#cw referenced child abuse

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

⭐star⭐

For your whumptober fills in general- how did you go about planning what to write for the month? Did you have certain goals for word count?

Then more specifically- anything you can share about ‘i say I don’t care, I say that im fine’?

Thank you friend!

So whenever the prompts dropped the end of August, I filed them all into a google doc and just wrote notes of ideas for each. Some ideas I already had, like Jamie hiding in injury when Zava was there so he didn't lose more ground and then saw the "suppressed suffering" and thought, perfect! I just went through each day, jotting down quick ideas that came from the prompts.

Some came easier than others, like swooning, okay concussion, and thermometer would be a sick fic. I made a google sheet with each day once I decided on the general idea. I tried to vary the actual injuries/whump. Some prompts I thought I would use and didn't, like broken, I thought, oh easy, broken bone, but I don't think I even used it even though it probably would have worked for a lot. Someone asked for some Roy whump, so I tried to include him in it.

My original idea was to do a single story for 31 days. I had no goal for word count. My problem is I am unable to tell a short story a lot. I can't keep my thoughts clear and concise when an event like an injury happens. I tend to want to go on longer with recovery, etc. So I ran out of steam trying to write 31 entries. I wrote wherever the plot bunnies took me originally, and as I got closer, I realized I needed to buckle down because I wanted to post these in order. So, I had to adjust some into multi-chapter stories and move around certain things.

Thank you for asking about, i say i don't care, i say that I'm fine, because it is one of my favorites.

it wasn't one I really had the thought of until the day of, actually. The prompts for the day were "recording", "made to watch", and "it should've been me". None of those I really vibed with, so I was planning to use one of the alternate ones in it's place. But then I was inspired by The Good Place storyline with Eleanor's Mom, how she struggles with thinking if her Mom could change this whole time, why was she not the one she changed for? And suddenly, it should've been me, made sense.

I struggled with a reason why James suddenly was sober over a year after last seeing his son. So this seemed as good a reason as any, and wanted to explore more with Jamie of his relationship with his father because I am of the strong belief that sober does not equal a good person. So I wanted to have Jamie not only find out someone else is the reason he's sober, but James still not truly changed. And then, of course, Jamie feels guilty about being jealous of someone he's never meant but also genuinely fearful for the child.

I am also obsessed with the notion of Jamie taking people's advice, but it's like a game of telephone where it's just slightly distorted. As fucked as Ted's advice to Jamie was in Mom City, I do think he meant Jamie should forgive his father for his own benefit (Ted having never forgiven his own father, etc.). Jamie wants to be accountable like Keeley told him to, but he never expects anyone to be accountable to him. And he takes accountability for things that really aren't his fault (being hacked). And I also think Higgins' advice is swirling around in that pretty head of his as well to forgive his father for who he isn't. So he's gotten all this advice meant to make him a better man, and he's trying, he's really trying, and all the advice is in a blender together and Jamie's drinking it down, combined in ways it wasn't intended. And also, Jamie forgets how he deserves to be treated, or thinks he doesn't deserve to be treated well.

I was also listening to a lot of Olivia Rodrigo's album, specifically The Grudge, where I got the title from, and it's just perfect for Jamie and his Dad. Some lyrics:

"It takes strength to forgive, but I don't feel strong."

"I fantasize about a time you were a little fucking sorry."

"I know in my heart, hurt people hurt people, and we both drew blood but man those cuts were never equal."

"How could anybody do the things you did so easily?"

"You know I can't let it go; I've tried, I've tried, I've tried."

"You built me up to watch me fall"

"I try to be tough, I try to be mean, But even after all this, you're still everything to me"

"And I doