always seemed so untouchable.

You froze for a moment, caught off guard by his sudden affection, but then you melted into him. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you rested your cheek against his chest, humming softly in comfort as his steady heartbeat thrummed against your skin.

Without a word, he lowered you gently to the plush carpet, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree casting a golden glow over both of you. You glanced up at the glittering ornaments above, their reflections sparkling like tiny stars. “How festive,” you quipped with a bright smile, though the moment felt far more intimate than playful.

Vox’s lips curled into a soft smirk as he leaned down, his crimson eyes locking with yours. “I’m just starting our time a bit earlier,” he murmured, his claws tracing a slow, tantalizing path down your side. His touch left a trail of fire on your skin, every stroke deliberate, lingering.

“You’ll have me for the rest of today and tomorrow,” he promised, his voice dipping into a husky tone that sent shivers coursing through you. He pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. “No one else, just you and me, babydoll.”

Heat coiled low in your belly as you wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him flush against you. The hard length of him pressed insistently against your core, a potent reminder of the passion simmering between you. “Yeah?” you whispered, your fingers trailing up and down his spine in delicate, featherlight touches.

He closed his eyes, his expression softening as if savouring every brush of your fingers, every shift of your body against his. Slowly, he rolled his hips forward, the pressure igniting sparks of pleasure that made you gasp.

“My lovely sunshine,” he murmured, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was achingly slow and reverent. It wasn’t just passion—it was something deeper, as if he were trying to etch this moment into the fabric of time, a memory neither of you could ever forget.

You basked in his warmth, in the tenderness of his touches, the way he made you feel cherished. Whatever this was—love, devotion, something close to it—it made your chest tighten with emotion.

He opened his eyes, crimson pools filled with desire and something unspoken. With deliberate care, he adjusted his hips, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance. Slowly—achingly slowly—he began to press forward, stretching you inch by inch, filling you completely.

Your back arched, a sharp gasp escaping your lips as the sensation overwhelmed you. “B-been a while,” you murmured shakily, your hands gripping his shoulders as your hips instinctively pushed against his, urging him deeper.

Vox groaned low in his throat, the sound sending vibrations through your body. His voice was thick with praise as he moved, his hips rocking in a maddeningly slow rhythm. “You feel so good,” he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing your skin. “So perfect… so mine.”

When his hips finally pressed flush against yours, his cock buried deep within you, he began to grind in slow, deliberate motions, the friction against your clit ripping moan after moan from your lips. Bracing one arm beside your head, his other hand trailed to your chest, his claws teasing your nipples with gentle pinches and twists. Each motion sent jolts of pleasure straight to your core, making you squirm beneath him.

“Ah, d-don’t tease me, V-Vox,” you whined, your hips bucking against him. The need in your voice was unmistakable, and you wrapped your legs tighter around him, pulling him closer. “Please… just fuck me already.”

A smirk spread across his lips, but the look in his eyes was molten. “Patience, sunshine,” he purred, though the tension in his body betrayed how much he wanted to lose himself in you. Slowly, he began to move, each thrust deep and purposeful, as if determined to make this moment last forever.

“Oh, babydoll,” Vox growled, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine. “This is just the appetizer. You and I? We’re not getting a wink of sleep tonight.” His hips snapped forward with a force that left you gasping, a sharp exhale tearing from your lips as he filled you completely.

“Yeah?” you moaned, arching into him, your hips grinding against his in a rhythm that sent waves of heat crashing through you. “You’re really gonna fuck me all night?”

His grin widened, that dangerous, predatory look lighting up his glowing crimson eyes. “That’s right,” he purred, driving his cock deeper, stretching you until every nerve felt alight with pleasure. “You’re gonna be working overtime for me, doll.” His laughter, low and wicked, earned an eye roll from you even as your body quaked under his ministrations.

“God, you’re so lame,” you managed to tease, though the giggle that bubbled up from your throat was quickly swallowed by a moan. Summoning all your strength, you pushed him onto his back, his cock still buried deep inside you, and straddled him.

The moment you settled over him, his hands flew to your hips, gripping you with a possessive force that only made the fire in your belly burn hotter. Slowly, you began to roll your hips, savouring the way his cock stretched and filled you perfectly.

Vox’s crimson gaze locked onto where your bodies met, watching intently as your slick heat swallowed him over and over. The sight clearly unravelled him, his grip tightening as he let out a deep groan. “Like what you see?” you panted, leaning forward just enough to let your chest graze his.

He didn’t answer with words, just another deep groan, his hips bucking upward to meet yours. The small thrusts sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, your rhythm faltering as you clung to him. “Fuck,” he moaned, his voice raw, the sound of your slick skin meeting echoing in the room.

Your head fell back, a cascade of pleasure crashing through you as he angled his hips to hit that sensitive spot deep inside. You cried out, your moans echoing against the warm glow of the Christmas lights. Your breasts bounced with each motion, the sensation adding another layer to your pleasure.

Vox’s claws skimmed up your thighs before finding their way to your clit, drawing agonizingly slow circles that sent you spiralling. “Fuck, babydoll,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “When we’re done here, I’m going to eat you out so thoroughly you won’t even remember your name. Gonna make you come so hard you’ll pass out.”

His filthy promises sent a delicious shiver down your spine, your head lolling forward to meet his lust-filled gaze. “Oh? Is that why—ah—” your words cut off as his thrusts grew faster, rougher, driving the air from your lungs, “I saw you buying all those holiday-themed sex toys?”

His grin was wicked, full of mischief and desire. “’Tis the season, babydoll,” he quipped, his voice strained with pleasure as he pounded into you harder and harder, each thrust coaxing you closer to the edge.

Your body trembled, the coil in your gut winding tighter and tighter. “Fuck, Vox,” you whimpered, your hands clutching his chest for stability as your hips stuttered. “I’m so close—so fucking close!”

He snarled low in his throat, gripping your hips and driving into you with unrelenting force, his body colliding with yours in a sinful, intoxicating rhythm. Your moans mingled with his, the room filled with the sound of your shared ecstasy as you teetered on the brink of oblivion.

Vox’s hand moved with precision, his fingers teasing and circling your clit in rhythm with the relentless thrust of his cock. His voice, rough and gravelly, rumbled in your ear, “Yeah? You gonna cum for me, doll? Gonna cum all over my cock?” Each word was a deliberate strike to your senses, his pace punishing, his strength overwhelming as he drove you higher.

“Fuck—ah—yes, yes, yes!” you screamed, your voice breaking into a cacophony of desperate moans and gasps as the pleasure built into an unbearable crescendo. Every stroke, every flick, every pulse of his cock sent you closer to your peak.

And then, with one final push, he shattered you. Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing through you with devastating force. Your body convulsed as you babbled incoherent praise, gasping out how good he felt, how perfect he was, how hard he was as you come for him.

Your pleasure was his undoing. His hips bucked erratically as he followed you over the edge, spilling into you with a guttural moan. His cock throbbed, filling you to the brim with his release as his movements slowed, his breaths ragged and heavy.

For a moment, the world stilled. The warmth of him inside you, the sticky evidence of your love-making spilling onto his thighs and the plush carpet below, tethered you both to the present. You rested against him, your breath mingling with his as you came down from the high together, basking in the intimacy of the moment.

Then, a shrill ring pierced the quiet, coming from Vox’s screen-like face. Your contented haze faltered as the unmistakable image of Valentino lit up his display.

Your expression soured immediately.

Of course. Valentino. The moth pimp always had impeccable timing.

You began to move, reluctantly preparing to dismount Vox’s lap, but his firm hands stopped you. He held you there, his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to let go.

When the third ring echoed, Vox’s display glitched for a moment, and then the image of Valentino disappeared.

Vox had hung up.

Your eyes snapped to his face, wide with surprise, just as his features reappeared. His signature smirk was back, but this time, there was something softer, something resolute in the way he looked at you. “Where do you think you’re going?” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety purr.

You froze as his hand reached up, his clawed finger curling a stray strand of your hair. His eyes were half-lidded, his grin dripping with affection and something deeper—something just for you. “Didn’t I say,” he drawled, his tone almost teasing, “today and tomorrow, sunshine. You have me, and I’ll have you.”

Your breath hitched as his words sank in, warmth blooming in your chest. Slowly, a grin broke across your face, small but filled with understanding. “Damn right,” you murmured, your voice carrying a mix of affection and playful defiance. “I’m working overtime for my boss, after all.”

He chuckled, the sound low and full of satisfaction, before pulling you against him, his arms encircling you tightly. Your head rested against his chest, his heartbeat steady and rhythmic beneath your ear, grounding you in his presence.

“That’s right, sunshine,” he whispered, his voice soft and laced with an uncharacteristic tenderness. “You are always my first choice.”

His arms tightened around you, as if he could etch the moment into eternity, as if he could brand his words onto your soul. And as the glow of the Christmas lights bathed you both in a warm, golden haze, you believed him. For tonight and tomorrow, and maybe, just maybe, forever.

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ooihcnoiwlerh · 5 months ago

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE LADY NA-BARONESS (PART ONE)

First chapter of 2025 is up now, my Darlings! (18+only)

Link to AO3 here

Previous tumblr link chapter here

CW: mentions of child abuse and implied/referenced CSA; canon-typical misogyny; Geidi Prime and the Harkonnens serving as their own content warnings

Additional tags: switching; dom!Feyd; sub!Reader; pregnancy; vague murder plots; dysfunctional family dynamics; minor degradation; collars and restraints; vaginal sex; vaginal fingering; titty fucking; oral sex (M+F receiving) facials; face-fucking; ball-sucking; teasing; edging; aftercare; arena fights

When you wake up the next morning you realize that the two of you shifted to your sides, that he’s moved up a little and his breath tickles your upper abdomen; you can see the top of his head just below your breasts and feel one of his legs in between yours. He’s so warm, so solid yet pliant, making you smile to yourself and gently stroke his back as you remember everything that happened last night.

This man’s been submissive before, has been collared and leashed before, has allowed himself to be used before, and that’s fine. You never expected to be your husband’s first anything , even before you knew that there were other sorts of firsts.

You are reasonably certain, though, as he stirs and tightens his arms around you for a moment, that you’re the first person to have him like this. If you were in a different mood you’d ask him if anyone else has ever slept through the night with him and felt him as wanting.

Instead you turn onto your back, guiding him on top of you as he starts to wake up and shift your legs to give him space to rest in the cradle of your hips.

He seems to properly wake seconds after you do, raising his body up to stifle a yawn against your collarbone before finally lifting his head to look at you.

You get a proper look at his neck; there are faint red marks around it, and if given proper time to inspect it you’d be able to make out the faint outline of the prongs that dug into the column of his throat and chains around the sides of his neck. You press a kiss there, thinking that no one else is going to risk staring so long that they’d get a close view.

“How does it feel?” you ask, voice still thick with sleep. You realize that Feyd’s half-hard against your thigh.

“Feels perfect,” he murmurs, smiling for a moment as his cheek brushes against your temple, his chest expanding as your tongue flickers against his skin. “And you?”

You can’t help but let out a giggle and admit, “Sore.” You suppose it’s not much of a surprise; he’d had his tongue and then his cock inside of you for over an hour.

“Oh?” he asks, and leans down to meet you in a kiss as his half-hard cock brushes against you again. “ Too sore?” he asks.

“Didn’t say that,” you tell him as you shift and draw your legs back, giving him more space. You’re barely awake, barely processing the gray early-morning light but Feyd’s getting harder, enough to properly push inside of you, and you ache for it.

Still, you’re not quite wet enough when he slides along your slit, so he slowly rubs his fingertips against you until you are, until he can no longer take the distance and presses into you with a low rumble of a groan against your lips.

You belong inside of me , you want to tell him as you clutch at his back the moment you arch your own, pressing your chest against his, keeping one arm wrapped around his shoulders and your free hand against the back of his head to pull him into a kiss.

It isn’t rough, not until the end when Feyd seems close, when his thrusts get hard and fast and he snarls and bites down on the crook of your neck. Not until you dig your nails into his shoulders and drag them down his back, feeling the top layer of skin break.

I'll take all you can give me, you think when he comes and you coil yourself around him, clenching down and shuddering.

He pumps his hips into you a few more times, wrapping an arm around you as he lowers the two of you down and laps at the bite mark he’s no doubt left. You tilt your head to give him more access, your fingertips trailing over the marks you’ve left on him.

You’d almost ask him to stay inside you a little longer, before he kisses your mouth, the contact swallowing up your gasp as he pulls out.

He gets up and pads over to the bathroom. You’ll do the same in a few minutes but for the moment take your time to reach for the nearly-empty glass of water on the nightstand and take a sip and turn to your side, head resting on one hand, to watch as Feyd reemerges.

You tilt your head, watching as he dresses silently; his training shirt’s collar low enough that anyone will be able to see the marks you’ve left. He turns and catches where you’re looking, the faint amusement never leaving his eyes. “No one’ll say anything,” he says by way of answer to your silent question.

Certainly not if they want to keep their heads, you think as Feyd finishes getting dressed and fastening his boots. You wonder if this is what it’s like to feel territorial, to feel pride at marking up what’s yours.

And you are mine, aren’t you? you think, biting your lip as he sips some water and gets ready to leave.

“I expect you in the Training Halls in half an hour,” Feyd says on his way out.

“Noted,” you tell him and get up, slinking into your own quarters, feeling rather pleased with yourself, even if so few of the real conflicts you’ll have to face have been resolved. For a few minutes you can just allow yourself to be happy, getting ready for the morning until Idrisa arrives with her tray of water, lemons, and coffee.

“Morning!” you tell her from your spot seated on the edge of the bed as you pull on your training shirt and reach for your boots.

“You seem to be in better spirits, my lady,” Idrisa says as she sets the tray down.

You smile at her. “Well, thank you. I’d dare say I am in better spirits,” you tell her.

She doesn’t know yet; you can hardly believe you haven’t told her yet, in the days since you’ve found out. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yes, my lady?” she asks, standing at a respectable distance and folding her hands in front of her.

For all there is to fear, you allow yourself to enjoy the knowledge of the life growing inside of you. “I’m pregnant,” you tell her. “The Bene Gesserit confirmed it during their visit.”

Her eyes widen and she glances down at your abdomen, as if you could be showing so soon. One hand reaches up towards you, the other flying to the side of her face. “Oh, my lady, that’s such wonderful news!” she says. “Do you have any symptoms yet?”

“Not yet,” you tell her. “Not any that I’ve really noticed.”

“Well, I’m here to provide you with whatever you need. You’ll have the best care the Fortress has to offer,” she says. She glances back at the tray, suddenly looking stricken. “Oh, if I’d known I’d have gotten some prenatal tablets for you. I’m sorry, na-Baroness.”

You step forward, reaching for her hands as she starts wringing them. “You couldn’t have known; I hadn’t told you yet. I mean, it was inevitable given, well…” you hesitate, managing an awkward chuckle you don’t expect her to be able to share in. “Hardly anyone knows yet. We…well, we’ve decided to wait another couple of weeks or however long it will take to get a proper confirmation from a Harkonnen doctor before we make any declarations. I don’t think I’d have known about it were it not for the visit,” you add. “So I think it would be not only fine but for the best to hold off on those prenatal supplements until my pregnancy’s common knowledge.”

Idrisa’s hands are smaller than yours, and clammy as she nods, her eyes shining, looking for a moment like they’re brimming with unshed tears. “Yes, of course, my lady,” she says emphatically. “And I’ll bring you some ginger tea after your training. It’s good for energy and digestion.” She drops her hands the moment you release them and she takes a step back. Her eyes dart back down to your stomach.

“Pardon me, my lady, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of you when we first met,” she says. “But I do think you’ll make a very fine Baroness. And I think you’ll soon realize how important this is to the House of Harkonnen.”

You don’t see her fervor often, and it’s almost enough to give you pause, almost enough to take you out of the warm bubble you inhabited with Feyd last night, earlier this morning.

Even if the Harkonnens don’t know the significance of your firstborn son to the greater population, this is momentous for them, and you realize you might not have seen yet the fanaticism they’re capable of showing.

At breakfast the Baron undoubtedly notices the scratches along the back of his nephew’s scalp and the indentations along his throat. He probably knows they came from you. You’re reasonably sure, though, as he glances between the two of you, that he couldn’t begin to guess how you put them there.

He doesn’t ask, though, and neither of you indulge him. So instead of probing he mentions that he’ll eventually join Feyd on Arrakis, to see his progress and results.

“Not to leave you alone here, my dear niece, but I’m sure you understand that such measures are necessary during war,” he says to you in afterthought.

“I do, my lord Baron,” you say lightly, “and I appreciate your consideration.” You spare just a glance at Feyd and catch his eye for a moment.

You have a window of opportunity here , you want to tell him. You can make your move while in enemy territory .

And not that you could ever hope to communicate telepathically, but his responding look before focusing his attention on the Baron seems to suggest that the thought has already occurred to him.

It makes the Baron’s weeks of petty insults and insinuations easier to stomach. He can find you disposable, can find you nothing more than a broodmare for the Harkonnens to be dispatched after you’ve served your purpose. You’ll tolerate it for now. All that matters is that within months he’ll find out how wrong he’s been.

You're not surprised that there's no blood the following week when your time comes around, just a little surprised that you don't feel any different yet. A little more tired than usual, but that's about it. Still optimistic about the future, for now, before anyone can ruin it for you.

You examine your profile in the mirror one morning before you’ve gotten dressed and your belly doesn’t look different yet; you’ve had monthly courses where there’s been more of a curve to your lower stomach. Your breasts look about the same, although you’ve heard they’ll change first and change soon. The only difference in your body you can point out from when you first landed on Geidi Prime is that there’s a little more definition in your arms and legs, and you’re not sure how long that will stay. Feyd said once that he’d pause your training sessions once you start showing but that’s undoubtedly changed to “ once he leaves for Arrakis .”

How strange, that something so powerful’s growing inside of you and no one could begin to guess yet just from looking at you.

It’s then that Feyd enters, fully dressed in his training clothes but before doing any training, if the lack of sweat is any indication. His expression’s inscrutable. For once he’s not eyeing your naked body with lust, even as his gaze sweeps over you.

“Is something wrong?” you ask him.

“You’re going to want to stay in your chambers today,” he says, voice tight.

You furrow your brow, tamping down on your indignation. “ Why?”

A muscle in Feyd’s jaw twitches. “Rabban’s here on a short visit,” he says. “Getting a respite and trying to explain why he’s been such a failure.”

You reach for your robe and cover up, feeling almost like he’s here already. Your brother-in-law has never looked at you with hunger, as far as you could tell, but a certain resentment, no doubt over the fact that he wasn’t the one gifted with the trophy bride and the key to the Harkonnen throne.

“You don’t think he’ll try to–” you start, because at no point has Feyd ever seemed afraid of his older brother, and you don’t think it’s fear that’s causing him to act this way now.

“Never. I’d kill him before he tried,” Feyd says. “But he’s coarse and unpleasant at the best of times, and worse when he’s aggravated. He’ll want to insult you, brag about the size of his dick, and make any number of comments I won’t stand for.”

You’ve heard a number of coarse comments before, mostly ones you weren’t meant to hear, but you’re grateful for the opportunity to avoid any coming from your brother-in-law. Still, if Rabban’s to lose his post soon regardless, it seems pointless to continue demanding results from him that everyone knows he won’t deliver.

“Giving him time to explain himself implies that your uncle’s going to give him another chance to fix things.” Selfishly, you don’t hate the idea, as impossible as it is. Let Rabban keep putting himself in danger on Arrakis, and let your husband stay with you .

“And I’m sure Rabban believes that,” Feyd says. “He’s welcome to, for now. It’ll make things simpler if he’s not throwing weeks worth of tantrums over having his toys taken away from him.”

You scoff, not because you don’t believe him but because it’s almost bizarre to really think about the difference between the two of them–Rabban so much older, already a man when Feyd was still an infant, and yet so petulant and easily angered. “He’s really so immature?” you ask.

“He’s a useless oaf who couldn’t beat a ten-year-old in a game of cheops and relied on his fists instead,” Feyd says.

For a man who rarely discusses his childhood he always somehow manages to say a great deal in so few words. You pull your robe tighter around you.

“Avoiding him won’t be an issue,” you say. “How do you think you’ll handle him?”

Feyd holds your gaze. “I’m not ten years old anymore,” is all he says, before turning and leaving, going off to train.

You bring your hand back down to your still somewhat-flat abdomen.

You know Feyd’s intentions with the Baron when the time is right. But what of Rabban? You can’t exactly ask him to dispose of both uncle and brother, even though Feyd probably wouldn’t hesitate to do so if there was nothing stopping him.

But could he pose a threat? With the Baron gone would Rabban try to challenge Feyd for the Barony? Regain governorship of Arrakis? Feyd could banish him back to Lankiveil, sure, but would it take? Rabban’s power is mostly superficial at this point, but he could still be an issue.

You’ll have to make sure that Feyd knows how to handle him when he has neither Arrakis nor his uncle to prop himself up.

A few hours later your attempts to self-isolate prove to be a moot point when Feyd visits you in your room while you’re nursing a cup of ginger tea.

“Uncle insists upon your presence at dinner,” is all he says.

You set your tea down. “To taunt Rabban? Or to test your patience?” you ask.

“I assume both,” Feyd says. “And Uncle won’t allow fratricide, so he and I will both have to be on our best behavior.”

You raise your eyebrows. You’re reasonably certain what ‘ best behavior ’ looks like from Feyd, but you’re not sure. You couldn't begin to guess what Rabban’s version of it is. You resolve to wear something that covers you up as much as possible, not even just for modesty but to hide. Rabban won’t attack you, you’re certain, but you don’t want him even looking your way.

“Very well,” you say. “Whatever the Baron requires of us tonight.”

You know dinner’s going to be an uncomfortable affair the moment you step into the room.

You and Feyd enter to the sight of the Baron, alone, sitting in his suspensor chair, already eating and sipping from a wine glass that looks like it could hold nearly an entire bottle.

“He’s coming, dear nephew,” he says before Feyd can even think to ask. “He must simply be decompressing. Grim, disappointing news as usual. Do have a seat Feyd, Y/N.” It probably doesn’t escape the Baron’s notice that your dress this evening is ornate but as physically modest as you can manage, covering you from chin to wrist to ankles, with a hood to conceal you further. You wonder if there’s a joke on the tip of his tongue about how trying to hide yourself from Rabban will just make him notice you more, as a servant offers you and Feyd wine and you both silently decline.

You also both fill your plates in silence, leaving you wondering if you should wait for your guest before the doors open with greater force this time.

Rabban looks more haggard than you remember, bags under his eyes and frown-lines more prominent than they were weeks ago. His frame is still bulky and powerful, but his face is bloated from lack of sleep. It all serves to remind you yet again that despite being his brother he’s old enough to be Feyd’s father. You avert your gaze for a moment as his eyes scan the length of the table, from the Baron at the head of it, to his brother, and finally to you. And by mistake you glance up for a split second at just the right time to meet his gaze.

He looks incredulous when he takes in your appearance and you can guess why. The hood of your dress mostly covers your hair but doesn’t completely obstruct it or your eyebrows from view. You look back down, holding your breath, as Rabban looks back at Feyd as if he’d just spat on him. His nostrils flare and he starts to open his mouth as Feyd stares back, expression carefully neutral.

Before he can speak, though, the Baron says, “Have a seat, Rabban. And do try to be civilized; you are in the presence of an actual lady for once.”

Rabban’s mouth snaps shut as he lowers his head and pulls out his chair. He still shoots Feyd another thunderous look but he must realize that while Feyd’s the one who allowed–even wanted–for you to keep your hair, that to imply that if Feyd insulted the Harkonnens with this choice would accuse their uncle of being so weak or foolish as to permit it.

No one speaks for a while after that. Rabban loads up his plate almost as high as his uncle’s, but with simple meat, grains, and veg rather than the sauce-laden delicacies the Baron starts with before going in for second, third, and fourth courses. Granted, Rabban accepts the wine, tilts the glass back and finishes it in one long pull before setting the glass down and rapping his knuckles against the table for a refill. After that the sound of utensils scraping against plates doesn’t quite drown out the sounds of the Baron eating, and with no conversation to act as a buffer.

“Just here on a brief visit?” Feyd finally asks.

“A brief visit is all I have time for,” Rabban says, sawing at his meat with his knife so aggressively you’re surprised his plate doesn’t break in half. “Some of us have important tasks that require constant attention.”

“And I’m sure your attention span can handle it,” Feyd says.

Rabban shoots him another glare, looking like he’s searching for a snarky quip in return and, failing that, wants to simply cuff his little brother on the side of the head. For a moment you see the two of them as they must’ve been fifteen years ago, except this time Rabban knows he won’t get away with it.

“I noticed you weren’t there when I spoke with Uncle,” he says instead.

Feyd lifts his head just a fraction, but you could sense him watching Rabban from below his lashes this entire time. “He wanted to discuss your personal failures with you privately,” he says.

“My–” Rabban gives an incredulous laugh. “ I’m the one leading the charge on Arrakis, fighting the good fight against those Fremen savages. What exactly have you been doing?”.

“Securing a legitimate heir,” Feyd says, and continues eating.

Rabban does a double take and looks over at you, his dark eyes darting towards your belly as you pointedly keep your gaze down and directed at your plate. He glares at Feyd and you can sense the moment he decides to push his luck. After all, their uncle is there to intervene if Feyd retaliates. His lips curl into a sneer. “It’s hardly an accomplishment to knock up some foreign bi–”

You can feel your hands shaking as you grip your utensils so tight your knuckles blanche. You look down, ears pounding, as you hear Feyd rise from his chair and pull his blade before Rabban can finish his sentence. You hear the Baron saying, “ Now, now, let us all be civil ,” as if he doesn’t find this all deeply amusing. As if this wasn’t what he wanted to see when he demanded you all dine together.

“Rabban, you speaking in such a manner in front of a distinguished Lady from a Major House is why I don’t entrust you with these sorts of duties in the first place,” the Baron continues.

“Feyd, I specifically said no fratricide. Rabban still has his obligations on Arrakis.” For now . “You’re both grown men now, so behave like it,” he adds, as if he’s not the one pitting them against each other, hoping one goads the other into a fight.

Feyd, for his part, sheathes his blade and sits down gracefully without a word, seemingly calm once more, as Rabban sputters, indignant. You half-expect him to say, He started it! and are almost impressed when instead he scowls and finishes his second glass of wine, snapping his fingers for another refill.

Feyd glances over at you after a couple of minutes. You wouldn’t say that you’re full, but you have no desire to keep eating here.

He stands. “Uncle, I would have my wife return to her chambers. She’s in a delicate way, after all, and beginning to feel the effects of her condition.”

The Baron settles back for a moment, savory pastry in one hand and his other resting on the table. He doesn’t look convinced, although you’d be surprised if he knew anything about pregnancy other than conception and birth. Feyd adds drily, “I don’t think you’ll need her present for any further briefings, either.”

The Baron huffs, takes a bite of pastry, and gives a dismissive flick of his wrist. “Y/N may be excused. You can escort her back to her quarters, nephew, just as long as you return.”

Feyd barely has to touch the back of your chair before you stand and curtsy.

“Thank you for the lovely meal this evening. My apologies for not feeling well,” you say. “Have a good evening, my lord Baron, Governor Rabban.” You give them each a nod before smoothing out your skirts and taking Feyd’s offered arm. On the way out you wonder how many times Rabban even has left to be addressed by that title.

“Are you sure the two of you are related?” you murmur in Feyd’s ear once you’ve made progress down the hallway. “You look nothing alike.”

“We are,” Feyd says. “He looks like our father and I look like our mother.”

You pause, not quite knowing how to respond to that. You’re sure the irony isn’t lost on Feyd.

He senses your silence, and if he senses the reason for it, he doesn’t address it. Instead he says, “I won’t be much longer. Rabban hates being reminded of his failures when he’s here even more than when he suffers them on Arrakis. He’s preparing a ship to take him back tonight.”

“Good,” you say softly, turning to look at him. Put him in his place when you take over, somewhere far from here, you don’t tell him. Instead, after a moment of trying to find a proper farewell, you say, “I’ll be waiting for you tonight.”

Feyd looks at you a moment longer, as if he’d like to say something reassuring. He doesn’t, and you can’t really begrudge him that. Talk is cheap for Feyd and he’s not exactly the sentimental type. He just brings one hand under your chin and brings his lips down to yours in a brief kiss before he returns to dinner with his uncle and brother. You take a moment to watch him go and wonder if for a moment if there’s still residual pain there, if Feyd looks at Rabban and thinks about what he took from him.

Probably not, you realize; Feyd knows Rabban has lost whatever competition they may have had since Feyd was a child, and it's all the worse for him that he doesn't even know it yet. If you didn’t hate Rabban you’d pity him in his desperation for the Baron’s approval and fear of losing what he’s never really had. And while perhaps Rabban had a hand in putting Feyd in the Baron’s path, he didn’t directly send his uncle after a seven year-old boy; the Baron would’ve found someone else to kill Abulurd Rabban and pluck Feyd from Lankiveil.

So you don’t think there’s still a part of Feyd that’s ten years old and nursing the wounds his older brother inflicted; whatever old hurts existed have become a thick, unfeeling scar. Like you, he’s probably thinking about where he’ll put someone like Rabban once he’s Baron. He’s probably wondering what he’ll need to do to temper him, and you’ll let Feyd handle Rabban as he sees fit, so long as his vindictive older brother doesn’t do anything to endanger you, your family, or your unborn children.

The real issue remains the Baron. Surely Feyd can see it if you can; it makes you wonder how much the Baron’s not only hidden from Rabban, but how much he’s hiding from Feyd. Of course he wants Feyd to succeed on Arrakis, but only on his terms, and with the true credit for himself. You don’t trust the Baron, and you know Feyd doesn’t either, not really. The problem is you’re fairly certain the Baron knows this and is biding his time until he can make Feyd a puppet emperor, an extension of himself for as long as Harkonnen medical tech can keep him alive.

Idrisa helps you out of your gown and asks you if you need anything before she leaves. You tell her no, thank you, and relieve her for the night. What you need is to prepare for your husband.

You want to take his mind off of it, make him feel like there is something he’s truly in charge of right now, that’s entirely his with no one to claim ownership or responsibility for it. He needs this. You need this.

You think about your wedding night, your instructions to wait “ unwrapped and in bed waiting for him ” as you let your hair down and scrub off the light dusting of cosmetics you wore for dinner. You still, bafflingly, look similar to the frightened girl you were over six weeks ago. You spritz a tonic into your hair, one he likes the smell and gloss of, and make your way into his bedroom.

This time when you get into position, laying on your side, you face the foot of the bed and Feyd’s bedroom door. This time you couldn’t feel further from being frightened of him. You think of how much you’ve learned these past weeks–not even two months yet, somehow–and the way you just want to forget, help him forget, for now, all the pressures and uncertainties beyond your control. In this, at least, you have leverage. In this, it’s just the two of you, and no one else to interfere.

You take a breath as the door opens and your husband steps into his bedchambers to find you naked in bed waiting for him.

Feyd pauses as he takes in the sight of you and tilts his head. What have we here? he seems to ask. The hunger that was absent this morning seems to have returned to his eyes; you’ve gotten to know that look pretty well in a short space of time.

You raise your eyebrows in turn and shift your body a little, resting your cheek on your hand. “Was I too presumptuous?”

He starts removing his jacket. “That I’d want you in my bed later? Hardly, just observant,” he says, and once that’s off gets to work on his tunic beneath. Funny that considering how frequently you see him naked, you don’t see him actively undress all that often.

“Remember the other week when you offered to let me use you how I wished?” you ask.

A corner of Feyd’s mouth twitches upwards. “I’ll remember that night for the rest of my life, pet,” he says.

Something in your belly flutters. You bite your lip. “How about if I returned the favor tonight?”

You could swear that Feyd’s eyes light up for a moment as he steps in closer to the bed. On instinct you sit up, one leg still bent over the other as you set one hand down on the mattress beside you, the other on your top thigh. You still have to look up at him as he stops, brings two fingers under your chin, and tilts your head up to meet his gaze.

“You want me to fuck your mouth like you did mine?” he asks. “You want me to tie you down and use you for my own pleasure?”

Heat floods your core. He’s done something similar before. You remember the ache between your legs when he did, coming close to understanding how aroused he gets whenever his face is between your legs. You nod, but that only prompts him to ask, “Will you use your words while you still can?”

“Yes–” your voice starts off hoarse, uncertain, before you try again. “Yes, Husband. I want that.”

Feyd detects no lies; there’s none to detect. Something like storm clouds seem like they’re building in those blue eyes. “I assume you’ve guessed what those hooks in my bed posts are for?” he asks, nodding over to his bed.

You give him a small smile. “I may have made an educated guess,” you tell him.

“Have you thought about it? Being strapped to my bed while I take what I want from you?” he asks, his palm cupping the side of your face.

You just smile a little wider and lean your cheek into his palm, rubbing your face against the callouses, never breaking eye contact.

Feyd smirks. “I won’t make this an endurance test for you, pet,” he says. “You have nothing you need to prove to me.

“But since you offered,” he adds, “I’ll have my fun with you."

The cuffs are a bit like the collar; not too tight with a reasonably comfortable interior. You just lay back, spread-eagled, watching and taking mental notes on how Feyd tightens the cuffs and then the ropes that connect them to the bedposts.

He doesn’t attach any kind of leash to the collar this time.

“The collar’s just because I like seeing you wear it,” Feyd says when he notices the silent question on your face, and sits on the edge of the bed to unfasten his boots. He takes better care with his clothes than you’d expected, given that regardless of how he treats them, anything he wears today will be collected and laundered tomorrow morning while he’s out training. You’d appreciate his fastidiousness more if he only hurried up a little to match you in your undressed state. Perhaps that’s why he’s doing it this way. You feel warm already between your legs, curiosity eating at you more than lust but you can sense them both within you.

He’s not fully erect yet by the time he’s naked, but he’s close to it, and you’re pretty sure you know how he expects you to get him the rest of the way there. Your pulse speeds up as you shift your hips much as you can and meet his gaze as he circles around the bed, looks at you for a moment, and then climbs onto it with you.

He starts by sitting astride your stomach and tilts his head as he looks down at you before settling down on his haunches, his partially-erect cock resting on your sternum, between your breasts, where your nipples start to perk up. What are you doing? you want to ask the moment before he does it.

And then your mouth falls open in a gasp as he presses your breasts together and rocks his hips.

It feels strange, but not awful. A giggle bursts out of you as you think, Of course men think to put it there. They must want to put it everywhere. Feyd smirks back, expression teasing, even fond considering what he’s doing.

You arch your back as you wonder when he’s going to take this further and if this is all part of the fun, him teasing you. He stiffens further in between your breasts, never sliding close enough for you to put your lips around him, at least not until he releases you and raises onto his knees again, shifting forward, and holding the back of your head with one hand as he grips himself with the other.

It’s harder to suck his cock from this angle, can’t quite get as much of him in as he controls the rhythm, holding the base of your skull and twisting his fingers through your hair to get a good grip of it. Not painful, but confident. You won’t be able to handle him fucking your throat the way he fucks your cunt; the handful of times you’ve taken him into your mouth it was simply impossible.

And he doesn’t; he doesn’t batter his way all the way down your gullet but he keeps his movements insistent, sometimes going so slowly that it seems like he’s testing you, seeing how long you can keep your mouth around him.

And then he shifts forward, bracing his hands against his headboard and rocking down further, nearly straddling your head. That’s when he starts to speed up, hips rocking rather than gliding, the intensity of it making you drool, making tears prick up in the corners of your eyes, both of which abate only in the brief moments he pulls off to let you close your mouth and try again; a vessel for his cock and little else. He continues until you think you might not be able to breathe, and then relaxes, speed increasing in increments subtle enough you don't realize it until he throbs and twitches, precome one your tongue and his breath turning into grunts.

He pulls out and you have just enough wherewithal to close your eyes as with a jerk of his fist and a harsh gasp he comes on your lips, your nose, your left cheek, your left eyelid. It’s warm and viscous, making you gasp in turn. When you’re certain he’s finished you look back up at Feyd, still positioned over you, and wait for a sense of shame to kick in.

It doesn’t.

He brings his hands to your face, swiping his thumbs over the tear stains but not his come, leaving it on you after looking at where it’s landed and giving a quiet, approving hum. He climbs off the bed, leaving you wondering for a moment what tool he’s going to pull out of his armoire, and then takes a moment to look at you, tied down and helpless, and reaches down for one of the cuffs.

What are you doing? you want to ask, your brow furrowing, as he unfastens the first cuff from the rope and moves to your ankle to repeat the action, taking each length of rope with him until the cuffs at your wrists and ankles anchor you to nothing. Surely you’re not done yet? Feyd says nothing, offers no instructions and gives no orders. You can get up and pull Feyd back into bed easily.

Still, you don't move, even as you want to wipe Feyd's spend off your face, even as you clench your fingers in the sheets. You move only your head to watch Feyd put the ropes away, his cock hangs soft between his pale thighs, but you’re certain not for long.

So what now? you don’t ask. You don’t say a word, for the way it feels almost like there’s a spell cast on the room, like the quiet blanket of new snowfall. You part your lips and dart out your tongue to lick them as you watch him turn to look at you. You don’t know what else he has planned, but the feeling building in the pit of your stomach isn’t dread. It’s anticipation, and the pressure of it builds lower in your body than your stomach. You stare at Feyd and he stares back at you, and your heartbeat quickens and whatever he sees in your gaze makes him smile before he climbs back onto the bed.

He shifts to straddle your chest once more, and you tamp down on the urge to bring your hands up and grip his thighs, his hips. You just stay where you are, trying not to arch your hips against nothing but the building heat between them. You just wait.

He shifts closer, wraps a hand around his cock and presses the tip against your lips in a silent command to lick it clean. Your eyes flick up to meet his as well as you can as you whorl your tongue around the tip of him, pressing your tongue against the entrance of it.

You wonder if he looks down at you and sees the same look in your eyes that he had when you’d tied his hands behind his back and fucked his mouth until you couldn’t stand it anymore. You wonder if he can see that same desire to be used.

“Get me hard again,” he says, but his cock remains limp in his hand that he lifts as he positions himself just above your face and there’s only one place you can comfortably put your mouth. He offers no explanation, has never told you to do this before, but it’s pretty self-explanatory.

You lift your head and stick your tongue out, running it over the seam of his testicles.

“That's it,” he says softly above you, and you open your mouth further, trying to explore more of him.

He keeps one hand in your hair and rolls his hips as he languidly pumps his stiffening cock, a low rumble in his chest as you take one into your mouth. You won’t be able to manage both at once, you think as you run your tongue along the underside. It’s uncharted territory; you weren’t fully aware that this was an option.

You feel the heat of his inner thighs framing your face, can feel him braced above you without putting any of his weight on you, almost but never quite sitting on you. You shut your eyes as you focus on every other sensation, on the clean but salty sweat of his skin to the way it feels so delicate against your tongue. On the tension coiled in Feyd’s thighs straddling your head, the sounds of his breathing as you can sense his fist moving just above you. Your heart pounds, your ears ring. You feel so infinitesimally small and yet there’s an ache in your chest that’s so vast an entire fleet could fly through it.

You could move, if you wanted to. He might get annoyed by it but there’s nothing stopping you from reaching out, pushing him away. Nothing except the fact that your breath quickens at the combination of salaciousness and perverse intimacy of it all. The fact that he’s more than happy to let you do the same to him, the fact that want to stay, used and enjoyed.

He guides you, holding your head in place for a moment as he cradles the back of it–the gesture familiar if the parts are different. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t move off of your mouth, so again you have to breathe through your nose.

You gasp when Feyd does, sliding back and forth on your tongue, from his cock to his balls to just behind, and forward again. You ache to touch yourself as you dig your hands into the sheets.

You feel it in your gut first, your stomach clenching, and your chest heaving before you realize the moan escaping you–the sound if it’s muffled but anyone could tell its one out of desperation and not protest.

Feyd stills and rises to his knees, shuffling back, and you finally get a good look at his face.

His pupils are dilated, his mouth open. His lips twitch into a grin as he reaches behind him, not looking away as he reaches in between your legs and tilts his head as he finds the verification he needs, the slick in between them. He leans down and replaces his fingers with his mouth.

You moan, head falling back, legs falling further open.

“I,” you start, panting, “I thought this was fun for you .”

Feyd smirks. “It is,” he says, and dives back down. Briefly you think about grabbing the back of his head, of wrapping your legs around his shoulders, but you do neither, arms still out-stretched, spread-legged, letting him take and give whatever he chooses. It’s tempting, though, and you fruitlessly roll your hips against his mouth, only for him to pull back the moment you try. He leans up, eyes blazing, seemingly delighted at your desperation.

“Not yet,” is all he says as he rises to his knees.

He shuffles to the foot of the bed and settles onto his haunches before beckoning you towards him with one arm.

“C’mere, pet. Crawl over to me,” he says, and you tremble as you go, leaning forward, anticipating it before it can happen, opening your mouth before he can ask. You hear him chuckle as cradles your face in one hand, stopping before you can wrap your lips around him.

“Spit on it first, pet,” he says.

You glance back up at him for a moment before gathering up all the saliva you can and letting it dribble onto him, and when that spurs on an encouraging grunt from above you dive back on, tongue along the underside of him, lips wrapped around his shaft.

Again he rolls his hips, keeping your head in place with both hands, pushing into your mouth as deep as he’s ever gone.

“What a good, eager come-slut,” he says as he fucks your mouth. “Getting better at this each time we do it.”

You moan again around him, his words making you want to double down on your efforts; If he had pubic hair, your nose would nearly brush it. He never chokes you; probably knows better than to try and cut off your airflow, given your current condition. Still, you gasp for air when he tugs you off of him, your chest heaving.

“That's it,” he says. “Now turn around, sweet thing.”

You shake, nearly collapsing as you scramble to do so and chance a look behind you, knowing how you must look–eyes wide, wanting. And oh, how you want .

Feyd shuffles forward and grabs your hips, hauling you back towards him. Sometimes you wonder if he likes taking you this way because of how primal and animalistic it must look, the submissive position it puts you in, or because even though you’re wet and pliant, there’s still that bit of resistance from this angle. Maybe it’s because when he fucks you on all fours he draws noises out of you that you never thought you’d make. He bears down hard, the ache and stretch almost painful even as you can feel your slick around him, and you can’t get enough. Especially not when he leans forward, his cock brushing your insides from a new angle that has your upper body giving out, hips raised up but everything else slumping against the bed, helpless and wanting.

“I’m–I–” you’ve never come untouched before, not with him taking you from behind like this, but you can feel it building fast.

“No, you’re not,” Feyd says immediately. “Not yet.”

You let out a pathetic sob, your come-stained cheek against the mattress, whining as he has the audacity to slow down. I thought this wasn’t an endurance test, you want to tell him as you buck your hips, leaving behind all attempts to be patient and let him take what he wants. Feyd snickers behind you and stops entirely for a moment.

“Please,” you say. Your voice sounds wrecked.

“Say that again, pet,” he says, leaning forward, his voice now close to your ear.

“Please, husband,” you say again. “You feel so good and I need to come so bad. Please keep fucking me until I…”

He thrusts hard into you once more, holding you to him, his face buried somewhere near the nape of your neck, nose against your hair, one hand braced against the pillows as the other presses against your stomach, and then you’re gone, clenching around him, bright light flashing behind your clenched-shut eyes, feeling a fresh batch of tears spilling down your cheeks.

After he’s come and has caught his breath, after he’s pulled out, he turns you over without a word.

He reaches first for the cuff on your left wrist, presses a kiss against the inside of it as he undoes the restraint at last. He repeats the gesture for each cuff, until he reaches the collar around your neck. You expect him to unfasten it and your eyes dart down to his lips, waiting for them to press against the bare skin when he does.

Instead Feyd hooks a finger through the loop at the front and tugs you upward into a sitting position. “Come with me, pet,” he says, dropping his hand from your collar and holding it out to take one of yours as he leads you off and away from the bed.

It’s not far to go; just his bathroom, where he grabs a clean cloth and wets it silently, eyes darting across the tears and spit and dried come on your face, all marked in one way or another by him. And then when he wipes it clean. His touch is gentle, which perhaps you didn’t expect but doesn’t surprise you. You feel weightless as you laugh, eyes closed until he's wiped every trace of tonight off of you.

“How long have you wanted to do that?” you finally ask when he finishes and tosses the cloth into a bin.

Feyd pauses, and flicks at the hoop that would normally connect your collar to chain or rope before he answers.

“Since before I met you,” he says. “Since I first saw you in a dream six months ago and knew that you had to be a stranger because I would’ve remembered if I’d seen a face as pretty as yours, but knew that you wouldn’t be a stranger for long.”

He takes another moment to look at you, naked except for the collar you’ve come to see as your own–previously used by others, perhaps, but by no one else from now on–before he unfastens it and gives you a glance in the direction of the bed before he turns back to the armoire.

You get the hint and pad back into the bedroom. You climb into bed, under the covers, as he sets the collar back and closes up, and wait until he’s slid under the covers with you to sprawl halfway over him. It’s another thing you doubt he’s allowed with others in the past; this sort of post-coital affection. It didn’t seem to come naturally to him, at least not those first few days. You’re honestly not sure if it was a dormant habit he hadn’t needed to develop until you dragged it out of him but that idea makes you nestle closer to him. Feyd wraps an arm loosely around you and for a moment you think he’s absently playing with your hair, but then he runs his fingers through a snarl and as you wince you realize he’s smoothing out the mess he must’ve made of your hair. He simply keeps going, until he catches them all, and his passes through your hair turn into pets and strokes. You have no words right now; you need none. His touch is soothing, and if you had to pick one symptom of your new condition you have been able to notice, it’s that you’re easier to tire, quicker to fall asleep.

Before you do, you ask, “You ever thought about letting me tie you to the bedposts?”

You sense Feyd tilt his chin and shift to get a better look at you, and you raise your head to meet his curious gaze. “Have you? ” he asks, sounding amused.

“May’ve crossed my mind at one point,” you say, even as you’re close to drifting off. You bring your head back down, ear close to his heart, its beat steady.

“We can give it a try one night before I leave,” he says. “While we still have time.”

You smile against his chest.

Not that either of you have discussed it, but every night since your reconciliation you’ve slept in the same bed. Feyd still gets up first and is quiet enough that he rarely wakes you as he gets dressed, but you still feel a little colder waking up than you did falling asleep to his heartbeat against your back.

The same is true of this morning, when you wake to a knock on the door.

You sit up, rubbing your eyes and getting up to reach for a robe. “Come in, Idrisa,” you call, voice thick with sleep as you start to pull it on.

You pull it on faster when Idrisa enters alongside another attendant, a woman in long gray robes covered by a black smock. She’s carrying a synthetic case.

“Good morning, my lady na-Baroness,” she says, lowering her head and giving a polite curtsy. “I do hope we did not wake you. I’ve arrived on orders of the Baron.”

“Oh?” you ask, sitting up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“He said it was time to confirm your pregnancy with our doctors. An appointment has been made for early this afternoon but first we would require a sample from you.”

You’d thought they’d need a few more days for a doctor’s visit. “A sample,” you repeat.

“Just some of your urine, na-Baroness,” she says, pulling on gloves and withdrawing a metal box from her case, and from that pulling out a glass canister. “It should be enough to provide an answer by the time of your appointment.”

You glance at the canister. “And you require a sample right now.” She’s clearly not asking you, so you aren’t, either. It’s the most authority with which you’ve seen a Harkonnen woman speak so far.

“At your earliest convenience, my lady,” she says.

You sigh and reach for your distilled water on the nightstand. From the full night of sleep, your bladder is full enough that it won’t take too long. You finish the glass, set it down, and say, “I suppose now is as convenient a time as any,” as you hold your hand out for the canister.

She steps forward and deposits it gently into your palm with both hands and a bow. You take a breath, trying to remember that this woman is simply following instruction, and head into your bathroom.

I bet the Baron finds this hilarious, the fat bastard , you think, cranky, holding the canister under you, trying to aim the stream into the canister and not on your own fingers. Even pissing is done under his orders .

You do, to your credit, clean off the exterior of the canister when you’re done.

She can tell that you’re annoyed when you come back out and hand it over, you’re sure, but she doesn’t act like it. Instead, she curtsies again before leaving with a pleasant, “Thank you for your cooperation, my lady na-Baroness. We’ll be able to confirm the results in time for your appointment.”

You watch as she leaves, feeling numb even as you’re still flushing scarlet. Idrisa apologizes profusely, her head down.

“I apologize, my lady, I had no say over when and how you’d be asked to provide confirmation–”

You hold up a hand. “I know,” you say. “It’s alright. The Baron does what he wants.” And you understand why he’s timing it this way; first showing off Feyd as a legitimate fighter on his birthday as Rabban continues losing more men, and then providing hope for the Harkonnen lineage by showing off how it’s continuing, and soon securing Feyd’s legacy as an effective leader ready to inherit the Barony. You don’t even mind playing your part in bolstering Feyd’s image. What’s vital is that the Baron’s plans end there.

Until then, you are Feyd’s pregnant foreign bride, the vessel for his heir to the eyes of his people, and the Baron can entertain whatever notions he wants about his own future.

You lay back on the examination table, trying not to wince and squirm as the doctor presses a tool inside of you. You clench your jaw, fingertips digging into the sides of the table as you try not to close your legs. The tool had looked like some sort of crude torture device and while it isn’t particularly painful, it stretches you in ways that you’re too dry and uncomfortable to adjust to.

Standing in the corner is the woman from earlier, who tilts her head to get a better view of the examination. Her hands are folded daintily in front of her, her expression blank.

Feyd stands close by, watching the doctor with eyes like a shark; his posture seems locked but it’s obvious to everyone in the room that he’s coiled and ready to castrate the doctor and force-feed him his own cock and balls if the man glances or prods a millisecond longer than necessary. He’s here at your request.

When you whimper through gritted teeth you hold your hand up, certain Feyd’s going to lunge and stab the doctor to death while the instrument’s still inside of you.

“It’s fine,” you manage. “He’s just doing his job.” You try to ignore the doctor, who freezes, trying not to look at your husband. You meet Feyd’s eyes instead. I’m alright, you hope your look conveys. It needs to be done . Feyd pauses as he takes in your expression and folds his arms across his chest as he glares down at the back of the doctor’s head.

“Well,” the man says after another minute, sitting back, setting the device back with the others, and taking off his gloves. “Between this and the results of the urine sample we’ve gotten all the confirmation that we need.” As you pull your skirts back down he gets up, tosses his gloves into the wastebin beside your examination table, and bows to Feyd. “Congratulations, my lord na-Baron.”

You can’t help but scowl at that, brow furrowing. You’re the one who’s pregnant. It won’t be Feyd who carries the future of the house of Harkonnen for the next nine months. “And how many of these examinations will I be going through, doctor?” you ask, voice no sharper than you intended. The doctor turns and lowers his head in a small bow. “Many, my lady na-Baroness. We must be vigilant to ensure that your pregnancy remains healthy. However, I will not be the one administering them.” He turns to the woman who has neither moved nor spoken this entire time, and tells her, “Come forward.”

The woman does, taking a step towards you and inclining her head as she gives a curtsy.

“Oksana will look after you until it’s time for you to give birth,” the doctor says. “She’ll perform your examinations and be your resource throughout your pregnancy. She will provide guidance and be at your disposal for whatever you require.”

“It is an honor, my lady na-Baroness,” the woman, Oksana, says, and suddenly her wardrobe makes more sense. This is a woman with a more elevated position than any you’ve seen who hadn’t married into it.

You glance between them; you neither know nor completely trust this woman, but you’d still rather she poke around your insides than some man by decree of the Baron. “Very well,” you say finally, raising your chin. “I appreciate your services, Oksana.” You sit up and swing your legs over the examination table to allow yourself some dignity before giving the doctor a curt nod. “Yours as well.”

You mean it unambiguously as a dismissal, and yet when the words come from your mouth, they both remain where they are, only Oksana looking like she may recognize your meaning but the doctor seeming to wait for the na-Baron’s response and not yours.

“I’d have a moment alone with my wife,” Feyd says, tone sharper than you’d be willing to chance. Oksana curtsies and leaves without a word, and it’s only after she’s gone that the doctor realizes he’s dismissed as well. He removes his headlamp, bows once more, and leaves the room with a visibly relieved sag of his shoulders.

You look away for a moment, reaching over for your undergarment to pull it back on, shifting your hips to get them up the length of your legs. “I’ve never had an examination like that before,” you say off-handedly.

“He won’t be examining you again,” Feyd says.

“So was Oksana your decision?” you ask.

Feyd looks impassive, arms folded across his chest. “That first doctor was chosen by Uncle,” he says, “but I imagined that if you were to have any physician exploring your insides you’d rather it be another woman.”

You smile at that. “You’re not wrong,” you admit. “I just hadn’t realized women were allowed to be doctors here.”

“There aren’t many,” Feyd says. “And they look after the wealthier women in the Fortress as midwives. If anyone was to be poking at your cunt during my absence I’d also only accept a woman to do it.”

You exhale; a short breath of laughter. “So we have a second opinion and it’s the same as the first one,” you say after a moment, and reach your hand out to pat the space on the edge of the table beside you.

Feyd gets the hint and sits down. The two of you sit in silence. You think about holding his hand, but you can’t quite bring yourself to move yours any further. Instead you ask, “So how is the Fortress going to announce it to the rest of the planet?”

“Not sure,” Feyd says. “This hasn’t happened in decades. Uncle will send out missives to the other Houses announcing it, and he’ll try to time the news before my appointment to Arrakis. If he has anything planned beyond that he hasn’t shared it yet.”

Are you happy? Are you looking forward to being a father? you don’t ask. He’s not that sort of man, this isn’t that sort of culture. He won’t be that sort of father, the one who bonds with his children, and you knew that since before you met him. There are ways he’s surprised you, ways you’re reasonably certain you’ve won him over, but this is one aspect you just don’t think you can change.

You’ll wait just a little longer to ask him about spending your pregnancy on your own planet.

You sit in the arena stands once more, next to the Baron this time, in a seat both smaller and raised lower than his own. As a practical measure, of course, nothing personal.

“We must give the announcement in style,” the Baron had said over dinner the night he’d gotten confirmation from the doctor. “A new Harkonnen heir on Geidi Prime–it requires pomp and circumstance, would you not agree, nephew?”

And that was the full discussion. All there was left was to negotiate; now that the Geidi Prime audience had seen Feyd fight properly, especially with his responsibilities going forward, he’d forgo his shield, and his opponents wouldn’t be sedated beforehand.

Horns blare, and you sit up just a hair straighter.

Minutes ago, you were adorning Feyd with paint and stuck on the questions you wanted to but couldn’t bring yourself to ask.

Will your people truly be happy about the news? Or will they be angry that it’s a foreigner who’s carrying your heir? you’d wondered as you’d anointed his body with paint and his Darlings had curled up naked on their spot on the dais watching and sniffing at the both of you. For the first time since your rift with him he’d abstained from sharing a bed with you last night, but from the way he looked at you as you painted his chest and stomach, he’ll practice no such self-restraint tonight.

And now you take your place, almost but not quite beside your uncle-in-law in the same gown you wore for Feyd's birthday--the fit of it the first indication you've gotten that your breasts are starting to grow. Your hair’s down, face bare, as you hear the announcer’s voice blaring out, once again so loud your teeth nearly rattle and goosebumps raise along the back of your neck.

“Today we celebrate the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha and his success qleighlw an heir! His bride the na-Baroness cwnawek a son!”

A veritable sea of people who’ve never seen your face and who you’ll never meet erupt into cheers as deafening as they were for Feyd's birthday arena fight.

“In honor of our beloved Harkonnen line, our heir and our heir to be, let the games begin!”

The games in question that open the festivities are skirmishes between a few of the healthier-looking prisoners; a free-for-all battle royale with rounds in between and whatever weapons they can salvage. You try not to wince at the desperation they all have, ferocity at the chance of escaping a life in the dungeons to a likely menial one mining ore and precious metals. Half an hour later the victor, covered in blood that’s partially his own, gets hefty applause and cheers from the crowd as slaves set the corpses of the fallen fighters to the side to be burned at the end of the arena showing.

But they don't compare to the cheers for your husband. They start before he can enter the arena, somehow managing to build when he does with the same long-legged gait as before.

You flicker the settings on your binoculars to get a good look at him when he bows low, as always, to the Baron’s private viewing box and try not to smile when Feyd raises his head and you realize even from a high distance that he’s looking at you. Your eyes lock for a moment, his expression entirely calm as he gives a small nod and rises to his feet just as a door opens and the first opponent steps out.

Even with the new stipulations it’s not what you’d call evenly-matched. While the other man is tall and athletic-looking he’s a noticeably less skilled fighter than the Atreides soldier from before. His coordination is impaired not by any drugs but by his uncontrolled anger, and while it adds force to his movements it’s easy for Feyd to manipulate him.

So you don’t feel the same kind of terror as you did on Feyd’s birthday, even as your hand not holding your binoculars digs into your seat. Even as you gasp and wince when his opponent manages a close swipe.

The Baron senses it and chuckles. “My sweet niece, surely you know your husband well enough to understand that this is part of the show?” he says.

Your fingers dig deeper into your seat. You can feel a muscle flicker in your jaw as you say without taking your eyes off Feyd, “I suppose it’s just that he performs it so effectively, my lord Baron,” you say primly.

Feyd seems less impressed than he was with the Atreides soldier, despite the match going on for a few minutes, when you notice that his opponent leaves a couple of openings during their match and yet Feyd seems to draw it out. Sure, Feyd could be drawing it out for theatrics, but surely there’s something else?

And then the arena opens again, with another well-built man coming out. Another man wincing at the infrared sun but adjusting and catching sight of his enemy.

Ah, you think, as Feyd glances at the emerging opponent and in hardly the blink of an eye turns and slashes the first man’s throat.

The second man looks imposing enough, but it’s clear that he also lacks proper training and is trying to use his bulk to compensate for it. It won’t work for Feyd, though, it seems, because he knows how to use the other man’s broader frame against him. He evades and parries swiftly until he manages to catch the man off-balance and slash along his hamstring.

You wouldn’t be able to hear the man’s bellow of pain even without the cheers in the stands, but you can detect the sudden fear curtailing his relentless pursuit of Harkonnen blood. Perhaps this man had hope somewhere for a victory against Feyd, perhaps he counted on his bulk overpowering the na-Baron’s comparatively lithe frame. You can’t quite see the look in his eyes, but the sudden way he tries to stumble back as Feyd advances on him is enough.

You can see his panic the moment Feyd grabs his shoulder and sinks his blade into his belly, starting at the waistband of his tunic and slicing upwards. The man starts to go limp by the time Feyd reaches his sternum.

You can’t make out the moment the light fades from this man’s eyes, but you can sense the disappointment in Feyd’s, and it isn’t the same as it was his last arena fight, looking like he was contemplating the loss of a fun new toy or an interesting playmate. He’s disappointed there wasn’t more of a challenge. He withdraws his blade, viscera dripping from it, and watches, stone-faced, as the man drops.

“Are you not impressed with my nephew, young Y/N?” the Baron asks.

You force yourself to continue looking into the stands as Feyd raises his blade above his head and marches back through the entrance into the chambers below. “I daresay I often am, my lord Baron,” you say. You try to tamp down on the gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach, trying not to think about how these men are dead partially because of you.

You did not order this, would never have suggested this. You inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth and close your eyes for a moment. You just need to play your part.

“What are you thinking right now, Y/N?” the Baron asks. “Don’t tell me you’re still squeamish.”

You’re certain your expression is neutral and polite as you turn to look at him. You’re also certain he can tell that you hate him, anyway. But whatever response you try to think up in the moment gets interrupted by an older man in long gray messenger robes.

“Good afternoon, my lord Baron, na-Baroness.” The messenger says, bowing. “The na-Baron requires his wife’s presence,” he adds.

You Baron narrows his eyes at you with a derisive little smirk. Enjoy being nothing more than a hole for my pretty nephew to stick my cock in when the mood strikes him , the one little look tells you. It’s the only use you’ll have until you bear his son .

You smile in return and rise from your seat, pausing only to curtsy and offer the Baron some parting pleasantries before leaving for the cavernous halls down below, where artificial light washes out pale skin and Feyd’s waiting for you. It’s just him, back in just his loincloth, barefoot and with his body paint now smudged on his bare torso. The dais is bare; his Darlings must’ve eaten and been taken back to their room already.

As for Feyd, you think about the first time you ever saw him like this, how scandalous it felt to see him close to naked just the day before your wedding, but how exciting it felt. How he’d looked like a marble statue made by a sculptor with a perverse sense of humor; almost beautiful but still somehow wrong , unsettling and not entirely human. You’d felt unnerved, then, wanting to but still nervous to look upon him like this.

Now you step forward with a smile, the heels of your boots clicking against the stone floor. “Congratulations, husband,” you tell him. There’s a part of you that thinks that he looks like he belongs in catacombs and dungeons, some unsettling creature of a dark underworld. There’s a part of you that knows that a year ago, that months ago you couldn’t imagine being married to a man who’d celebrate the news of your pregnancy by killing two, as far as you know, innocent men in front of a cheering crowd. Maybe the version of you that existed before this would be scandalized by what you’re wearing, would have trouble recognizing what you’re turning into, would refuse to understand why you’d ever choose to be close to the cold-blooded killer in front of you.

But that version of you no longer exists. You step in closer, the heels of your boots narrowing the height difference between you.

You think you know how you must look to him; body scandalous, face guileless, and so it takes just a glint in Feyd’s eyes to serve as a signal before he’s kissing you roughly, pushing you up against the wall, and grabbing your thigh to drag his hand under the slit in your skirt. You whimper against his mouth when his searching fingers find no further barrier between them and your cunt and he curls one of them inside of you.

“Does seeing me kill make you wet?” he asks, pulling away just long enough to ask.

“Your skill makes me wet,” you tell him, and devour his mouth again.

He removes his cup with the kind of finesse of a man who’s done this multiple times before, seamless and without breaking away from the kiss. His loincloth takes little more effort, the bands around his hips elastic enough that with your combined efforts, it falls to the ground within seconds, leaving him naked. When he tugs the straps over your dress away to free your breasts, when he tears at your skirt to give himself better access, when all that’s keeping your dress up is the tight waistband, you’re not far behind him. Under these lights he may look like a slab of marble, more statue than man but his skin’s so warm, his heart thudding against your chest. There’s more vitality in him right now than there was in the arena minutes ago.

I am your prize today, you want to say. So go on and take me .

You rise further onto tiptoe when you finally feel it, when he takes himself in hand and pushes inside of you

His body paint mixed with his sweat rubs against your breasts and stomach, leaving black smudges anyone will be able to see even when you try and set your dress to rights later, and you don’t care. If this is his way of marking you up then you welcome it. You’ll wear his paint on your skin with pride. You grab his hips and urge him in deeper with a groan.

He snarls and hitches you up, giving you enough time to jump and wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you a few steps to the dais, and for a moment keeps you impaled on him just like this, for perhaps the last time he’ll be able to take you in this position for many months to come. And then he advances, lowering you down, slithering over you. He gets a hand under the back of your head before it can slam against marble and then his mouth is on you once more, first your lips and then lower, curling himself to get to your breasts.

When you whine, body open for the taking, one hand cupping the back of his head, it’s because you finally feel tender there, a delicious sting lancing through you when he scrapes his teeth against your nipple.

It’s changing. Your body’s changing .

Everything about you is changing.

It’s uncomfortable on your back, probably even more uncomfortable on his knees as he resumes his thrusts inside of you. You don’t care. For now, you don’t care if this planet and this marriage has made you a little crueler, a little darker, a little more dangerous. All that matters right now is you and him and the life you’ve created together that’s growing between you.

Above these catacombs, you hear the sounds of people celebrating.

Tag list: @alexandrainlove @richardslady121 @wo-ming-bai @blazeflays @cavillandevanssandwhich @aemondseyepatch and please let me know if you would also like to be tagged!

Also shout out to the wonderful @peggyao3 who in addition to writing wonderful fanfic made a lovely fanart collage of different OC and Reader characters for Dune Part Two here!

#feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd rautha #feyd x reader #feyd rautha smut #feyd x you #feyd rautha x reader #feyd smut #austin butler #dune part 2 #dune 2

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 2 years ago

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 5: Rebellion

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 5.8K

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}

Run?

Your stilled heart may not be able to beat any longer, but all-consuming fear still afflicts your battered body. You feel the familiar prickling sensation of adrenaline expanding outward from your constricting chest like a glassy lake disturbed by a thrown stone. All your hair stands on end as you think about the approaching dawn.

Staring into the icebound pools of Astarion’s scarlet eyes, you think about everything he has stolen from you - your life, your body, your soul, your love, your loyalty, your freedom.

He has taken everything from me.

Your voice shakes, “The sun can’t harm me if you’re near.”

“How certain are you that I don’t control that lovely little benefit?”

“Do you?”

One of his eyebrows pulls down hauntingly, “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I don’t. Are you willing to risk your life on it, pet?”

“Yes.”

“What about dear Shadowheart’s life? I would give her a very warm bloody welcome when she comes looking for you.”

Shadowheart.

“I won’t let you touch her.”

“If you’re a pile of ash on my front step, I don’t see you having much choice in the matter, darling, but you’re welcome to loiter out here all you like.”

Astarion turns his back on you. You seethe with a noxious loathing - for yourself, him, and the mess you’ve dragged your friends into. A deep rage you have kept caged for too long finally breaks free of its prison.

With a bellowing roar, you lash out at him, casting Telekinesis and hauling him off his feet, throwing him across the courtyard.

His body impacts a stone statue with a thud, shattering it into rubble. The ground greets his body with such force that he bounces off it.

What have I done?

His muscles tense, and he shifts his body, using the momentum to easily roll back onto his feet. A weeping gash on his forehead causes blood to stream down his face, streaking it with vicious red to match his eyes.

“You’ll pay for that.”

I know.

His reflexes might be like liquid lightning, but you’re not some feeble halfwit. Even though you’re not sure it will hold him, you cast Hold Person on him, catching him off guard. You see his frame flicker slightly as he tries to turn himself into mist, but your magic is strong, fuelled by your rage.

Shadowheart.

You have a choice - you can hold your ground against him as long as possible and allow either the sun or him to end you, or you can try to make it home before sunrise. He may follow and hunt you down like a rabid animal that needs exterminating, but either way, your fate remains the same.

Gale. Shadowheart. I have to try.

You pivot and force your body to move forward as fast as you can. Feeding off your rage, hatred, and all the devastated pieces of your broken heart, you run.

You dash over fences, skip across roofs, pull on every ounce of magic your body can contain and Misty Step until you’re not sure whether you’re mist or corporeal from one moment to the next. You push forward erratically, skittering towards home.

You don’t look back. If Astarion follows, you don’t want to know. You already know the fate that awaits should he choose it.

Your muscles twitch and cramp woefully with over-exertion as you draw closer. The stars no longer shine in the sky as they are snuffed out by the quickly rising light of dawn, but you can see the little house just up ahead.

I’m so close.

As the first light starts to break over the horizon, you throw the old wooden door open, throwing yourself to safety inside, slamming it shut.

Backing away from the door, you wait pensively, wondering if Astarion will burst through at any moment to make you pay for what you’ve done. You watch that door with a fixed, heated glower for hours, but nothing happens.

You go up to your bedroom and sink to your knees on the ground. Without the swarming fervour of hatred to dull the aching of your heart, you fall to pieces.

He really is gone, isn’t he?

The spasming pain in your stomach cleaves at you, awakening you from the troubled trance you slipped into. Your arms curl around your midsection, trying to stifle the recurrent waves of convulsing pain rocketing through you.

I need to eat. Badly.

You have to force your starving body to move forward. Your muscles cramp and jerk out of your control. Each step has to be taken with purpose and effort as you try to control your writhing body.

The journey is agonizing and takes you longer than it should. When you finally reach the forest, you’re already exhausted. You fill your useless lungs with air they don’t need in an instinctive sharp inhale.

Another spasm in your unruly limbs causes you to stumble. You catch yourself on a tree and rest your forehead against the rough bark, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly that the muscles of your face ache.

“There you are, little love. I’ve been waiting.”

You groan at the velvety smooth voice and force your eyes to open, casting them toward it. Astarion is standing on the other side of the small clearing.

Dressed in black, he melts into the shadows like an apparition. His clothing is reminiscent of what he wore the first night at camp after the crash, and you curse at him inwardly for wearing something that reminds you of old times.

You push yourself away from the tree and try to stand tall, but the cramping in your stomach persists, and you lurch over awkwardly.

“What the fuck do you want.”

“To talk.”

You scoff, “I have nothing to say to you.”

Astarion starts to walk towards you, and you grasp at the weave. Using Telekinesis, you throw him backwards, off his feet. He skids harshly across the moss-covered ground.

Once again, using the momentum, he tucks and rolls onto his feet, righting himself, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Yeah, right.

“If you come anywhere near me, I will burn you with every ounce of magic I have!”

Will I?

He starts towards you again, but before you can cast anything, he shifts into mist and rapidly reappears behind you. Terrified, you turn, ready to defend yourself against whatever horror he is going to inflict.

You might be fast, but he will always be faster. He effortlessly grabs your hands and forces them together, rendering you unable to cast. You struggle against him furiously, but he easily overpowers you, barely wavering.

He snarls, “Why do you insist on making me treat you in this manner? Why do you fight me at every turn?!”

Make him?

You break into venomous, hysterical laughter, and his eyes widen in shock.

“No one can make you do anything anymore, Astarion. What you do and who you are - those are your choices to make. You have no one but yourself to blame for any atrocities you commit and your shitty behaviour.”

His eyes soften, “You’re right, which is why I need to speak with you.”

Wait...

I’m right?

No.

Don’t fall for this again.

“Did you not hear me? I want nothing to do with you!”

He sighs, “I understand. If you wish, I will leave Baldur’s Gate and never return. You will never have to see me again, but you must hear me out first.”

… What?

“I’m going to let your hands go now. Are you planning on attacking me some more, or will you listen?”

“Let go and find out.”

He chuckles, “Fiery as ever, my dear.”

Astarion releases his hold on you and puts his hands up in an innocent gesture, backing away from you slowly.

You watch him through narrowed eyes as he retreats. You position yourself in a defensive stance. A fireball blooming in your palm, and your fangs bared.

“What is this, Astarion? What kind of sick trick are you playing now?”

“No tricks. No games. Please, hear me out, but allow me to get you some food first.”

“You want to feed me?”

He nods, “It will allow you to think clearer. I can see you’re in pain…”

He pities me, but Gods, I am so hungry.

“No, thank you. The last time I accepted your help, it nearly got me turned into a pile of ash.”

His crimson eyes look at you sadly, downturned at the corners, “Let me help you. Please.”

Starving.

“Fine.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you should stay put. You are likely to scare everything away. Do you have a preference? Deer, boar, bear… Kobold?”

What the fuck is happening right now.

You wave a hand at him in dismissal, “It doesn’t matter. Blood is blood.”

Astarion vanishes somewhere into the thickly treed forest, leaving you with your thoughts. Your mind is reeling, confused, and unsettled. Your nerves buzz, your skin feels like it’s crawling, and you have no doubt that if your stilled heart could beat, it would be throwing itself around your chest, trying to break your ribs.

What part of the nine Hells have I fallen into?

Astarion returns quickly, and you consider for a moment if he may have poisoned the animal, but what do you have to lose at this point?

Once you finish your four-legged feast, you stare at him, observing his behaviour. He stands with his arms crossed, leaning against a tree, looking exceptionally pensive. His cardinal red eyes dart rapidly, never focusing on anything in particular.

He looks… anxious, scared even.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?”

He jolts out of his thoughts, “Yes, of course. Do you feel better?”

Gods, yes.

You could almost moan at how relieved you feel - clear-headed, strong, no more gut-wrenching pain, turning your insides to mincemeat. Your muscles have stopped their relentless, painful spasming and are finally under your control again.

You might hug him simply for this feeling alone, but you lock your knees and keep your feet firmly planted.

“I feel fine. Tell me what you want.”

Astarion shifts away from the tree he’s been leaning against and steps toward you. You take several steps back, instantly lowering your centre of gravity protectively, and fire sparks to life in your hands.

He stops, a dismal expression on his face, “You’re afraid of me.”

“Observant, as always.”

Afraid doesn’t begin to cover it.

“What I did to you… What I’ve done to you… I… I abhor myself for it.”

You scoff, “Which part?”

“All of it.”

You stand there clinging to your fire for comfort. Your mouth is dropped open in astonishment. You observe his features keenly. His crimson eyes are downcast and glassed over, melancholic remorse shining brightly in the waxy moonlight.

His shoulders are slumped. His demeanour reminds you of the night he tried to bite you in your sleep, and you awoke to him hovering over you, fangs bared.

What can I even say to this?

He drags his fingers through the highlighted silver curls of his hair, “I feel different after the ritual. Something in me is… broken. I am not myself.”

No shit.

He looks at you with frightened, round eyes, “I don’t want to be this way, this person, but the power…” He looks at his hands as they ball into fists and clenches his bared teeth, “It corrupts, and I lose myself in it.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“I need your help.”

“You want my help? After you threatened to kill me?” You shake your head, “What kind of morbid trick is this, Astarion? What games are you trying to amuse yourself with now?”

“No games, my love.”

My love?

Am I actually considering this?

Have I gone completely mad?

Tightness coils like a spring constricting your chest, and you let the fire burning in your palm retreat, “How can I ever trust you again? How can I know if this is real?”

Astarion comes closer with slow, deliberate steps, “You can cast Detect Thoughts, no?”

“Yes, you know that. You’ve seen me use it countless times. Why?”

“Cast it.”

“What?”

“You need to know this is not a trick, and I can hardly blame you. Cast, darling. Tell me what you see.”

Astarion continues his slow advance toward you. The one good thing about being dead and having no heartbeat is that he can’t tell how scared you are. You hold your ground with a rigid stance, muscles tight and ready to react at a moment's notice.

He searches your face, looking deeply into your eyes, “They never did completely change colour, did they? Your eyes, I mean.”

All of your friends had remarked that although your eyes did take on the red hue of his, your irises held splotches and slivers where your original eye colour was still visible. You wonder what it must look like, but your face will forever be just a memory until one day it too fades.

“I wouldn’t know. I have no reflection anymore.”

“I’ve taken much from you.”

My love. My passion. My life.

Astarion hand trails down your arm to your wrist before turning your palm up and kissing it softly, “Cast, love.”

Do I want to do this?

You shouldn’t even be humouring him; you should be asking him to leave the city as he said he would, but there’s something in his voice, in the way he moves, and in his eyes that you recognize, and it tugs at your inherent intuition. You grit your teeth and cast.

My Astarion… If there’s even a small chance, I have to take it.

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. I haven’t used it.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid of what I might see, hear.”

He chuckles, “Me too.”

You delve into his mind. There is so much noise in his head that it makes it hard to focus on any one thought, and you struggle with isolating them. The cacophonous commotion maims your conscious mind and makes you want to yelp.

Shaking your head, you try to stifle the throbbing pain between your ears, “You need to settle your mind, Astarion.”

“How?”

“Focus on something that calms you.”

“Okay,” Astarion anchors his eyes on you, “try again.”

The chaotic mess of his mind batters yours as you try to focus yourself from one thought to the next. You manage to catch snippets here and there, but nothing concrete, nothing that can tell you if this is a trick, game or some other form of callous manipulation.

“Not calm enough, Astarion.”

“Is everyone's mind like that?”

“No one’s mind is like that. At least no one I’ve done this to. Thoughts are usually coherent and fluid like a slow stream slipping into a bigger river, but yours are chaotic, loud, like a raging storm.”

Although this certainly sheds some light on his erratic behaviour.

“What now?”

This might not be my brightest idea.

“I have an idea, but you might not like it.”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Well, what is it?”

You take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to calm the fear curdling in your stomach. Closing the distance between you, your lips meet his tenderly.

He’s shocked for a moment, and you wonder if you overstepped, but his arm comes around you, pulling your body flush against his. He deepens the kiss with a low moan.

Now, the hard part is trying to keep enough of your mind off this moment to be able to read his thoughts accurately.

You once again focus your spell. The blaring white noise that had obstructed and retaliated against your intrusion slowly drops to a low murmur in the background.

His thoughts start to form coherently, and you follow the meandering stream. You can hear them now, as long as you don’t allow yourself to get too lost in him.

A challenge all on its own.

There’s something different about his thoughts compared to others’ minds you’ve read. He’s in there, but there’s something else, something sinister that chants malice, hatred, and corruption. It grasps at and infects his thoughts as they flow, polluting them.

You can hear his thoughts as they drift.

“What have I become?”

“Who am I?”

“Help me.”

He’s not lying.

Having heard enough to get answers, you allow the spell to wane. You intend to break the kiss, but his mouth on yours feels divine. He hasn’t kissed you with this much passion since the night he turned you, and you soak into it and immerse yourself in him.

I have to stop this, but Gods, I don’t want to.

His tongue trails along your lower lip, sending spiralling shivers running down your spine, and you gasp, parting your lips for him. He explores your mouth skillfully, tasting you, and a growl reverberates in his chest. Feverish need washes through you in a deluge and pools hot in your stomach.

You push yourself further into him, trailing your hands greedily up the smooth contours of his body. His thumb sweeps affectionately across your cheek. He is the center of your universe, and you can’t help but be pulled into him. Your yearning desire swells between your thighs, and you sigh against him at the throbbing ache, begging for him to relieve it.

You can feel your rationality start to slip away from you as you gravitate towards him helplessly.

Reluctantly, you push him away, with a panting breath, “Stop.”

He groans but releases you immediately, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

Shaking your head, you hold your hand up to stop him. This wasn’t his fault. You had initiated it in the first place and allowed it to go on far longer than you should have. Your lips still tingle with the phantom feeling of his urging mouth, and you crave more.

His sultry gaze penetrates you, “I did very much enjoy that idea.”

Me too.

“You’re not lying, as far as I can tell, but I still don’t know what you think I can do for you.”

“You’re the only one that will stand up to me. Well, that I know I won’t kill anyway.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

His eyebrows round, and his mouth drops open, “You think I will kill you?”

“Yes. I think you might. You’re certainly more than capable of it.”

“I…” Surprise dances across his features, “I would never.”

You scowl at him, “You almost did.”

“Darling, I was right behind you the entire time, just out of sight. I would never have let you burn.”

Was he?

“Oh, I see. So, you just, what? Enjoy seeing me running for my life, terrified? I hope you enjoyed the show.”

“I don’t enjoy it, but I feel… compelled to do it like something takes over, and I’m out of control…” he sighs, “again.”

“I don’t know if I can save you from yourself, Astarion.”

His eyes fall to the ground, full of sorrow and fear, and your heart breaks for him.

“I… I understand.”

“But I will try.”

I have to.

“You will?”

What do I have to lose?

Reflexively, you take a deep breath and nod, “Yes.”

Astarion takes your hand in his, “Thank you.” He smiles, “Will you move back into the palace?”

You pull away from him, “I have to think about it, Astarion. I need time to process…. Whatever this is.”

“Yes, of course. That’s eminently reasonable. Shall we discuss your terms tomorrow night?”

Another transaction for my help. Lovely.

“Fine. Until tomorrow, then. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my treasure.”

You sit in the stark chair by the fireplace in the empty house you share with Shadowheart and Gale. Anxiety prickles your skin and ripples through your thoughts.

Am I falling for another trap?

Agreeing to help him may prove to be your undoing, but when have you ever been able to resist him when he’s pleading for your help? It’s what got you into this mess in the first place - isn’t it? If the ritual did cause this change in him, you can’t help but feel it’s your fault.

It sounded like he was still in there. If he is, how do you save someone from their own corrupted thoughts?

Tears slip down your cheeks, and you bring your knees to your chest. The fire wanes in the fireplace as it runs out of fuel, and you allow it to die like you allowed Astarion to take your life. As the fire burns out, it washes you in darkness. You wish Shadowheart were here to try and talk you out of the stupidity you’ve just agreed to.

Can I even be talked out of it?

You have always been headstrong, likely to your own detriment at times. You preserve where others balk. That resilience had carried you through after escaping the Nautiloid, but could it carry you through this?

The hectic cacophony of Astarion’s mind makes you shudder. You’ve listened in on the thoughts of countless people and never encountered anything similar. It had been like watching a crystal-clear stream slip through a contaminated bog, turning it into a gelatinous, toxic soup.

Could the ritual have caused that?

There was no way to know for sure. You had never listened to his thoughts before. Even when you had the tadpole, you never forced your way into any of your friends’ heads out of respect for them and their privacy. The only times you had crossed those boundaries was when the tadpole resonated with his out of your control.

Going to your room, you crawl into your bed. The wooden walls creak and groan eerily around you as if the ghosts of the 7000 souls you condemned were haunting you. You let your consciousness glide into the meditative tranquillity of your trance.

You awake when the shadows have devoured the light again. Slipping into a tightly fitting robe, you bolster yourself for what’s to come. You run a comb through your hair and adorn your favourite circlet. The metal is delicately shaped in prancing dragons, and a shining red gem hangs low on your forehead.

A knock on the door makes you twitch slightly, though you already know who it is. Astarion is waiting when you open it, leaning against the doorframe, handsomely bathed in the small beams of pale light that slip through the parting clouds covering the inky sky.

He’s dressed in a fancy red and black jacket with silver and gold piping and finely embroidered. His scarlet eyes are vibrant, dazzling you.

“Hello, little love. Are you ready to discuss?”

Am I?

“Yes. We can talk.”

“Where are Shadowheart and Gale?”

“Not here.” You leer a warning at him, “Stay away from them.”

His eyes cast down, “Do you truly think I am such a monster that I would hurt them?”

“I don’t know who or what you are anymore.”

He shakes his head with a sigh, “Neither do I sometimes, my dear. Shall we get you something to eat before we talk?”

“You’re not dressed for hunting.”

He chuckles, “I may be a tad overdressed. I came from a business meeting.”

Business meeting?

“Come, let’s go get you some food.”

You and Astarion walk to the forest in uneasy silence. A low fog covers the ground in an eerie, chalky mist. You keep a tight grasp on your magic, ready to cast at a moment's notice.

Astarion may seem different, but you’re not entirely sure if you can trust him. Part of you thinks this is all just another manipulation, and you’re walking straight into it.

The lovesick hero… Gods, he couldn’t have been more right.

“Do you always stomp so loudly when you’re hunting?”

You scoff, “I am not a hunter, Astarion.”

“Yes, that’s evident. How did you keep yourself fed?”

You shake your head, abject, “I didn’t. Not well, at least.”

Astarion strips himself of his jacket and shirt once he’s surmised you’re deeply enough into the forest. His pallid skin makes him appear almost ghost-like in the washed-out glow of the diffuse beams of light that flicker, cast from the full moon glowing brightly behind the clouds. His muscles appear as though they have been etched from stone by a master mason.

Fuck.

He looks ethereal in this moment, and you can’t pry your eyes away from him.

“Enjoying the view, precious thing?”

“Yes, the forest is beautiful tonight.” You cast your eyes upward before meeting his with a taunting glare, “I could take or leave your body.”

“Oh,” he giggles, “feeling bold tonight, I see.”

This feels too much like before he usurped the Rite of Profane Ascension, making you restless. You fidget with your hands and shift uncomfortably on your feet. Your palms are still warm, prepared to cast, just in case he turns on you like he has so many times.

“We can talk about what’s bothering you if you wish.”

You didn’t even notice him walk over. Astarion stands in front of you. His eyebrow is cocked, and he eyes you acutely with a probing gaze.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Stay put, and do try not to move about too much. You scare away the animals.”

You roll your eyes at him, “I’m well aware of my inadequacies, thank you.”

Just like the night before, Astarion returns promptly with your dinner. He redresses himself while you eat, and you mourn the loss of that mouthwatering sight.

Get ahold of yourself.

“Where would you like to talk? I presume you have… demands.”

“The palace is fine as long as you don’t currently have any… guests. ”

“Guests?” He cocks a brow at you, confused.

“Your new lover. Whatever her name is.”

“Oh…” He shakes his head, “It’s not what you think, my dear. We will discuss it.”

Not what I think? She basically told me as much.

Once you hit the city streets leading to the palace, you are overwhelmed by all the people outside, even at this late hour. They smell like prey, and even though you just ate, that hunger is insatiable. You could likely eat every person in this city and still not quench that sanguine thirst.

Their hearts beat lazily in their chests as they mull about, and it’s the only thing you can hear. You grimace and grit your teeth, trying to stay in control of the bloodlust that consumes you.

Astarion notices your unease. He had spent two centuries with it, after all.

“Hold my hand, little love. I’ll keep you safe and them.”

He holds his hand out to you, and you look at it tentatively, unsure if you should take it. A child runs past you, chasing his friends, laughing hysterically, and you grab Astarion’s hand in a death grip. You clamber and hug tightly to his side as you fight the urge to chase the gleefully playing children.

Gods, what have I become?

“Eyes on me, darling. You’re alright.”

“Astarion, I can’t.” Your voice is panicked, pleading, “I need to get out of here before I kill someone.”

He nods and looks around, “Do you see that rooftop?”

“Yes.”

“Can you make it up there?”

You nod, “Yes.”

“Go.”

You cast Misty Step and disperse into a fog, reappearing on the rooftop. Astarion is already there waiting for you, no doubt turning himself into mist as he had done in the forest to subdue you. He holds out his hand again, and this time, you take it gratefully. Despite the fear he has instilled in you, there is solace in his touch as there always was.

Astarion leads you over rooftops, jumping from section to section and catching you when you inevitably nearly fall. The breeze up here is unhindered by obstacles and remains fresh and mostly void of the smell of the living, allowing you to calm your raving mind.

Walking into the palace courtyard, you eye the statue you had thrown him through in your rage just a few nights prior.

So much can change so quickly.

The square base of the statue remains largely intact, but the rest of the marbled-grey figure lies in large, jagged pieces strewn haphazardly on the ground.

Astarion follows your gaze and smirks, “I didn’t like it much anyway.”

You follow him into a large, lavish sitting room, obviously meant to occupy the spawns’ guests before Cazador came for them. Looking around the dim, dreary palace, you shudder.

I hate this place.

“Darling, do you mind?”

“What?”

He points at the fireplace, “Would you be so kind?”

With the flick of your wrist, fire springs to life, igniting the kindling and logs, crackling and popping. A soft, tawny glow casts across the room. The tacky paintings and art he hated still embellish the walls, and the furniture remains the same.

Why has he not changed any of this?

He sits down and watches as you glide through the room, inspecting it. You finally shake your head and bring yourself back to the matter at hand.

Let’s get this over with.

“I have stipulations.”

He chuckles, “I would not have expected any less.”

“I don’t want to live in this horrid place.”

He waves his hand dismissively, “This is my home.”

“It’s not mine. Let me be perfectly clear - I will not live here.”

He sighs, “Alright, but please tell me you are not asking me to move back in with Shadowheart and Gale?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

“I will purchase another then.”

“I don’t want to see your lover. If you must be with her, you can go elsewhere. Return to this palace for all I care as long as I don’t have to see her and you together.”

“It upsets you.”

Your anger flares, the fire in the fireplace pulses and sputters along with it, “Yes, it fucking upsets me. Does that make you happy?”

He stands and walks over to you. You cross your arms over your body and keep your eyes off him, not wanting him to see just how much it breaks you.

Astarion uses his fingers to gently bring your eyes up to his, “Why does it upset you so?”

You scoff at him, “That’s a stupid question.”

“Be a dear and humour my stupidity then.”

“You wouldn’t even touch me after you turned me into… this. You barely laid a finger on me.”

His eyebrows knit together, “Did you want me to?”

“… Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

I wanted you to want me...

“It hardly matters now. Let’s move on.”

“I’d rather like to know why you care so much about the, what did you call her?” He cocks his head, eyes upcast, “Ah yes, my “purple-haired hussy.” You left me, remember?”

“You didn’t give me a choice. It was either run or be ruined by you, but I don’t wish to drudge this up. Let’s move on.”

He grabs your robe aggressively, tugging you close to him with a threatening sneer, “I said tell me.”

Well, that didn’t last long, did it?

Here goes nothing.

Reaching up, you grab one of his fists holding you, and you burn him. He winces, recoils and throws you to the floor.

“You little shit!”

“Stop listening to whatever is whispering to you in your head, Astarion.”

I need to snap him out of this, but how?

Your words in the forest float through your head, “Focus on something that calms you.”

Me… He anchored himself with me…

In a swift motion, you throw yourself up and wrap your arms around him in a tight embrace, “Don’t let it win.”

He growls menacingly, and you squeeze him tighter. Your whole body is trembling, terror-stricken, and you clench your jaw hard and wait for whatever comes next.

He’s either going to throw me off, kill me, or….

Astarion stills. His muscles flex and relax chaotically. You look up at him, and his eyes are tightly shut with his teeth grit together so harshly they rasp sickeningly. The tendons in his neck jut out unnaturally. His hands are balled into fists at his side. You reach up and cradle his face, and he snarls threateningly, but you sweep your thumb across his cheek.

“Hey, eyes on me, Astarion.” You echo his words from earlier when he had saved you from your own morbid, intrusive thoughts.

His eyes open slowly and meet yours, “Easy now. You’ve got this.”

Quiet minutes tick by without a word from either of you. You watch the war raging inside him through his eyes. They flash from cold and dead to the crimson warmth you recognize and back again while he battles with himself.

With a slight shake of his head, his whole body relaxes instantly, and his eyes warm again.

“I… I apologize. I…”

“Lost yourself, I know.”

He pushes you back and looks you up and down, “Are you hurt?”

“No, you didn’t hurt me, but I burnt you. Apologies.”

He looks at the reddened marking on his pale hand, “Think nothing of it. I heal quickly.”

“Yes, I’m well aware.”

Astarion’s eyes look at the floor, ashamed of himself, “Are you going to leave? I’ll take you home if you wish.”

“No. I believe we still have terms to discuss.”

“You’re still going to help me?”

You smile, “Always.”

“You truly are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

His confession at Moonrise rings through your mind. The memory is overlayed in sorrow, and your chest clenches tightly, remembering his words, “I want us to be something real.”

You thrust the thought away as quickly as it reared up, “Are you okay now, or do you need a moment?”

“No. I’m fine. We can continue with your demands. You will not live here, no lovers, what else?” He smirks, “You are a particularly demanding little thing tonight.”

“You need to teach me how to hunt so I can feed myself.”

“We’ve swayed to this particular song already, love. Don’t you remember?”

“Yes, I remember. I will endeavour to be a better pupil this time.”

He chuckles, “You may get the hang of it in a century or two or three. Fine. I will do my best to educate you. Anything else?”

“When this is over, I want my freedom. I know you won’t turn me into a True Vampire, but I want to be free to decide my fate.”

“Why do you think I won’t?”

“You told me as much. “Trust me, it doesn’t happen.�� After you turned me, I was too blinded to realize you were saying what I wanted to hear in honeyed lies. I am not so naive anymore."

He scowls but takes a deep breath, “Then you will have it, my dear.”

Big thank you to everyone who takes the time to read/follow/like/reblog/comment/etc. I'm honoured to know you're enjoying reading my fics!

I'm sorry this chapter took awhile to come out - I've rewritten it so many times I've lost count, so I hope you like it!

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

AO3 [Crossposted]

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion x you #astarion smut #astarion #soft ascended astarion #astarion x oc #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x named tav

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puddleorganism · 2 months ago

Text

Organism prompt #1

Lithotroph (consumes inorganic (typically oxidized) compounds to acquire electrons - essentially, they eat rust)

Large

Aquatic

Aposematic (organisms that have evolved to be conspicuous (usually through vivid coloration) in order to warn potential predators that they are toxic)

Bonus relationship prompt: Competition

This is little project to expand the biodiversity of my own worlds. I have many space-faring aliens, but few of their homeworlds are fleshed out. Anyone is more than welcome to use these prompts as well! Please tag me if you do, I’d love to see what you come up with :)

My organism below the cut:

This creature is from the Sunseeker/Jellybug homeworld (tbn).

This creature inhabits the waterways of this world - primarily in freshwater but not exclusively. It’s kind of like sponges or corals, in that it’s just kind of a strange aquatic growth. Might as well be a rock. Does not really have an identifiable body plan. It grows on river beds and rocky banks/shorelines, slowly devouring and eroding the stone, turning shallow streams into deep pools over the decades. They end up forming a mostly flat, kind of craggy mat at the bottom and shorelines of most rivers, and some of the more rocky lakes and oceans.

Sunseekers and Jellybugs have complicated relationships with these creatures. They end up competing for space a lot. They’re excellent at fostering an environment that is perfect for aquaculture and fishing, but are also prone to devouring any structures that are built in the water to facilitate said farming/fishing. Also, they’re great at extracting heavy metals from the water, making it much safer to drink and grow food in. The problem is, if you damage or kill these creatures then there’s a great risk they’ll release years worth of lead into all your shit. So, if you want to remove them they have to be very carefully removed from the environment, and disposed of elsewhere so as to not contaminate any food or water sources. Most just make peace with the fact that eventually they’ll have to replace every single part of their farm in exchange for not filling their water with lead.

Nothing except a few very specialized parasites can ever survive eating these things because of the toxins they extract from the water. That’s just a great way to get lead poisoning. They start as a dull, dark teal or blue, but the more light these guys are exposed to (which isn’t much to be fair, as there’s a dense, almost ever-present fog covering most of this world’s surface) the redder they become. Those on the shore or near the surface are a sort of rusty red, which is pretty much as bright as they ever get in the wild. However, if grown in captivity under bright lights they turn a vivid scarlet. Sometimes this is done so dyes/pigments can be made from them.

Also heed the “large” attribute. For my purposes I’ve decided that refers to the size relative to the spacefarers who share this world. Jellybugs are the size of a large horse (big). Sunseekers are the size of a large Cessna (very big). So I’d say these things get pretty damn big. Just as a wild guess, I’d say depending on age and health these things probably range from 10-20’ (3-6 m) in diameter.

#organism prompt #speculative biology #alien species #spec bio #oeh #off the edge of the horizon #sunseekers #jellybugs #worldbuilding

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twignotstick · 9 months ago

Text

Mud Dogz - How to be Homeless 🏚️

Warnings (if there's anything I should add here, tell me please!): homelessness (as if that wasn't already obvious), eating thrown out food, violence involving children, fire, happy ending [More spoilery tags at the end! This story doesn't get too dark, but read at your own risk!]

Words: 7,440

Summary: Eight year old Daniel Tesseau, who would one day become the infamous Dastardly Danny, runs away from his family after finding out about their criminal business. However, living on the streets isn't as easy as he first believed. Can he earn the trust of an unlikely ally to survive?

Notes: This is the first fic of my Mud Dogz AU! The goal of this AU is to expand on the many questions left unanswered by the Hidden City in ROTTMNT, specifically following the lives of the Mud Dogz before, during, and after canon. I hope you enjoy!

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For the first time in his life, Daniel Tesseau had no idea what he was doing.

He had done all the research he could. He read countless books, even some from the surface. He had packed his bag to the brim with filling, easy to carry food and other necessities.

And yet, only a week after running away, he had no idea what he was going to do.

He knew that, in the end, this would be better than staying with his family. He didn't want to be what they wanted him to be. Ever since, two weeks before his great escape, his mother had told him about what he was destined to become.

He had known that his family was composed of powerful mages. He, himself, was one. He knew that they specialized in enchanting artifacts. They had a nice shop, too! He just hadn't known about their underground dealings with one of the most dangerous people in the Hidden City, and their history of selling dangerous things to dangerous people.

When his mother finally showed him the terrible, besmirched inheritance he was set to overtake, and set to start involving himself in scarily soon, he knew he had to leave.

So here he was. three weeks after his world fell apart, one week after he left his broken world; sitting in an alleyway, contemplating whether or not he should try dumpster diving.

Daniel knew he needed to eat. He could potentially go for longer without food, but he had already proven that his reaction time and street skills weren't the greatest in a less than fortunate encounter with some birds. If he didn't keep his body in the best shape he could, he wouldn't stand a chance on the streets.

He glared at the dumpster like it owed him money. The smell was utterly awful to Daniel's heightened senses, but he knew statistically that there had to be something salvageable in there. It just might take some… digging. The thought made him want to gag, but his stomach was too shallow to risk that.

“Why are you in my spot?”

Daniel flinched at the voice that appeared at his side. He looked over to see a green skinned yokai around his age with a large nose and unkempt, black hair. He had a strip of light blue fabric struggling to keep the hair from his face, and a tank top seemingly made of the same material. A pair of baggy brown pants hung around his waist, held up by a piece of rope tied into a sloppy knot slipped through the belt straps. He had a single tusk showing through his grimace.

“Dang, with ears that big, you'd figure you hear me fine.” The green yokai leaned down to get closer to Daniel's eyeline. “What are you doing at my dumpster?” He asked, slowly emphasizing each word.

Daniel's eyes widened and he struggled to stand. “O-oh, is this your building?” He stuttered. “I can go if you-”

“No, it's not my building. It's my dumpster. Now go away before I make you.” The yokai grabbed the lid of the dumpster and flung it open, leaning over to dig around inside.

Oh. So he had the same idea.

Daniel watched the kid, obviously already experienced in this, open a trash bag and start digging. He threw a good amount of napkins to the side before coming up with what he was looking for.

A greasy pizza crust.

He took a bite and glared back over at Daniel. “Well?” He asked, raising a bald eyebrow. “I said scram. Go back to whatever rich people convention you came from.”

Daniel looked down at his clothes. He had almost completely forgotten that he wore some of his most comfortable clothes when he ran. He had a purple sweater vest over a soft off white undershirt, and his most casual dress pants. He basically didn't own anything less fancy.

“I didn't come from a ‘rich person convention’. That isn't a thing. You sound stupid.” Daniel crossed his arms and stared back at the boy.

The yokai's eyebrow rose higher. “Why are you here, then?”

Daniel rubbed his heel into the floor, deciding what information he should tell this complete stranger. “I'm… on a mission. From my family. T-to prove my worth without my magic.”

“Here?” The boy questioned, leaning back into the dumpster to dig out another crust. “This place is the pits. Why would you come out here?”

“B-because it's the best place to prove myself, obviously!” Daniel tensed his shoulders, seriously contemplating jumping in the dumpster to find anything to get rid of this terrible hunger in his gut. “It's better to prove yourself in a tough situation, not an easy one.”

“You don't look like you're ‘proving yourself’ that good. You look like a runaway.”

Daniel's ears flipped up and his tail straightened. “I-I'm not a runaway! I didn't run away! You can't prove that! O-only stupid kids run away from their family!”

“Woah, man, chill out!” The kid backed out of the dumpster to better look at Daniel. “I'm a runaway, I get it.”

Daniel sucked in a gasp. “Oh.” Daniel dug his heel harder. “Sorry. I didn't mean that. Runaways aren't stupid.”

The yokai laughed. “Eh, it's alright. We're all a little stupid.” He glanced from the dumpster back to Daniel. “Are you hungry?”

Daniel grabbed his tail to fidget with. He nodded just a bit, looking away.

“Here!” The yokai reached back into the dumpster and tossed a pizza crust into Daniel's hands. Daniel fumbled to catch it, but managed to do so. “I'm Leonard.”

Taking a small bite of the slightly stale and weird smelling crust and holding back a pout, Daniel responded, “Thank you.”

Leonard watched Daniel uncomfortably eat. “Y'know, when someone tells you their name, you should usually tell them yours.”

Daniel quickly finished the crust, forcing himself to swallow the last of it. The aftertaste wasn't great, but it was good to have something more on his stomach. “Uh,” he mumbled, “I'm Daniel. Daniel Tesseau.”

“Daniel? Cool!” Leonard walked over to him, stopping just a bit away. “Why'd you run away?”

“None of your business.”

Leonard's face flattened at the sudden aggression. “Oookay.” He looked Daniel over before gasping. “You're like, a literal street rat!”

“Wha-” Daniel scoffed. “I'm not a rat, I'm a yokai. Just like you are. I'm just a rat-like yokai. What kind of yokai are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“I'm an ogre. Obviously.”

Daniel squinted at him. Sure, he had the green skin, the pointy teeth, the offensively big nose, but something was wrong.

“Why are you so skinny, then?”

Leonard puffed out his chest and crossed his arms, pushing his biceps to make them look bigger. “You're one to talk! Y-you look like you can't even lift five pounds!”

“Anyone can lift five pounds.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yeah-huh!”

“What about babies?”

Daniel paused. “Okay. You have a point. But I'm not a baby. I'm almost eight.”

“Hey, me too!” Leonard grinned. He glanced back at the dumpster, then at the sky. “I should probably get going. I've got something I need to do. Seeya around, Danny!”

“It's Daniel.”

“...uh, okay. Bye ‘Daniel’.”

“W-wait!” Daniel held up a hand just as Leonard started to turn to leave. “Uhm,” he swallowed, “how long have you been a runaway?”

Leonard took a second to think, scrunching his face. “Uh, I think I was almost six? So…a year?”

“...that's two years.”

“Oh! Guess I lost track of time. Two years, then.”

Daniel took in Leonard's appearance one last time. He was skinny for an ogre, sure, but he still had a good amount of muscle mass. He looked like he ate well. He looked (relatively) clean.

He was experienced.

Daniel breathed deeply. “Well, Leonard, I hate to ask this of you, but I must admit to my desperation. I have only been… a runaway for a week, and I've discovered that I do not yet have the skills required. I need help learning just how to survive out here without the aid of my magic, as I refuse to use it.”

Leonard squinted. “Are you…” Leonard chuckled. “Are you asking me to teach you how to be homeless?”

If Daniel wasn't covered in fur, his face would have become flushed. The twitch in his ears and tail was telling enough. “N-no,” he stuttered, “I'm just asking you to help me learn how to survive on my own without my magic.”

“Or your parents?” Leonard asked slyly.

“...yes.”

“Or your rich people house?”

“...yes, Leonard. I'm proving this to myself. Now will you help me or not?”

“Hmm..” Leonard leaned back on the alley wall, rubbing his chin. “How about this?”

Daniel looked up, his attention fully taken.

“I have a scheme to pull tomorrow. Tomorrow night, same time, meet me here. I'll tell you the details then. If you swear to help me pull it off, then I will promise to give you my money-less wisdom.”

Tapping his toe on the ground, Daniel weighed his options. He could accept Leonard's offer and possibly be getting into way more trouble than he bargained for, or he could refuse and possibly die because he doesn't know how to… be homeless.

Or he could just go home.

“Okay.” Daniel stood straight as he could. “I'll help you enact this… scheme that you're planning. But you have to help me.”

“Sounds good to me!” Leonard patted Daniel's shoulder, causing him to flinch and grab his tail again. “I'll see you tomorrow then, Danny!”

“It's Daniel!”

Leonard was already prancing away.

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

When Leonard returned to the dumpster the next night, he found Daniel standing with his heel dug in the dirt and his tail twisting in his hands. He was side-eyeing the dumpster again, glancing side to side intermittently. Leonard approached more comfortably this time, making sure to make a little noise.

“Hey Daniel!” Leonard greeted. “You ready for the coolest thing ever?”

“Hello, Leonard.” Daniel tried to gather himself and swung his tail behind him. “Uh, I guess? I don't think a ‘scheme’ is exactly the coolest thing ever…”

“It will be!” Leonard almost ran forward to grab Daniel's arm, but stopped when he heard a grumbling sound from Daniel's stomach. He looked Daniel up and down again, asking, “When did you eat last?”

Daniel mumbled something, grabbing his tail again subconsciously.

“Huh?”

“Last night.” Daniel spoke louder, obviously upset by the fact.

Leonard's eyebrows furrowed as he frowned. “Do you not like digging in there?” He asked, pointing to the dumpster. Daniel shook his head.

Leonard stood up straight. “That's alright, I'll do it for you!” He jumped onto the dumpster and tossed the lid open, talking as he started to dig. “There's a group that always throws their crusts away that comes once every week. I think they came in yesterday, but I still might find- oo, jackpot!” He hopped back out with a half eaten slice of pizza in his hand. “This works, right?”

Leonard took the way Daniel's eyes lit up hungrily as a “yes” and handed the slice over. Daniel almost took a bite before pausing and ripping the slice in half, holding one half to Leonard. “Oh, I ate before I came,” Leonard said. “You go ahead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah! You need it more, anyway.”

Daniel started eating, mumbling a “thanks”. Once he was done, Leonard grabbed his arm, shouting, “Come on, I'll fill you in on the way!”

Daniel nearly tripped over his own feet, but eventually the two boys fell into stride. He still felt very uncomfortable about using his talents to help a total stranger, but it was better than going hungry. Leonard tried to make some small talk, but nothing seemed to land right. When they were closer to their destination, Leonard started getting to the point.

“Alright Dan, you're a man with a plan, right?”

“Daniel.”

“...okay. Daniel, you're a maniel with a planiel, right?” Leonard rephrased condescendingly.

“I would say so,” Daniel replied, equally condescending.

Leonard sighed heavily. “Well,” he started, “there's a shop over here that's got a big exchange going on. I want to try to take some of the moolah from right under their noses. I've seen them do exchanges before, but I don't know exactly how to get the cash. Got any ideas?”

Daniel slowed a bit. A robbery? He needs to steal money to earn this kid's trust?

Well, correction.

He needs to steal money to get this kid to teach him how to be homeless.

“...well,” Daniel said, “I'd have to scope out the place first. But if we can somehow make our move during the exchange, then we could have an opening to take some… ‘moolah’.”

Leonard nodded along as he explained the vaguest plan he had ever thought up. “Do we know what they're exchanging?” Daniel asked.

“Nope,” Leonard said bluntly. “She sells meat, though. Mostly fish.”

“Do you know the owner of the shop well?”

“She's some bird yokai, I think. Not too old, so she's probably not blind or whatever.”

“Okay,” Daniel nodded, “and the other party involved?”

“Dunno. She gets stuff from a couple different groups. I've been scoping the place out for a while, and I think I've seen her trade with, like, eight different people?”

“So we have to be ready for anything?”

“Basically. But she always brings the meat and stuff inside and sets it on a table before bringing the money outside, so if you can come up with a good plan, it'll be a breeze!”

Daniel slowed their pace a bit, rubbing his tail in his hands. “Where does the exchange usually happen?”

“At the back door. And there's not really any good windows into the back room where the cash is, I've checked. The building's sorta… split in two.” Leonard tried to illustrate the floorplan with his hands. “It's like, one big room for the shop, and a smaller room where she does all the meat cuttin’. And they always park their big mounts in the back to unload.”

Daniel nodded in understanding. “Okay. So all we'll need is a good spot to wait, and then a good opportunity to slip inside. And then… I guess we'll figure out the way out from there.”

“Sweet!” Leonard pumped his fist. “Slip in, grab the cash, slip out, profit!”

Daniel grabbed his tail tighter, looking to the side to hold in a smile and a giggle. “I guess.”

“Great! Well, here's the spot!” Leonard said, holding his arms out in a grand gesture. They were standing before a shop that could easily be recognized as a butchery, with many advertisements for various meats hanging in the windows. There was, as Leonard had previously mentioned, an emphasis on Hidden City seafood. In addition, there were ads for more exotic, hard to find forms of seafood. It was easy to assume that those were the kinds of things that required a late night exchange.

The storefront was closed, and there was a thin alley that allowed for access to the back. Leonard sidled into it, keeping his back braced to the store wall. Daniel, hesitantly, did the same.

The area behind the building was basically what Daniel expected. The space was pretty open, obviously to make space for any mounts or vehicles carrying heavy cargo. The back of the shop was nothing interesting, just a single door with a few steps in front of it. There weren't even any windows.

Leonard looked over at Daniel, waiting for him to speak. The yokai in question met his look with an exasperated one. “This isn't much to work with.”

“Well, it's what you got.”

“Do you know anything about the inside?”

“...it's a fish store. There's a door behind the desk that goes to the back.” Leonard pointed at the closed door. “That's the back.”

“Do you know what the back looks like?”

“I think there's, like, a table in there. I've never been in there before.”

“So you're useless. Great.”

“Hey, you didn't think I was useless when you asked me for help!”

Daniel was adequately silenced by the accusation.

He turned back to look at the space, noticing a small movement above. The movement got closer, forming into the shape of a large flying creature. It looked to be a dragon-like creature, though on the chubbier side, and seemed to be turning around in the air. Tailing behind it was a carriage, with the back corners being held up by two gargoyles. As the dragon turned and put the carriage facing where Daniel and Leonard were, it became obvious where they were landing.

Right behind the butchery.

The boys ducked down out of sight behind a trash can. The carriage landed slightly before the dragon, both with loud thuds. Daniel could feel the rumbling of the dragon's throat in his chest.

There was the sound of a latch opening in the carriage, and two tall, muscle-covered yokai, who had the features of bulldogs, came through the doors of the carriage. The gargoyles who were previously lifting the carriage flew inside the open doors. One of the bulldogs was wearing thick rubber gloves and carrying something. A strange chittering noise was coming from it.

The back door of the shop opened shortly after, and a bird yokai walked through. The bird was feminine, with bluish black and gray feathers and light blue eyes. Her hands and feet bore sharp talons. She wore black pants and a matching black jacket, with an apron hanging over her front.

The bird yokai looked mildly upset by what the taller bulldog yokai was holding. “What is that supposed to be?”

“Your catch,” the yokai grumbled, dropping what he had on the ground forcefully. The chittering became eerily childlike screaming.

On the ground, writhing from the force he had been dropped with, was a very small eel yokai. He looked so young, nearing infantile, and the sounds he was making were some strange mix of chittering and squealing. He was orange and a light teal, with freckles across his snout, spots on his body, and short, teal fins. Leonard and Daniel had to cover their mouths to keep from gasping and revealing their location.

“Can it,” the shorter bulldog growled, as he stomped on the eel's tail. The eel squeaked loudly from the impact, but his squealing quickly lessened to whimpering.

“This isn't what I sent you to get,” the bird yokai stated calmly. “I wanted three adults.”

“There were only two adults there,” the first bulldog grumbled, “and they put up more of a fight than you warned us about. Mari’s been knocked out for four hours. So give us our money.”

“Money?” The bird yokai laughed lightly. “That thing's a baby, it hardly even counts as one. I told you to get me three.”

“We risked our lives for this one, Koya!” The dog stepped forward, stepping on the eel's tail and making it scream again. “We aren't leaving until we get paid!”

The bird, Koya, tried to respond, but the eel kept screaming, slamming his fins against his attacker's foot. His screaming reached a peak, and a bright flash and loud zap emanated from him. When the light died down, the dog yokai was curled on the ground, and the eel was desperately pulling himself away, crying weakly.

Koya stepped up to the crying child and looked down on him scornfully. With hardly any effort, she reached down and grabbed the eel's tail, holding him up in the air. He had no more energy to fight, so he just dangled there like a wet rag, panting and shaking. Koya glared into him.

“You will get paid half,” she said to the yokai on the ground, not looking away from her prey. “500 unicorns, that's it. And you should thank me for being generous.”

The bird slowly walked into the building and to a tank filled with water, just barely visible from Daniel and Leonard's perspective, and dropped the eel in, watching it steadily drift to the bottom. His eyes were half lidded. She turned around and walked back out of the building, kicking the shaking bulldog still on the ground. “Get away from my shop before I change my mind.”

The second bulldog yokai helped the first stand up and walk back to their carriage. The gargoyles reemerged and the dragon flapped its wings, lifting the carriage into the sky and away. Leonard and Daniel made sure they hid completely. Only after the shop door shut behind Koya did Daniel realize.

“No!” He whispered, grabbing his ears. “We totally lost our shot!”

“‘Lost our shot’?!” Leonard hissed. “That's what you're worried about?”

“Well…” Daniel hesitated. “...yeah? You said-”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I said I'd help you out if you helped me, but there's bigger problems now!” Leonard started leaning around, searching for some other way to look inside. “This isn't just a freaky meat shop anymore, they're kidnapping people! We need to get that kid out.”

“Woah, that's way more complicated than just grabbing some money and leaving!” Daniel grabbed Leonard's shoulder to get his attention, earning a somewhat intimidating child's glare. Easily the scariest one he'd ever seen. “You said you'd help me if we could pull off a robbery, not a rescue mission.”

“Well, now I won't help unless we can pull off a rescue mission,” Leonard pressed snidely. “And if you don't help, I'll save him myself.”

Daniel scoffed at the disrespect. “You lied!”

“No I didn't! I just…” Leonard contemplated for a second, then sighed. “Things are different now. We can't just do nothing. That's a kid, he looked younger than us!”

Daniel shut his mouth to think. He needed Leonard's help to live on his own, but this was a big job. It would require making a whole new plan, and figuring out another way in.

“Please, Daniel.”

Something stirred.

“Fine,” Daniel conceded. “But only if you promise to help me regardless of if we actually save the kid or not.”

“Deal.” Leonard spat on his hand and held it out. Daniel stared.

“I'm not shaking your gross spit-covered hand.”

“You want me to be honest? This is me being honest.”

“You're being unsanitary.”

“Ugh, what is up with your-”

The sound of a door opening stopped their arguing abruptly, and Leonard grabbed Daniel to pull him back into their hiding place.

“EW!” Daniel screamed, as quietly as he could.

“Oh, get over it! I think you'd per-fer a little germs over getting tossed in a cage!”

“...it's pre-fer.”

“Ugh.”

Koya stepped out of the door again, holding a trash bag. She tossed it to the side of the door, on top of a couple others. She then re-entered the building, shutting the door behind her once more.

After a couple seconds had passed and the boys were sure the bird was gone, they crept out again. Looking at Leonard and feeling safe enough to stop whispering, Daniel said, “I trust your word this time. No need for gross spit pacts.”

“Basically just did one.” Leonard smirked.

“Nope, nuh-uh, not thinking about that,” Daniel said, wiping his arm clean and using just a little magic to be sure.

“Yeah, sure,” Leonard said, rolling his eyes. “You got a new plan?”

Daniel rubbed his chin in thought. “When does she usually get deliveries like this?”

“Every couple days, but she's stocked up good right now, so it'll probably be a while.”

“He might not have that long…”

“W-what?!”

“SHH!!” Daniel rushed to cover Leonard's mouth and push him further into hiding, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one saw them.

“Sorry, sorry, what do you mean?” Leonard asked, lightly pushing Daniel off.

Sighing, Daniel loosened. “When I peeked at the inside, she had display tanks for live fish, and a separate display for dead fish.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Why do you think she has a separate tank in the back? With nothing in it? That tank is for the stuff that's about to be dead.”

Leonard looked almost offended. “You really think she's gonna kill him, just like that?”

“What else would she do? You do know that birds eat fish, right?”

“You think she's gonna eat him?”

“I don't know, maybe she owns a butcher shop!?”

Leonard backed up a bit. “You have a point.”

“Of course I do, I always do,” Daniel mumbled. “Whatever. Look, the point is, if that kid is going to stand a chance, we need to get into that place pronto. And, unless bird lady feels like taking out more trash, the backdoor isn't an option anymore.”

Leonard scrunched up his face uncomfortably, obviously trying to make him look like he was thinking more deeply than he truly was. “Maybe we could just… go through the front?”

“Oh yeah, go through the front,” Daniel said. “In case you've forgotten, the shop's closed. We can't get in until she opens up again in the morning.”

“We aren't supposed to get in…” Leonard said, walking around the building with Daniel close behind. “...but maybe we can!”

“I just-... I just said we couldn't. Are you- are you not listening to me?”

Leonard stepped out onto the sidewalk and stood proudly with his hands on his hips. “We just need a disjunction!”

“...distraction.”

“That's what I said!”

Daniel sighed and pressed his palm to his forehead, looking over at Leonard. “And just what did you have in mind, genius?”

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

“This is a horrible distraction.”

“You're just jealous that I came up with it and you didn't.”

“There is nothing to be jealous of! Why do you have a jar of bugs?!”

“They're not bugs, Danny-”

“Daniel.”

“-they're pixies. They wreck stuff for fun! All we have to do is wriggle through the window, hide in a corner, and let ‘em loose.” Leonard held up the jar of fidgeting fairies. It was nearly the size of his head, and the pixies within were buzzing around rapidly. There were maybe thirty in the jar, but it was hard to count with how fast they were moving.

“And just how did you come to have these pixies?” Daniel questioned.

Leonard moved the jar to hold it under his arm. “I caught them trashing my place. There were like, a ba-jillion of them then, but I was only able to catch these ones.”

“Don't most houses have anti-pixie protections? They shouldn't have been able to get in in the first place.”

Leonard scoffed, mumbling, “Maybe they wouldn't have if it was a house,” and walked up to the slightly ajar window. He obviously hadn't intended Daniel to hear, but with the rat’s keen ears, he did. A slight pang of guilt shocked Daniel's chest, but he did his best to brush it off.

Leonard pushed the window slightly further up, making a good enough opening. “It's a tight squeeze, so don't get your tail caught, street rat,” Leonard mocked as he lifted himself in through the window. It took some shimmying, but he was able to drop down on the tile floor inside with a quiet grunt, picking himself up with his arms.

“Okay, I deserved that.” Daniel hefted himself in the window as well, a little more gracefully. The inside of the shop was scarily silent, though sound could be heard from behind the back door. It sounded like Koya was cutting through something, her knife repeatedly hitting a cutting board. “Where are we hiding, Leonard?” Daniel whispered.

Leonard surveyed the room, his eyes landing on an empty shelf behind the counter. It was just big enough for both of the boys. “Let's go there, fast.” He ushered Daniel over to the spot, simultaneously starting to unscrew the lid of the jar. The pixies became more excited at the possibility of freedom, and were ready to cause problems.

Once Leonard was sure he and Daniel were properly hidden, he released the pixies. They quickly started filling the shop with pink light, knocking things over and attacking the dried meat still left on display. Daniel pulled Leonard further into the shelf instinctively as the noise in the shop became louder. The squeaking laughter of the pixies was grating on the ears.

The backdoor opened with a slam and Koya stepped through, holding a slightly bloodied knife in one hand. She squawked at the sight of the fairies trashing her store. “Wh- How did you get in?! OUT!” She started swinging her knife at the pixies in a fruitless attempt to cut them down. They only laughed louder and started pulling at her feathers.

Leonard and Daniel eyed the open door and looked at each other, nodding. Quickly but quietly, the pair slunk into the back, away from the aggressive bird.

Finally being able to see the entirety of the back room, they took note of the table to their left with meat piled on it. A small oil lamp sat on the corner, illuminating the space where Koya had been working before. With a tightness in their chests, they looked to the tank they'd seen before; sighing in relief.

The eel was still laying at the bottom of the tank. He only looked half awake. When he saw the strangers enter the room, he tried to push himself backward, accidentally pressing his injured tail against the wall and choking on a yelp. It was hard to tell if he had been crying due to a lack of tears, but his eyes looked irritated. He had at least been rubbing them.

Maybe he just wanted to stay awake.

Maybe he was scared he wouldn't wake up again.

Leonard grabbed a chair and pulled it to the side of the tank, using it to pull himself on the edge and look down at the frightened child. “Hi, little guy…” he whispered.

While Leonard spoke with the yokai, Daniel busied himself with making sure the backdoor was ready for them to rush out.

“We're here to get you out, buddy,” Leonard assured. He put his arm in the water, shivering from how cold it was compared to the outside. “J-just grab my arm, buddy, then I'll pull you out.”

“Be careful,” Daniel pressed, getting Leonard's attention. “You saw what he did to that big dude, imagine what he could do to you.”

“He won't, I know it.”

“How?”

Leonard looked back down into the frightened eyes of the eel, seeing all the innocence and fear in them. He was broken, both mentally and physically. He didn't have a clue what was happening.

“...I just do.”

Leonard reached his arm down further into the tank. The eel looked at his hand, examining every finger. After an endless stretch of maybe 10 seconds, he scooted forward slightly and swam up in the tank, flinching from the pain it caused in his tail. He reached out both fins to Leonard's hand-

-and grabbed on tightly, allowing himself to be lifted out.

He yelped as soon as he hit open air. Koya was still occupied, so it didn't really matter, but the pixies’ laughter was dying down. They needed to get out of there.

Leonard dropped off the chair and lowered the kid as slowly as he could, holding under his armpits. His tail hit the floor somewhat heavily, making him wrap his arms around Leonard and stuff his face into his shoulder to muffle a scream. “It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, we're getting you out, we're gonna keep you safe, just hold on,” Leonard consoled hurriedly.

Unfortunately, the kid was a little bigger than expected. He was thin, but his tail- while not adding to his height at all- made him a little heavier than Leonard could easily handle. Leonard tried to grab him where he assumed his waist was to get him into a princess carry, but his skin was too wet to properly grab.

Daniel was listening closely to the sound from the other room, keeping one eye on the door and one eye on Leonard scrambling. The struggle beyond the wall was nearly gone. “We need to move, now.”

Leonard grit his teeth. “Well, a little help would be nice!” He growled.

Daniel sighed, hurrying over to help lift the eel's other end. He had begun making those chittering sounds again. It sounded like he was trying to ask questions.

The boys finally got the eel off the ground and started moving to the exit.

“What do you think you're doing?”

Koya stood silhouetted by the doorway, the knife brandished in her hand. Her eyes held nothing but discontent. The boys stared, stunned in place.

“Let go of my PROPERTY!” Koya screamed, moving forward.

Both boys felt a surge of electricity through their arms. Not enough to knock them out, but just enough to send them falling backwards. The eel flopped to the floor between them, squealing and sobbing.

“Little freak,” Koya hissed, walking over with purpose and grabbing the eel's tail to dangle him above the floor again. “Thought you could call in some favors, did you?”

The eel yokai screamed.

“Let go of him!” Leonard pulled himself off the ground, still keeping a few feet of distance to stay away from the knife in the bird's hand. Daniel was still on the floor, shaking more from fear than the shock.

Koya laughed. “You don't have a clue what's going on, do you?” She clutched the tail tighter, grinning down at Leonard. “You're so cute. You don't even know who this kid is, and yet you're risking your life for him. You don't even have the common self preservation to run when you have the chance. Your rodent friend seems to understand how much danger you're in.”

Leonard looked at Daniel behind him, who looked ready to bolt.

“And you,” Koya said to the eel, holding the knife closer to him, “you will behave. You'll thank me for my generosity. I'm saving you from having to live that pitiful life with your pitiful-”

Ears rang with the strength of the blast.

A burst of electricity, blinding every soul in the room.

Emanating from the eel.

Once they were able to properly see again, Daniel and Leonard found Koya lying on the ground with her knife knocked just out of reach and the smallest flame on one of her feathers. The eel was laying on the ground again, close to motionless. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were fighting to stay open. Mostly losing.

Leonard ran over to the kid. He grabbed his shoulders and tried to lift him up again. “You're gonna get out of here, okay? That was so cool! I can't wait to see what else you can do!”

The eel whimpered a little in response. Without him trying to help, he felt a lot heavier.

Daniel was still frozen. He couldn't bear the thought of moving any closer. Even though Leonard needed help. Even though the threat was on the ground, unconscious.

Not unconscious.

He watched as, unbeknownst to Leonard, the bird rose on her elbows. She shook as she reached out and grabbed her knife. She leaned over Leonard and held the knife high.

Something stirred.

Daniel ran to grab the lamp off the table.

“WATCH OUT!”

The glass of the lamp shattered as it slammed into Koya's shoulder. The small flame that had been on one of her feathers from the blast quickly caught the oil that spilled. She screamed as she tried to bat the fire out, but only caused it to spread.

Leonard was the one frozen in place now. Daniel, filled with adrenaline, slapped him on the shoulder to bring him back to the land of the living. With tight breath, Leonard picked up the eel in a princess carry like he'd been trying to before. Both boys, with their rescue, ran out the door to escape the spreading flames.

They didn't stop running until they were blocks away.

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

“He's still not waking up?”

“N-no,” Leonard wheezed, hefting the body in his arms up again. Their adrenaline had faded, and it was becoming increasingly harder to hold him up. “B-but my place isn't too far! We can lay him down when we get there.”

“Let me,” Daniel said, gesturing for Leonard to put the eel down, to which he gladly complied. Sighing, Daniel conjured the magic within him to lift the eel above the ground.

“Woah…” Leonard stared in awe. “But, didn't you say-”

“-that I didn't want to use my magic anymore, to prove I could live without it?”

“...yeah?”

“This isn't for me.” Daniel smiled at the boy floating in front of them. “It's for him.” His smile dropped a bit as he glanced to the side, mumbling, “And you too, I guess. Cause you clearly couldn't carry him anymore.”

“I coulda!” Leonard refuted, before dropping into a calmer state again. “But… thank you.”

Daniel just smiled. He kept a close pace behind Leonard as he directed Daniel to his place. Apparently, this “place” was a garage. Leonard had to put a lot of effort into lifting the large door open, but he did, and he let Daniel pass with the eel. When Daniel got inside, he was genuinely a bit shocked by what he found.

The garage was dark until Leonard pressed a button on the floor. The button was attached to a string of fairy lights that were strung all around the room. Leonard ran around the garage, flicking on lamps and other small lights. He was climbing over pillows, blankets, and avoided running into a sofa that sat just to the side of the center of the room. There was a cooler to the right, plastic battered and broken in spots, but still effective. To the left, on a rug, piles of paper and pencils. Most of the paper was just crinkled posters, flipped to the back so they could be written on.

In the back of the garage, there was a metal tub. On the side, an embossed design of a pumpkin surrounded by three apples. Sitting beside it were two buckets.

“Can we put him in that tub?” Daniel asked as Leonard flicked on the last lamp. “It might help him heal faster.”

“Oh, uh,” Leonard looked back at the tub. “I should probably change the water first. I used it a couple days ago.”

“How long will that take?”

“Ehhhh, five minutes?” Leonard held his hand out in a shaky gesture. “I have to go out to the fountain, cause all the other water nearby is nasty.”

“Try to go fast. We don't know if he's okay to stay out of water for long,” Daniel said as he laid the eel on the sofa.

“Got it!” Leonard ran and grabbed the buckets by the tub, lifted the garage door again and ran out with a bucket in either hand.

Seeing nothing better to do, Daniel sat up on the sofa with the eel. To fit nicely, he had to lay the boy's head on his lap. He noted then that the eel was shivering a bit, his face scrunched up and jaw grinding. Daniel placed one hand on the eel's chest, and used the other to rub his head. He lightly pushed the teal fin on top to the side, and the eel started to relax. He unconsciously rolled his head so he could rest against Daniel's stomach.

“...you're going be okay. I promise. Me and Leonard are going to take care of you. We're going to make sure you get better. Then we'll figure out where you came from and bring you home.”

He sat and comforted the eel until Leonard came back, signaled by a knock on the metal garage door. Daniel gently slipped out from under the eel and helped hold the door open while Leonard brought the buckets in, full of water. Leonard tipped the tub over, emptying it of all the old water as it drained into the grate in the center of the garage. Daniel found it interesting how perfectly everything was arranged in the room, making sure nothing got wet when the tub was drained.

After Leonard tipped the tub back upright, he emptied both buckets into it. “Do you think it should be hot?” He asked Daniel.

Daniel thought for a moment. “Lukewarm, just a little. He's cold now, and we don't want to hurt him or shock him with hot water.”

“Lukewarm,” Leonard confirmed, getting a nod. “I can do that. Give me a second-” Leonard reached into a bag that was sitting near the wall, pulling out an orange and red mushroom. Daniel felt the mystic energy from it immediately.

Leonard dropped the mushroom into the tub, and it started to glow and dissolve. Daniel looked with a curious expression, which Leonard noticed. “I found a patch a couple months ago where they grow,” he explained. “They make water warm. I usually use a couple when I want a warm bath, so just one should do the trick.”

“...cool,” Daniel whispered as he watched the glow fade, the mushroom fully dissolving. Remembering who it was for, he reached into the tub to check that the temperature was good and used his magic again to lift the eel over to the tub, slowly lowering him in.

“...cool,” Leonard mirrored, watching the sparkles of Daniel's magic dissipate.

“He should be okay to leave there,” Daniel spoke. “He was breathing the water before, so we don't need to worry about keeping his head up. We should keep an eye on him, though. Try to be here when he wakes up, so he knows what's going on.”

Leonard smiled. “Sounds good to me. You can take the couch, I'll be on fish duty.” He started gathering blankets and pillows to put next to the tub. “It's late anyway, so we should sleep.”

“W-well, I-” Daniel hesitated. He didn't want to leave the kid alone, even if he was with Leonard. He wanted to make sure he would be okay, with his own eyes. “-I don't think I can trust you with making sure he's taken care of properly when he wakes. I have to be on fish duty.”

Leonard snorted, seeing through Daniel's excuse. “Alright, how bout we both do fish duty. Your loss on the couch, though, it's really comfy.”

“Yeah, sure,” Daniel said, grabbing some pillows before stopping and looking up at Leonard wide eyed. “Uhm, is it okay if I grab these?” he asked shakily.

“Grab whatever you want,” Leonard chuckled. “Just don't touch the food or the paper. And make sure you set up on this side. In case you didn't notice, that part of the floor is still wet.”

Daniel nodded, grabbing what he could and avoiding the wet spot on the ground. He ended up right next to Leonard, laying on some discarded decorative pillows and a blanket with a clumpy, itchy texture. He hadn't seen anything better, but he was hating the way the blanket grabbed on his fur.

Leonard watched him uncomfortably try to settle before speaking. “Hey, how about you grab that blue bag over there? It's got some mouthwash and water bottles in it. You can go outside and spit it out in the alleyway. And… I dunno, pee probably, cause I don't want you peeing on my stuff in your sleep.”

“Wh- I wouldn't pee on your stuff!” Daniel sat up and walked over to the blue bag Leonard had mentioned. “But I will do as you said, for the sake of sanitation.”

“Thanks,” Leonard said as Daniel went out. Without an audience, he walked around turning off lights, grabbing a small battery powered lamp to keep by the tub.

He leaned over the tub. It was hard to see inside it, but he could still make out the shape of the eel. The eel that they had saved. No- the boy they had saved. The boy who almost had his life put in danger, that he and Daniel had saved.

Daniel had saved Leonard's life too.

Putting one hand into the water to rub the eel's head, Leonard whispered, “You're going to be okay. Whenever you wake up, I'm gonna be here for you.” He paused, thinking, then continued. “Danny's gonna be here for you, too. We'll make sure you're loved, and safe, and you can do whatever you want with your life. I promise.”

Leonard laid back down, tucking himself in. And if he had switched his own comfortable blanket for a clumpy, itchy one, no one would complain.

○●○●○●○

Spoiler warnings: kidnapping, black market trade, dehumanization

This fic will (hopefully) be the first of many. I've had many ideas for the Mud Dogz, as well as other new characters for them to meet! I hope that you will stick around to see everything these funny little guys will get up to. :)

#tmnt #tmnt au #rottmnt #tmnt fanfiction #teenage mutant ninja turtles #save rottmnt #unpause rottmnt #mud dogs #loathsome leonard #malicious mickey #dastardly danny #fanfiction #fanfic #twig writes #mud dogz au

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minhosimthings · 2 years ago

Text

Hold me Without Hurting me

Chapter 14: Hibiscus and Holding on

A/N: In which an old friend fills your life with flowers again, along a bumpy sided road.

Pairings: Ceo!Jay × Ceo!fem!reader, includes rest of Enhypen and certain other groups

Warnings: angst-fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to enemies to fake dating to enemies to lovers, Mentions of food and alcohol, swearing, nothing much but it's a bumpy story.

Story prompt: If I had a flower for every time I fell in love with you, I would walk in my garden forever. (This story is based on the language of flowers.)

A/N: Oh my god what! Mona posting two chapters in one day? It's a Christmas miracle. But real guys this is the second last chapter before the big ending and ITS GONNA BE LIT. im gonna go slow with the last chapter, make it as poetic as possible, so that these two idiots finally get a happy (sappy) ending. Also tagging @yunabi436 I hope this keeps her fed for a few days until the last chapter!

SERIES MASTERLIST

Jungwon was never one for relationships and love and all that jazz. Although his mother constantly pestered him to get a wife and give her some grandkids, he never took interest in it. After all, he was young, younger than his boss, whom he had never seen with another man wraped around her arm.

But Park Jay was different.

Although Jungwon didn't know his boss that well, he knew that she was a no nonsense woman who liked to get her job done on time. So when he saw her excitedly narrating her tales of her Jay and her played in the mud and planted flowers, he knew that this was something special, along with Jay's own assistant Kayla of course.

"Promise you'll call?" Kayla said, giving a small peck to Jungwon's cheek. Jungwon smiled down at her frame, and caressed her cheek. "I'll try to get a transfer here, alright?"

"Why is Miss Yang leaving so soon anyway?" Kayla questioned, still holding onto her lover, "I thought Mr Park were the full lovey dovey couple." Jungwon chuckled at his girlfriend's words and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know much about that." He stated, hearing you call for him, "I love you babe, I'll call you when I get back." With a tight squeeze of her hands and a kiss to her lips, Jungwon scampered away, suitcase in hand, and a sad frown on his face.

"Congratulations Mr Park." A dreary faced man, with an awful moustache have a key to Jay, "You have earned this." Jay's hands trembled as he took the key and opened a mighty metal safe. Everything felt cold, his mother's stare, the lawyer's smirk, the metal of the key and the ringing noise in his ears. The wilted hibiscus in the corner begging for water, reminded him of your cold stare, as he shook hands with all the Ceo's, thanking them for coming to the meetings. Your hands didn't have that touch anymore, that cotton touch reminding him of why he still pestered on with life. And now, you were gone.

"Leave us." Jay commanded to the lawyer, who scampered away like a rat, leaving Jay and his mother alone.

"Why?" Jay slammed his hand on the table, making the old woman clutch her pearls tighter, "Tell me why the fuck you had to drive her away."

"She was ruining you." The woman spoke, her tone high and commanding, "Jay, this is your entire future, you can't risk it all for a girl you fell in love with fifteen years ago."

"I loved her!" Jay shouted, his voice echoing throughout the room, "And you just had to make history repeat, didn't you? Driving me away from her again and again, so that this stupid buisness can thrive." The woman clutched her pearls tighter, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Son, look on the bright side." She sighed, "You can expand the buisness now with these papers!" She looked at all the documents strewn on the table, "You can build an empire, Jay."

Jay had never felt angrier before, as he looked at his mother, greedily eyeing the papers. He would have drunk a snake's venom right now, if it meant having your hand twist in his, if it meant having to see you again, daintily flowing in a mud caked sundress, if it meant telling you, about all the times he had experienced death, thinking about you.

"You know what, mum?" He scoffed, putting the key in his hand down, "You're fired, from now on, you are excused from your position as my Chief of Management. You may leave now."

The old woman let out a pained cry, her face forming something akin to shock. "Jay, sweetheart-" "Leave mother." Jay glared daggers at the woman, "No more excuses from you. My lawyer shall be contacting you in a few days about your position from now on. You're excused."

As the woman got up slowly from her seat, pearls on the verge of breaking from how tightly she was holding them. Her face was a disgusting painting of horror and pain.

"I'll tell you this Jay." She said, before leaving, "Don't come scampering back when that girl ruins your chances of capital."

"Oh I'll take that chance." Jay spat his words with sweet venom laced in between.

He had one last chance.

And he wasn't going to waste it.

"Ma'am?" Jungwon wrapped his head around your door, frowning at the sight which beheld him. Your head was held in your hands, as you stared at all the papers in front of you.

"Yes Jungwon?" You cleared your throat, quickly sitting up straight and wiping the tears from your eyes, "Are those the reports for today?"

Jungwon nodded and sat down on the chair opposite you, an action quite unusual, as he usually just deposited the files and ran away. "Ma'am you need to stop working so hard." Jungwon's lips formed into an adorable pout, "You haven't even eaten a morsel in so many days."

You tried your hardest to smile up at Jungwon, and ran a hand through your hair. "I'm alright Jungwon, just hand me those reports."

"No you're not." Jungwon stated simply, as if to take control of the conversation.

"Ma'am no matter how much you try to distract yourself from Mr Park, it's not going to work, and especially not if you keep drowing yourself in work like this." You were taken aback at his words. What happened to the shy, nervous assistant you had been hanging out with for so long?

"I know I'm not supposed to butt into your personal life, but it is really taking a toll on your health too." Jungwon sighed, "So please, for God's sake, would you go home and rest for once?"

Jungwon's ears had turned hibiscus red by the time he finished with his impromptu speech. The confident mask he had once worn seemed to have deteriorated now, that he was fiddling his fingers and nervously biting his lips.

"I forgot how convincing you can be." You chuckled, easing his nerves a bit, "If I go home and rest for a few days, can I trust you to manage the office, Jungwon?" Jungwon's face lit up and he nodded frantically.

"I will literally do anything for you to go home and rest." He giggled, as you quickly packed up your things with his help.

"Thank you Jungwon." You sighed, as he dropped you off at the entrance of the building, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

The warm touch of the water hit your skin like a blanket enveloping you on Christmas night. When all were asleep, and you just couldn't bring yourself to drowse off, until a boy wrapped you all comfy in his arms, and cradled you to sleep, humming a song into your ear.

You had forgotten how cold the evening was, as you wrapped yourself tightly in your bathrobe, glass of wine all prepared and your cat Perry, lazily dropped on your bed, hid whiskers untamed.

Seven pm, the clock read. Still enough time to make dinner, you thought and relax to watch a sad Disney movie. Maybe you'd watch Up or The Good Dinosaur, you didn't really have a choice.

Outside your window, the winds of Zephyrus, Notus, Boreas and Eurus ran through time like an expatriate, leaving your lips cold and dry, without the touch of someone else's on them. Someone very specific.

The sudden sound of your cat leaping off of the bed, broke you out of your deep thought.

"Why do you sit on my phone, if you know it scares you, you stupid cat?" You rolled your eyes at your cat, who by now, had rested himself on the bedside table, and picked up your phone, which showed Jungwon's caller id.

"Won hey. Is everything alright?" You said, picking up the phone. "Yes ma'am.... And also no ma'am." Jungwon's voice rang in your ear. "What do you mean?"

"Mr Park has just landed in Seoul."

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noforkingclue · 2 years ago

Text

Right, so, here are my opinions from yesterdays episode of Doctor Who.

Warning: if you click 'read more' you will be seeing spoilers for the 60th anniversary special. I will also be tagging this with 'Doctor Who spoilers' so read at your own risk.

Also, these are just my opinions. Everyone has different opinions (the world would be a very boring place if everyone agreed all the time) so please be respectful to my opinions.

Anyway, on with my thoughts!

So, I have mixed opinions on this episode. There were certain things I really like and certain things I really didn't.

First thing I didn't like was the MCU style opening. I really hope that this is just something for the 60th specials and not something they're going to keep in the main series.

I did like most of the script and most of it felt like Doctor Who was back on form. However, you could really tell that the production value has gone up and where all that Disney money has gone. There's also a lot more CGI and it is starting to feel more MCU-y which I hope they tone down.

The elements of the script that I like was mainly with Donna. I love how she defended her daughter and when she had a go at the Doctor when she re-gained her memories. I also love the relationship between her and Shaun. They have a trust and love for each other which is very clear and I adore it!!!

Now then, here were things that I didn't like. I felt that the scene with the pronouns was a bit cringe and felt very forced. I also didn't like the bit where Donna and Rose said that the Doctor should've remained a woman and that he wouldn't understand because he's now a man, completely ignoring the fact that he was a woman.

There are a lot of things the I hope RTD will expand in the other two episodes. So while not my favourite episode ever it's also not my least favourite.

#doctor who #doctor who spoilers

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voxofthevoid · 1 year ago

Note

Re: the person who had a hissy fit about your fic on AO3 not having the tags they wanted... these people DO understand that tags are a courtesy, right? Like, you don't HAVE to tag anything at all. It's a COURTESY that writers tag as much as they do, and if there's something that the reader is particularly bothered by, even if it isn't explicitly tagged for, then assume it has it! Don't assume it's safe!

VERY GOOD QUESTION!

Honestly, no, I don't think they understand. Or bother to. I'm not expecting anyone to memorize the ToS, but it'd sure be nice if people would at least check the tagging FAQ before showing their entire unwashed ass in the comment section. To be clear, I'm talking about entitled demands and other nonsense, including weird guilt-tripping bullshit and attempts at peer pressure. Polite requests and dialogue are encouraged by the archive itself, though individual mileage may vary.

A general rundown, not directed at anon but for those unfamiliar with Ao3's content policy: The archive leaves damn near everything to author discretion. Some things are mandatory, like accurate language, fandom tag, rating, and main warnings—the latter two, however, can be opted out of via "Not Rated" and "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings," respectively. Even if you make a mistake in these, Ao3 will contact you first, and if you don't respond, they may recategorize or hide a work; they have specific policies for this too, which can be found in the FAQ linked above. Point is, the entire Additional Tags field is optional. So are the character, relationship, etc. fields. You are fully allowed to tag as much or as little as you want.

From the reader end, a lack of information is also information; it lets you know what the author is willing to tell you before you enter a story. If, for instance, you want to avoid all underage fics, don't touch stories tagged with "Underage" or "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings."

I'm fond of extensive tag usage, but it's this freedom to tag how you want that I value more. It accommodates all kinds of writers and readers: the minimalists and the ramblers, the risk-takers and the cautious. Both what's there and what's not there are telling. Having preferences for how tags work is one thing, but dear god, the entitlement you see these days is something else.

The reason I switched to using Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings was that I kept seeing people say that writers using "Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings" for stories regardless of the content was denying them fics they had a right to. Fucking fuck that. I stopped tagging top/bottom for a similar reason, though connected directly to hypocrisy rather than entitlement alone.

What I've been seeing, both in my comments and in general fandom spaces, is an increasing number of people who want their specific tagging tastes or expectations to be followed by all writers. The writers' own choices don't matter; it's all about catering to some rando without the manners god gave an algae.

The most egregious instance of it I've experienced was on a recent fic where I went out of my way to explain the sexual and romantic split in an unbalanced poly ship and still got people bitching (among other things) that they couldn't be arsed to expand a drop-down tag in the author's notes.

It's like the more you try to accommodate people, the more entitled they get. I used to add tags or even tweak bits of phrasing to make my readers as comfortable as possible. All that got me was increasing demands and entitlement. I've seen others share similar experiences. I take it as a learning experience in establishing and enforcing my own tagging habits and boundaries, but the entire atmosphere pisses me off.

The vast majority of readers are perfectly nice and polite. The minority comprised of pissrags are, however, loud and prone to ruining fandom as a whole. I'd say we're seeing the effects at the pan-fandom level right now, judging by fandom spaces I frequent.

...This got obscenely long. Oops. Sorry, anon! I've been pent up about this recently.

#i love my anons #anon #vox has opinions #was gonna answer the other asks too but gotta scram now

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yet-another-heathen · 2 years ago

Text

Separation

1,483 words. Original Work: Liliholm & Page.

<< | previous | next | >>

Author's Note | This is the re-penned version of everyone's favorite Liliholm and Page chapter! Since originally writing this, Luca and Garcia have evolved so, so far into their own characters and their own story arcs, and I wanted to go back to have this chapter actually reflect that. I hope you enjoy getting your first glimpse at them, there's more to come soon!

Want to see the original version? You can still find it (and all the beloved comments and replies) here <3

Chapter Warning | interrogation, torture, stress position, suffocation, head trauma, loss of conciousness, dislocation, knives, blood, cursing

Tag List | @ink-and-salt @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpvp @redwingedwhump @lave-whump @castlehillwhump @sideblogformindtrash @burtlederp @fanastywhump

And special thanks to @whump-in-the-closet, who found this series the very day that the update was set to post <3 Hope you enjoy!

"I'm going to give you exactly one chance, Deimos," they said calmly, lifting his chin with the tip of their shoe. Wesley's entire body was trembling with strain and desperate agony, "What did you do with the files?"

He had been interrogated before. Tortured a handful of times, too—so came the risks of sticking his nose into places he knew he shouldn't. But this?

They tsked down at him.

This was brutal.

The ropes tightened again, and a groan of pain clawed its way out. It felt like every muscle in his chest was about to tear. It ended with an ugly, bitter laugh.

"You know, you'd be a lot more intimidating if you weren't all of five foot fucking nothing," he rasped, trying to relax into the oncoming waves of pain, "At least that brute is imposing, even if he's got all the brains of a meatloaf."

"Hm."

They let their shoe fall away, and Wes' head slumped. Out of the very corner of his eye he saw them nod to the other interrogator.

The mountain of a man who had been looming in the corner walked up behind him and pulled the restraints further up his arms, lifting them impossibly higher behind his back. He increased the pressure until his shoulders were on the verge of dislocating. His breaths came ragged and shallow through his nose, and he couldn't help but let out a gasp as he pressed his forehead against the ground.

And this time, the biting weight of a hard rubber sole pressed into the nape of his neck, tearing at the hairs. Luca's weight crushed his forehead down into the concrete as they ground their foot into the back of his skull.

Wes opened his mouth to gasp, but no air filled his lungs. Something about the angle had cut off his breathing, and the pressure just kept increasing and increasing—

"He thinks he's cute, doesn't he? Garcia, you think he's cute?"

Wes' diaphragm started seizing, stabbing pain jerking through his ribs when his lungs refused to expand.

"Maybe before you started making such a mess of him. Now? Not so much."

His consciousness slipped along the edges of their minds, searching for cracks, but it was like trying to hold onto a glass sphere covered in soap. All he could think about was his diaphragm, and the burning of air that wouldn’t come.

Darkness began encroaching on his vision. The figures above him exchanged something that he entirely missed, but the shoe and all Luca's weight still didn't move.

His body started jerking, fingers clawing into the empty air behind him as desperation finally took control of his movements.

He couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe he couldn't breathe—

The shoe slid down his spine, catching agonizingly on his skin until it threatened to rip. And with one final, tiny push, his shoulder left its socket. A lurching POP rent the air.

Darkness became white, and everything fizzled out into agony.

When the room came swimming back into focus he realized his teeth were vibrating with bitten-back sobs of pain. He dragged in wet, rasping breaths through his teeth. The fine grit covering the floor was sharp against his cheek.

Luca was a few feet away from him with their back turned, the dull echo of voices shifting under the void of his thoughts. Pain rang up his arm, down his back, and so deep into his chest it felt like something was trying to crush his heart.

Wes curled one lip and spat a mass of blood and spit on the floor, trying in vain to lift his weight off his injured arm.

Voices came back in slowly, muffled and too loud all at once.

"—like this."

They turned around, and Wes tilted his head back to see what they were holding in their hand.

A kitchen knife. A really fucking big one, glinting as it caught the harsh light from above.

...of course.

They handled it so casually, twirling it loosely by the hilt. "I've always appreciated the simplicity of household implements," they said to their coworker over his head.

"Almost poetic, in't it?" Garcia's deep, gravely voice replied, "After all, it's still all just gristle and meat."

Wes felt his heart pick up, pounding in his ears and throat. They knelt down beside him, looking him over with a hollow smirk.

"Make sure you hold his head up. I want to watch his face."

A huge, thick hand tangled in his hair and wrenched his head upward, exposing the bare curve of his throat. But it wasn't his neck they went for, they were leaning over him and—

His eyes went wide, only moments before the tip of the blade stabbed downward through his skin. He jerked and hissed, trying to lean away.

The knife dug slowly, so so so slowly, into the bent mass of his shoulder where the joint had been separated from its socket.

It took every single ounce of his resolve not to scream. The horrible, horrible pressure of the blade digging in between cartilage and bone made his face pale, nausea rising in his mouth.

He felt the grating echo through his entire body as the knife scraped along bone, inside him, like an ice pick wedging between his teeth.

The sound that left him was inhuman. Low and bitten back and so deep with agony that it scarcely counted as breathing.

"Hm. Tough crowd," the big one teased.

And it finally ripped a frantic cry out of him as the flat side of the blade tilted downward, prying the bones apart.

Nausea rose to an unbearable limit, and blackness overcame his mind.

When he came to he was slumped with almost all of his weight in Garcia's hand, neck bent backwards at a painful angle. Sticky heat was pouring down his chest and dripping to his thighs. It took him a long moment to realize that it was blood. A lot of blood.

His body was jolting with hiccupping little half-sobs, breaths coming so shallow that he wasn't truly breathing at all. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back against the unbearable pain that sent little floating wells of black across his vision.

Luca wiped the blade clean on Wes' trembling arm, squatting so close to him that it made him sick.

"Reconsidering your position yet?"

Wes recoiled, surprising himself when a little surge of anger split through the fog of pain. He gathered himself to spit a mouthful of blood at them. He stopped short only when the tip of the knife pressed against his lips.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," they said quietly.

Wes glared at the blur of them, entire body trembling with exhaustion and strain. The unspoken threat made his blood boil.

"Go fuck yourself," he snarled, ignoring the way the cutting edge tugged at his lower lip.

He reached for his powers, and threw everything he had at them. They almost dropped the knife when the sound hit, eyes flying wide with shock and pain as they gasped and covered their ears against the raging scream of noise only they could hear.

"Garcia!"

And Wesley's head was slammed into the concrete floor. His attack was immediately cut off, gold blooming behind his eyes from the ferocity of the blow. He felt his hair ripped upward, ready to slam him down again—

Luca barely stopped Garcia from simply cracking his skull open on the concrete. This time when they seized Wes by the chin, their nails dug in. Every ounce of amusement was gone from their eyes.

"You little shit," their voice was scathing, "The next time you pull that stunt, I'm going to peel off your face, piece by pitiful little piece, and feed it to you."

Wes wanted to snarl something clever at them, but his brain was having a difficult time staying any form of coherent. His ears rang. Everything was swimming, the walls seeming to zoom out around the edges of their silhouette.

That wasn't good. That really wasn't good.

It didn't stop him from spitting that dark spray of blood directly into their face. Red and clotted black splattered across pale skin.

No matter what they did to him for it, Wes decided then and there that the look of shock and disgust on their face was worth it.

They slowly wiped a hand down their cheek, a cold mask slipping over their expression. Then they sighed.

"Well, I did warn him."

They leaned forward again, knife breaking the skin just above Wes' other shoulder, only to stop at the sound of approaching footsteps and muffled words from the other side of the door.

"Ah, now the show's starting."

Despite so much blood, despite the arm loose from its socket, despite the fact that he was trembling from head to toe and very, very much in pain, Wes growled at them, "I'm not fucking scared of you."

He startled when both of his interrogators laughed. The door lock snapped in its casing, heavy hinges creaking as it was pushed open and the sallow light from the hallway poured in.

"Oh, I'm not the one you have to worry about."

They casually flicked the tip of their blade toward the thin, frail-looking old man that entered the doorway, wiping his hands clean.

"He is."

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marrow-and-bone · 2 years ago

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Fic: you don’t know how you got here (you just know you want out)

I wrote a fic for the @dtqkbigbang! What better way to inaugurate this Tumblr, yeah?

Title: you don’t know how you got here (you just know you want out) Rating: M Words: 16K Fandom: DSMP Ships: Quackity/Schlatt, Quackity/Wilbur, Quackity/Karl/Sapnap

Summary:

Like every other severed employee of DSMP Inc, Alex exists as two different people, who share the same body but know nothing about each other. Every morning when he goes to work, Alex becomes Quackity, and until now he’s been content to leave his other life a mystery.

But then late one night in a diner parking lot, Alex is confronted by a strange older man with mutton chop sideburns and alcohol on his breath, whom Alex can’t remember having met before but who clearly recognizes him, who calls him “Quackity” and tells him they’ve been lied to. And less than five minutes later, that man is lying dead on the ground.

Notes:

Mind the tags!!!!! This is a weird one!! Q is not having a great time!

I'm also planning to expand on it, so if you enjoy what's been posted so far, definitely keep an eye out for more. :3

Preview:

Alex needs to stop doing this.

He’s gonna get a formal reprimand if he keeps missing his clock-in window at work — it’s the one part of his job description he’s really responsible for, and warnings keep turning up in his locker, polite anonymous form letters printed on plain white paper. And probably the worst that would ever happen is a ding to his end-of-year bonus, but Alex isn’t gonna risk it. He needs this job – this job in particular, with all its peculiarities, with all the ways it keeps him sane. He needs to be standing in the office elevator no later than nine fifteen tomorrow morning. He should already be in bed right now.

Instead, he’s alone in a booth at McPuffy’s at one in the morning, nursing a bad-idea coffee with a notebook open in front of him, pretending like maybe he’ll work on his music if he stares at the blank page a little bit longer. He’s primed for a singer-songwriter era right now, after all — if being dumped by one fiance is great material, then two should be a goldmine. And maybe it would be, if he ever let himself think deeply about where he’s ended up — about the cold bed he’ll go home to tonight, or the empty apartment he’ll wake up in, or the rings that sit wrapped in a handkerchief at the bottom of his nightstand drawer. If he sat with how any or all of that felt, maybe he’d be the musician his mama always believed he could be.

But that’s not the choice he’s made, is it? That’s not the road he decided to take.

Funny, how people will judge you if you get blackout drunk every night as a way to cope…but if it’s your job that swallows your days, that strangles the part of you that feels much of anything at all, that’s fine. That’s capitalism, baby. That’s the system working as it should.

Alex doesn’t need to ask his waitress for the check. He gets the same thing every damn time, and he tips the same way — an empty coffee cup and a few crumbs of toast left on his plate, a ten dollar bill pinned under the salt shaker. There’s only one other customer, and he doesn’t look up as Alex takes his coat down from its hook. No one looks at Alex at all as he leaves, and he tells himself that’s how he likes it.

He’s alone because he wants to be. He chose this for himself.

The night air is a shock — cold in a way that makes all the muscles of his back seize up. He’s already got his keys in hand, tucked into his coat pocket as he walks between pools of streetlight.

Later, Alex won’t really remember what he was thinking about — probably hoping his car will start, or wondering if he should stop at the all-night pharmacy to buy more melatonin. He’s on auto-pilot, after all, normal thoughts for a normal night, variations on a bone-deep familiar theme.

Alex won’t remember what he was thinking, but he’ll remember the exact moment his night went off the rails; the pivot on which his life would turn.

Someone coughs, wet and painful-sounding and loud as a gunshot in the silent parking lot. There’s a rasp of gravel and asphalt under a heavy shoe.

Alex stops and turns toward the sound, his body humming with fresh adrenaline. He’s small and tired and alone. He calculates how long it would take him to reach his car; he slots his keys between his fingers, makeshift spikes on a fist he hopes he will not have to use.

A figure steps out from behind a pickup truck, stumbling forward into the light. A man, easily twice Alex’s size and at least a head taller – even stooped and shambling like this – leans heavily on the truck as he shuffles closer. He’s coatless and hatless, dressed only in a rumpled suit and a stained white cotton shirt, a cardinal necktie hanging loose around his neck, his dark hair and mutton chop sideburns heavily salted with gray. Even from here — at least ten feet away — Alex can smell that he’s been drinking. He reeks of whiskey and vomit.

Alex’s grip tightens on his keys. His voice is too high — too obviously scared — as he asks, “Can I help you with something?”

The man’s sharp bark of laughter dissolves into more coughing, and he wheezes as he catches his breath. There’s a smirking chuckle in his voice as he says, in a rough-throated rasp, “Jesus Christ, Quackity…you took your fucking time in there, you little shit.”

#dtqkbigbang #quackbur #tntduo #pumpkinduo #c!quackity #c!schlatt #c!wilbur #severance AU #seriously I have a giant-ass outline for this story and I will finish it or die trying #sometimes you are two guys in one bod and both of those guys are gay idiots having a very hard time #my fic

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kellyscowboy · 2 years ago

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꒰✧ᯇ✦꒱ DON'T BE SORRY FOR LEAVING AND GROWING OLD || ch. 1

ᯇ summary ! ✦ Jack Kelly finally gets out of New York and makes something of himself. Though, he's never been good at goodbyes and David won't answer his letters. || read full thing on ao3 now WRITTEN FOR THE NEWSIES FIC EXCHANGE ᯇ tag list ! ✦ @bound-for-santa-fe @bunniebusiness @hotelbxllamuerte (taglist form is in my pinned post if you would like to be added!!) GIFT FOR @daveysjackie !! (sorry for the tag) ᯇ warnings ! ✦ cussing & angst 1230 WORDS © 2023 , 𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

next part

“Were you ever going to tell me, Jack?” David asked. His lip was in a deep pout, and his hand was placed disappointedly, loosely, on his hip.

Jack bit his nail nervously. “Uh-huh.” It was a lie and they both knew it. In fact, not a single person was meant to know. Jack was supposed to quietly slip away in the middle of the night and never have to face the sorrow of a goodbye. It had been a solid plan, until Racetrack had found the ticket underneath his pillow.

They had been arguing for a while when Racetrack punched him and left a nice shiner on his cheekbone. “You’re a coward,” He screamed. And he was right, Jack knew as much. He was a coward.

“I don’t owe you anything!” Jack yelled. I owe him everything. “What have you, what have any of the newsboys done for me? Huh?”

There was a festering bubble of guilt that steadily grew inside of Jack. The newsboys had done more for him than his own family had. They had taken him in. They had saved him from himself after he had been in the refuge. Quite frankly, he owed them his life.

In his mind, these were valid reasons for him to not say goodbye. They were a family. He knew that if he ever told them that he was leaving, that he would never make it to Santa Fe. Jack would be tied to New York forever. He couldn’t risk that; he couldn’t risk staying there any longer. It would destroy him.

“Whatever, Jack. Who needs you, anyway?” Racetrack had half the mind to rip up the ticket, to force the boy to stay. “Wouldn’t be the first time you left us in the dust.” He honestly believed he never wanted to see Jack’s face ever again. Conflicted with his feelings of betrayal and hatred, he spat at Jack’s shoes.

Jack was quiet for a couple of seconds. “You’re not gonna tell anyone, right?”

“No. No, I won’t tell no-one. On the promise that you never show your ugly mug back here ever again.” Race dug a finger into the boy’s chest. “You’re gonna hurt everyone who ever had faith in you. And I hope you never feel anything but guilty for it.”

After that, everything was fine. No-one else knew, and he could still slip away without having to say goodbye.

Then, the day before he left, David let his curiosity get the best of him. In the middle of the line at the circulation gate. “Hey, Jack. I’ve been meaning to ask, where’d the bruise come from?”

Jack saw the finish line stretch farther away, felt the bubble of guilt in his stomach begin to expand. It had been a couple of days since he got it, and he was riding on the fact that everyone was too scared to ask. Leave it to David and his stupid words. “Oh, uh-”

“Yeah, Jackie. Why don’tcha share with the fellas, huh? Where’d you really get the shiner?” Racetrack interrupted. “Or should I tell ‘im the truth myself?”

David gave him a sideways look. “Jack? What’s he talking about?”

“I dunno. You know Racer, he’s always yappin’ on about something. Don’t mind him. He don’t know what he’s talkin’ bout.” Jack threw an arm around David’s shoulder and gave him a small grin.

Racetrack scoffed, then shoved the boy away from David. He replaced Jack’s arm with his own. “You want to know why Jack’s been acting so weird?” He gave a few pats to David’s pec over his shoulder before he pointed at Jack with the same hand. “Why he ain’t been around so much?”

“Um…” He looked at Jack and wished he could ignore the guilty look the boy wore. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well! Our Jackie boy—he’s got himself a one-way ticket to Santa Fe, New Mexico.” Racetrack stated, then gave David a sarcastic smile. “Ain’t that nice? He’s catchin’ the 8 o’clock train tonight.”

Les shook his head. “Jack wouldn’t. He wouldn’t! ‘Specially not without saying goodbye! Right, Jack?” Jack looked like a dog with its tail between its legs as he avoided Les’ gaze. “Jack?”

That’s where he found himself. His nails bitten and David demanding the truth.

“Don’t lie to me, Jack.” David said. “Please. Don’t lie.”

Jack frowned. “I just-”

“Just what, Jack? Just didn’t think we deserved the decency of a goodbye?” David yelled. “You know, every single one of us has had your back since the day we met you. I blindly helped you lead a fucking strike. And even after you abandoned us—for the first time, I guess—we all came together and helped you. We at least deserve a goodbye.”

Jack’s hands swung helplessly at his side. He didn’t know what to do, what to say. Deep down, he knew David was right. But he couldn’t admit that. Not there, not now. So, he deflected. “You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone, Racer.”

“Well, excuse me. I didn’t realize the breaking of trust had to be one sided in this ‘friendship.’ You’re full of it,” Racetrack said.

“Don’t get mad at Racetrack because you’re a shitty friend.”

“I’m the shitty friend? I finally get a chance to get out, to be in the place I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid. And all you care about is the fact that I was too busy to think about saying goodbye? You should be happy for me, David! All of you should be!”

Racetrack scoffed. “Don’t pretend like you just forgot to tell us, Jack. We ain’t stupid.”

“Why would I be happy for you? You’re leaving behind everything that was ever good to you.” David said. “You’re going to ruin yourself, Jack Kelly.”

“Yeah, well.” Jack looked David up and down before staring at him. “I’m also leaving behind everything that was ever bad to me."

"Really? When have we ever been bad to you?"

Jack was silent for a moment. "Didn't ya always say I could be something more? That my art could get me somewhere? What happened to that, Dave?"

"You can be something more here, Jack-"

"No. I can't! You don't get it!" Jack's face was red as he yelled.

"No! I don't! I don't get why you have to go halfway across the country just to paint!" David yelled back.

"I ain't got no inspiration out here, Dave!"

David frowned. "Really, Jack?"

"You can't find no inspiration in us, Cowboy? Really? After everything we've done together?" Racetrack was livid. "We took down the biggest paper company there is, and you can't find any fucking inspiration in us?"

"No. I can't."

"You're unbelievable." David scoffed. "I just can't understand you!"

"Whatever, Dave. Who needs the lot of ya?"

Jack angrily stomped his way to Wiesel and bought his paper. He let the Delancey brothers’ snide remarks consume him. The bubble in his stomach grew bigger.

Jack made one fatal mistake; he turned around for one last glance at the boys. Racetrack and David were seething, they had their fists tightly clenched together and were biting down on the inside of their cheeks.

And Les looked up at him with big eyes, wide with betrayal and disbelief. His usual wonder-struck gaze filled with sorrow. The bubble in his stomach popped, and he walked away into his new life without another word.

#all 5 chapters on ao3 #the rest will be posted on here soon!!#newsies #jack kelly #david jacobs #newsies fic exchange #javid #livesies #newsies live #˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ newsies // fics ❥

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thestxrinhiseyes · 16 days ago

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Read this post in its entirety; if you go against any of it, you will be blocked immediately.

Hi! I’m Starz! Welcome!

I’m 21 and a queer trans man (he/him exclusively) in a very strictly monogamous mlm t4t relationship

We’re both switches and neurodivergent, and that’s gonna be heavily reflected in a lot of my posts, as well as the fact that I am disabled/chronically ill

Please be aware that this (side)blogs purpose is to serve as a public diary to be gay and horny for my boyfriend (and my boyfriend only)

Because of this;

Asks and DMs are CLOSED PERMANENTLY, and an unsolicited DM (regardless of content) is an instant block

Content tagging system;

Horny Text post tag; starzbarks

Reblog tag; starzcycle

Not horny gay tag; starzzfaggottry

Yapping text/info post tag; starzspeaks

(Read BYF and DNI below cut 🔻)

Language surrounding anatomy; I use mainly masculine/neutral language, with the exception that things like pussy/cunt might be used on occasion

Language in general; this blog is specific to my relationship and the identities and language within that, and I am a relatively feminine dogboy, so be warned that related language (ex; puppy, princess, femboy, etc.) will be used here

^^ if the use of any of this language is going to bother you, do not follow, if it bothers you and you follow anyway, well that’s your own fault, don’t complain about it

Reblogs and comments are cool with me, all I ask is when reblogging/commenting be respectful of everything stated here as well as don’t involve me personally as the OP unless it’s strictly commenting on my writing only (not content) and DO NOT be weird or flirty or you will be blocked IMMEDIATELY

Examples of acceptable interaction;

- Adding to or commenting on ONLY the CONTENT of the post itself; things like expanding on the scenario with your own ideas (I will sometimes reblog these back to my account), saying that the scenario is something you’d like to do it with your own partner, etc.

- Commenting on the writing itself; saying you like the way I wrote something out, language used, etc. (<<this is the ONLY context in which I am okay with personally being referenced in a comment or reblog)

Sometimes my tagging can be inconsistent but possibly triggering/heavy kink posts WILL ALWAYS be tagged accordingly so if there’s something on my account you don’t like but you still wanna follow/interact, as long as you filter those tags it will not show for you

However, be warned that things like intox, light cnc, corruption, and omo will be very common here

DNI; Minors/ageless blogs, cishets, men dni blogs, trans/homophobes, ageplay/nsfw agere, illegal/nonconsensual paraphilias, detrans/misgendering, extreme CNC (kidnapping/r*peplay), extreme** violence/harm/gore based paras

^^**extreme meaning couldn’t be safely done in practice, without life limiting/life altering/damaging/long term effects.

In other words; if it can be done (mostly) safely and *healthily* with minimal long term effects irl it’s allowed here (ex; risk aware/educated knifeplay, blood, risk aware/educated EA, etc.) If it can’t, get off my blog, this isn’t the place for you.

#starzspeaks #trans ftm #t4t mlm #ftm t4t #trans t4t #ftm nsft #t4t nfst #trans nsft #nsft account

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awritingcaitlin · 10 months ago

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🧪Find the Word

Thank you @kaylinalexanderbooks for the tag! It's taken me a hot minute to get to this but let's go!

My words: warn, analyze, expose, try

Tagging: @runeseaks, @nanashi23, @italicised, @circa-specturgia, and @theprissythumbelina (no pressure!)

Your words: mouth, stop, fight, convince, secret

Snippets from Cure under the cut!

🏴‍☠️Warn

They’re not going to let you mouth off to them forever, Kanjo said, reaching out to her telepathically. Then they’ll start shooting. Well, they’re not going to get very far since I expanded the bullets in their chambers. That can backfire explosively, he warned. Best I can do while still being subtle. Ideally, I’ll heat their weapons and make them drop them before they try to shoot. No one’s got any charms to protect against that. Clever, Kanjo mused.

🔍Analyze

The ward was set up to stop projectiles, both physical and magical. The faster one moved, the more of a risk of triggering the ward to stop them outright. So while an enemy could not fire a gun or shoot a bolt of lightning, neither could anyone else. Rinnie’s own thoughts and Killian’s meshed for a moment as they analyzed the ward. She felt as if time slowed down and everything shifted into focus. There was power everywhere and she wanted it. Killian pulled something out of a pouch on his armor. A knife? No. Tuning forks.

🤛🏻Expose

“How can you plan during a fight?” Rinnie asked, exasperated. “Training.” Killian's response was calm. “So, what, you’ve just left me openings?” “Any move leaves openings.” Rinnie took a deep breath and truly felt the position they were in. Without changing the rate of her breaths, she elbowed Killian in the side with the hand he didn’t have gripped. She backed it with a bit of kinetimancy to make it hurt further. Then she twisted out from under him, formed the moisture in the air into a stiletto, and aimed at his exposed armpit.

📞Try

Getting past the answering spirit wasn’t terrible because Rinnie knew the extension for Crossweave’s office. However, she then ran into the problem of trying to convince the staffers to get her to Crossweave’s desk without using her real name or credentials. “Edansa Intelligence Office in Himmelmauer, this is Corporal Roseblade, how may I help you?” Rinnie gritted her teeth. She knew Roseblade. Nice, competent woman. “I’m trying to reach Commodore Crossweave,” Rinnie replied. “In response to an invitation he gave me.” “What’s your name?” Roseblade asked. “And the invitation?” “Serene Windheart,” Rinnie said, giving one of her two escort names. The one Crossweave would recognize. “And it was a personal matter.” She twirled the phone cord around her finger. Crossweave hired hookers all the time, it was an open secret.

#tag games #find the word #my writing #cure for the queen #rinnie #kanjo #killian

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youandtom2 · 3 years ago

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We Need to Talk About Peter (dark!Peter Parker)

Summary: There's something not right about Peter. Why is no one talking about it? Themes: angst, horror w/c: 4.2k a/n: I wanted to write something a little darker based loosely on the book We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. I didn't want to romanticise anything, this is simply just a story and NOT a 'peter parker x reader' even if it might be tagged as such. Please take the time to read the warnings as this is about a topic that is triggering. Also, this is a reminder to keep yourselves safe out there, especially in places where gun control isn't as enforced as it should be.

T/W: SCHOOL SHOOTING, BULLYING, VIOLENCE, SUICIDE, DARK CONTENT AHEAD! VERY RAW! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

MASTERLIST

Every school has one: that detached, isolated person who sits at the back of the class, having no intention of uttering a word to anyone that approaches them. The deviant nobody pays attention to because, after many fruitless attempts, it is simply too difficult to connect with them through any means of communication. To everyone's knowledge, they're just a name and a body and nothing further. A walking, empty soul that floats around the school. A blank canvas who has yet to leave an imprint on society but with no personality, no emotion and no social background, it seems highly unlikely they ever will.

Every school has one regardless. But none of those other schools ever had someone quite like Peter.

Now Peter contained all of the typical symptoms. Quiet, restricted, invisible. Oftentimes you would pass him in the corridor with the hint of a bruising or a red blemish developing on his face just minutes after being harassed by someone who didn't quite understand him. Not necessarily saying that you did, but you knew more than anyone else that there was something psychologically obscure about him; something that wasn't to be reconciled with. Everyone else disregarded him and blamed it on a defect of character, but what struck you about him was the way he would never stray from that stone cold expression, you never saw any other emotion donning his face. No fear, no pain, nothing. But that was just typical Peter.

You couldn't ignore how much it bothered you that everyone was completely blind to his very distinct anti-social behaviour. The teachers paid him no mind because he did the work, he was a grade A student, and his family background checks were completely healthy. So as long as he was able to conform to the school rules and there was no trouble at home, then it was assumed that having no personality was his personality.

Indeed, he was unique. But not in the way that everyone thought because he embodied something that no one else had. Something that exhorted him to exceed his reputation and do the unthinkable.

He had a motive.

~~~~

Your day at school is like any other. Your English literature work basks in the sun, shining its rays onto your desk as if it was mocking you, reminding you that once again you are stuck in school with work at your fingertips. English isn't your favourite but it's tolerable. The class isn't half bad, the teacher knows what he's doing and maybe about a third of the course sparks your interest. The other two thirds you fall asleep to.

The other dilemma is your partner, Peter. Having the misfortune of sitting next to him, it is inevitable that when teamwork projects come along you will always be paired with him. You have to give it to him though, he never fails you when it comes to putting in the effort. He's smart, clever and a little too cunning for your liking. This particular feature about him you try to suppress when it gets the better of you, knowing all too well that he gets enough shit from everyone else. The least you could do is persevere and expand your patience.

It's team project day and as instructed by your teacher you turn towards your partner. Your skin turns cold when you notice a purple haze grazing his cheek amongst the red undertones of his skin, where the traces of tears are obvious to the eye. Like you say, he gets enough shit from everyone else. The last thing he needs is for you to be the same. With a hesitant smile on your lips and a spark of optimism growing, you present your findings to Peter.

"Okay, so I spent 3 hours last night doing analysis and evaluation on chapter 3. I also started making the template for our presentation which I can do if you're totally not up for it. It's cool. And I know you're supposed to be doing quotes but..."

You can't help but drag your eyes over his bruising face, thinking how could anyone have the insolence to hurt someone as innocent as Peter? As your commiserate eyes skim over the last detail of his beatings he turns, catching you staring at his face.

"I-I could them if you don't want to?" Of course he doesn't reply, which is what you expect. However you're too quick to judge as he rips out a piece of paper from his notebook and begins scribbling.

'No, it's okay I'll do them.'

You read the words in your own voice simply because you don't know what his sounds like. Nevertheless, it's still something. He usually doesn't tend to write anything to anyone.

"Are you sure?"

Miraculously, he nods. After finalising his decision, you both put your heads down and focus on your work in silence, just how you both like it.

~~~~

That was all you got from him that day. That week, even. As the month progressed you noticed that Peter, however impossible it seemed, was becoming evermore unresponsive. Every period of English that you endured felt like a battle just trying to get him to even look at you. He wouldn't move other than to blink and to breathe.

He had done all of his work for the team project in four days. Something that was supposed to last 2 weeks had been completed in four days. You, on the other hand, were completely flooded with work, desperately trying to catch up with his work ethic, but even then, you were still working on finishing touches up until the day before the presentation was due.

You can understand why he did it so quickly: spending the free time he granted himself in complete ignorance because he didn't have any work to do, and left you helplessly trying to complete your half of the project in a scramble. You knew you had delegated the work equally, but showing a little decency to help you out wouldn't have harmed anyone. However, you decided not to pester him about it.

And it's a good thing you didn't. Otherwise you might've ended up like the others.

~~~~

On the day before presentation day you decide to stay in school late, running through your presentation and perfecting every detail of it. You want it to be flawless. Especially since you won't be having any assistance presenting it no thanks to a certain stubborn mute.

Under Spring's pink sky you walk home constantly being tormented by the craving of a good night's sleep. With the team project no longer occupying your mind, you take your time enjoying the view around you. That is until you turn the corner. Your view is now being hindered by a certain, lonesome, stubborn mute walking ahead of you. His back is turned and you notice a heavy rucksack clinging to his back as he drags it along the pavement. What could he possibly be carrying that's so heavy? Intrigued, you track every footstep remembering to keep your distance.

Something else comes into view in the distance. Three, no, four boys you recognise strut round the corner, obnoxiously laughing as they advance on Peter with nothing but mischief in their predatory eyes. Those boys are the recipe for trouble and you fear that the nice weather isn't the reason for their little stroll through the neighbourhood. Specifically one that Peter inhabits. Your heartbeat picks up as Peter fails to avoid them, refusing to break his stride until he and the boys come face to face. His feet are rooted to the ground and his statue-like stance doesn't convey any form of fear. He should really run if he knows what's best for him.

Their voices are muted. Words are mumbled. You can't hear a damn thing but yet you still remain hidden behind a parked car watching very intently as the scene unfolds before you. In amongst the irritated voices, you know for a fact that none of them are Peter's.

"ANSWER ME!" The boy's quick to slap Peter's face. The piercing sound so disturbing it leaves you wincing, cowering even further into your cover knowing that it was only the beginning and the worst is yet to come.

Still, Peter's reactions cease to exist. There is simply nothing that will make him bat an eyelid, even if it means slapping him in the face to test the theory. Empty-handed, the boys grow impatient, desperately waiting for something exciting to happen. They think that if they aggravate Peter further, he'll break and retaliate, giving them what they want and have never seen before: a reaction.

They never learn their lesson. They won't get one, no matter what they do.

"Fuck this," the other one says, and gives Peter a mighty blow to the face, one that's capable of breaking his jaw, and sweeps him clean off his feet. After the initiation, it's like a monkey-see-monkey-do situation. One kicks, the others kick. One punches, the others follow. The whole thing makes you sick to the stomach. Peter's body is constantly being beaten around, twitching and jerking lifelessly with the sounds of bones cracking, and laughter ringing through the air.

"STOP!" you hear your own voice yelling, suddenly realising now that your legs are carrying you towards them. "STOP IT! LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

The boys look at you with confusion riddling their face, questioning why someone like you would defend someone like Peter. One of them even mutters your name through his heavy breathing, exhausted from beating Peter senselessly. You take your stance in front of Peter, defending him from the boys.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Huh? He didn't do a fucking thing to you, and you think it's okay to beat him up?"

"Back off, this is none of your business," one of them has the audacity to say.

"You fuck with Peter, you make it my business. Now you fuckwits better leave because that old woman over there witnessed the whole thing from her living room and is probably on the phone to the police right now. So unless you want to spend the night in custody I'd suggest that you back off."

They leave accordingly knowing how much being involved with the police would jeopardise their precious football careers, but not without getting a last word in.

"Left a little surprise for your aunt when she gets home, Parker. I'm sure you'll enjoy it too."

~~~~

That surprise was the last straw for Peter. You helped him hobble home to discover the words 'slut' spray painted across the side of his aunt’s car. Not only that, but as you looked up to the apartment building you couldn't miss the numerous egg stains and little shards of shell scattered across the glass panes of his windows. You remember very distinctly the prominent lump in your throat when you saw what they had done to his home, thinking that nobody should ever have to go through something as debilitating as that.

You knew well enough Peter didn't show emotion, but after seeing the atrocities blatantly displayed across the Parker property, there should've been at least something, even just a hint of anger somewhere inside him. A clue or gesture of some sort that would prove that he's actually human would have sufficed.

There was absolutely nothing.

He walked the remaining distance into the building independently and slammed the door. Hearing that slam was like a wash of relief. It was the result of anger, frustration and fury. That alone was enough to convince you that there was something inside him that was capable of feeling emotion.

But for him, though, it wasn't enough.

~~~~

You make your presence known at the front of your class, anxiously waiting to get this presentation over and done with. Your eyes peer over to Peter's empty desk thinking how he should be here. As mysterious as he is, you can't understand why he isn't here, he's never skipped class and would never think to tarnish his 100% attendance record. You know giving presentations isn't his thing, but he could've at least shown you some moral support.

Pfft, yeah right.

You shrug the thought away before it bothers you even more and without delay, you begin your presentation.

"Lionel Shriver is the author of the 2003 novel We Need to Talk About Kevin which-"

Your words are cut off by four, angry shots echoing down the hallway, followed by a heart-stopping scream. Your eyes whip to the open door and in that moment you feel like your mind is absent, stunned in the disbelief of what you just heard. You try to move but you find that your muscles have stiffened, paralysed with fear and complete panic.

More shots follow, even louder than before. Your teacher yells at you to take cover which you do eventually after an unnecessarily delayed reaction, but your ears are ringing and everything you see has morphed into a blur.

The shooter is three...two...one footstep away from the classroom. Your sensitive ears pick up the murmurations of sobs, whimpers and sheer panic effusing from your classmates. But there's nothing more deafening than the heavy tread of the shooter's steps pacing slowly into the classroom.

Silence. It's just absolute, unadulterated silence. The longer it continues, the more the anticipation strangles you.

"Hmmm, where is she?" His smooth, puckish tones are unrecognisable but just as equally terrifying. You can't seem to get a good look at his face; the front panel of the teacher's desk obstructs your view. "She must be in here somewhere..." She? Who's she? You make eye contact with your teacher who presses his index finger to his lips as he too hides under the desk. Whilst the shooter wanders around the room at an unbearable pace, you distract yourself by counting to ten, praying that it'll calm your uneased mind. It's completely illogical but right now anything will help.

One.

It's almost impossible to pinpoint exactly where he is based on your judgement of sound. He could be anywhere, ready to pounce.

Two.

You close your eyes, inhaling and exhaling.

Three.

He fires two warning shots into the ground and even seconds after you can still feel the harsh repercussions of the bullets hitting the ground. Screams and cries of mercy fill the room. Bits and pieces of the floor ricochet.

Four.

You have to force yourself to clamp your hand over your mouth before you end up exposing yourself to him.

Five.

"Oh look, our presentation's on the board!" There's something chilling about his words; his taunting yet playful voice emphasises the word 'our', giving you a perfectly obvious clue as to who the perpetrator is.

You know it, but the thought can't process through your dazed mind any slower. Our. He said 'our'. You and...Peter. That answers the question why you were unable to recognise his voice. He's the shooter. And he's looking for you.

Six.

An abrupt shriek emits from a girl's mouth, one you recognise as your friend Ellis.

"Is she under that desk over there?" His cool tones are still heard despite Ellis's cries and desperate pleas. You don't hear her answer, but your guess is that he didn't need one. Adrenaline settles in and your eyes grow wide in the unprecedented fear of what is about to happen. His footsteps, unlike before, are quick and thunderous as they stalk closer and closer.

Sev-

"Found you!"

Despite his deceptive body frame, his brute force drags you out from hiding in seconds. The first thing that comes into your mind is his gun. That small but powerful TEC-9 gun is secure in Peter's clutches. Instinctively, your awareness of the threat that you face takes priority in your mind and you watch it with cautious eyes. You’ve never seen a gun up close before, and now that Peter waves it around aimlessly in front of you, you realise the very real danger it poses. All it takes is one single bullet. The very thought makes you shudder.

Like an ornament, Peter presents you to the class, body stiff and unresponsive. He stands to your left, his hand crawling up your spine while the other points the gun to the ground. You just hate the way your name rolls off his tongue, unfamiliar in his voice. What does he want with you?

"I won't harm you. I just want you to point out the bastards who attacked me."

~~~~

In that situation, you had no idea what to do. It was their life, or yours. You spent what felt like hours convincing Peter that they weren’t there as their pleading eyes begged to keep them safe, but Peter had figured it out for himself after a total rampage of the classroom. There were only two of the four of those boys in your class at that moment. Perhaps if they hadn't been in your English class they would still be alive.

But unfortunately that wasn't the case.

From that class alone, 3 died and 5 were fatally injured. Peter thankfully spared the lives of the others to continue the search of the two remaining boys from that night. Of course, he took you with him as a hostage for leverage and protection. Every part of Peter was raw. For the first time you were able to see his true self, seeing beneath the silent facade he had hidden behind for so long. You wish you hadn't.

The whole thing seemed like a nightmare you wanted to wake up from. The memories are drilled into you now: the blood splattered across the walls, lifeless bodies lying there for everyone to see the damage that had been caused. That will never leave you.

~~~~

"Peter," you whimper, clinging on to the newly discovered shrapnel wounds on your arm. He turns but he doesn't stop walking. "Why are you doing this?"

That stops him. He eases the pressure from around your arm just slightly. His presence becomes threatening, the distance between you narrows and you're now staring into the face of a cold-blooded killer. Words pass his lips in a cool manner that is strikingly discomforting, especially coming from someone who has just massacred a school. There's only one thing audible in these narrow corridors; your throbbing pulse, drowning out any exterior noise.

"I won't harm you," he repeats, however you still fear that you can't take his word for it. His hand snakes up towards your face and catches your jawline in between his fingers and his thumb, forcing you to look at him. He's always tried to avoid all eye contact, but now that he's surrendered himself to his emotions it's the only thing he's after. "I have been putting up with their shit for long enough. I have been in this silence for long enough. I have waited long enough. If it's a reaction everyone is wanting, then here it is," he spits through gritted teeth. Peter overshadows you with his authority, his presence looming over your fear and manipulating it. You have no other choice but to submit yourself to be a vital part in his vengeance.

You both travel further deeper into the heart of the school. The number of people that still remain inside is unknown but presuming that most people haven’t made their escape, Peter leads you to the classroom where the other two boys should be. Before Peter breaches and parades in, he turns and gives you one last slice of insight.

"You know why I finished the work so quickly?" he asks but you don't respond. "So I could spend my time planning this. It was going to happen on graduation, but after what they did to me I couldn't wait any longer." His malicious chuckle makes you quiver.

"Peter, y-you're only j-just going to spend the r-rest of your days in p-prison."

"Then so be it."

~~~~

A further 6 people died and another 20 were injured. True to his word, Peter got the revenge he was craving. Everyone who hurt him, everyone who pestered him and treated him like he was nothing paid the consequences that Peter had set out for them. In amongst the tragic deaths and the numerous injuries, you were spared. As thankful as you may be, you are just as equally guilty. You should've been on that list of deaths, you should've been suffering like the others did. After all, you were his only hostage. But you survived with as little as a couple of shrapnel injuries to recover from.

Once Peter had achieved his objective, he was just having fun. He didn't need you anymore but yet he still dragged you everywhere like a dog on a leash. If the leash was a gun. Peter made you watch him continue his killing spree and you remember counting up the number of lives he had taken. Ten, eleven, twelve...

With each life he took, you grew a certain abhorrence towards yourself because you didn't prevent it. The signs were there, clear as day. Quiet, restricted, invisible. The victim of harassment and bullying. Smart. Cunning. Psychologically obscure. Carrying heavy loads. These weren't the symptoms of a typical Peter. These were the symptoms of a typical terrorist. He was given the perfect ammunition, all he had to do with flick the switch and like that he became a murderer.

~~~~

"Please, Peter, stop this-"

"No."

"I want to leave-"

"No."

"Why?! Why me?! Why am I different from everyone else?"

"Because you cared!" His loud voice resonates around the perimeter of the deserted canteen. You cautiously follow his movements as he perches himself upon the lunch tables, swinging his gun around as if it was nothing more than a mere toy. He stands proudly upon his podium once again unleashing his very dangerous emotions that have no sense of direction. Standing very defensively in the corner of the canteen with beads of sweat trickling down your spine, you can feel Peter's eyes burn holes through your body like it's your 6th sense. You're muttering something about wanting to leave, but tears don't help with articulation.

"Think of it this way then," he jumps off the table, striding towards you with a dubious expression donning his face. You don't feel yourself breathing, but you know there's oxygen flooding your lungs. Your gut clenches, fingernails dig deep into your palms when he firmly presses the muzzle of the gun against the side of your head. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just shoot you right now."

He's right. You did care. Much more than anyone else did. That's what kept you alive.

~~~~

When Peter pressed that gun against your head, you had never felt closer to death. Oxygen didn't pass through your lungs and even though it was only for a couple of seconds, it felt like a lifetime. You were stuck in a state of fear and anticipation, and you're certain Peter was too. Even he couldn't predict his next actions.

His time as a murderer was short lived. The relief that had washed over you when the police had barged through the doors to your rescue was indescribable. You knew from then on that maybe, your life was still waiting to be lived. Peter, on the other hand, had destroyed his. Guaranteed.

You could never forget how Peter lit up like a Christmas tree with the amount of red dots that smothered him head to toe. The canteen was soon flooded with angry yells and authoritative demands to drop his weapon, but with his eyes fixated on yours he chose to ignore them.

Whatever strategy Peter adopted that made it easy for him to conceal his emotions before, it didn't help him then. Looking into his glassy eyes when he finally accepted his fate, all you could see was nothing but sheer despair and defeat outlined by the tears threatening to fall. He was human. He was alive with emotions. He just didn't know how to use them. Once they were out, they were outwith his control.

It looked like it was all over. Your future was secured and you were able to live another day now that the police force had him surrounded.

But you were wrong. It wasn't over yet.

Until they officially intervened, both of you were locked in that position nobody would ever dream of being in. Evident in Peter's hazel eyes, you recognised that knowing look of deviance. It took you less than a split second to realise that Peter still had something up his sleeve. A conversation was held but there were no words shared between you; the feeling was mutual. You both knew what was going to happen. He still had one more battle to fight, he still had one more life to take.

"I'm sorry."

He whispered his last words to you before he took the gun, held it up towards his head and pulled the trigger, adding another name onto the list of the deceased.

Peter Parker and 12 others died that day. And you, along the hundreds of others, were traumatised and scarred by his actions. So much so that you remember that day like it was yesterday, the memories still fresh in your mind even years after it happened. Other schools, teachers, friends, family couldn't imagine the pain and horror that will forever be a part of you, none of them could ever know what it was like.

Because none of them will ever know someone quite like Peter.

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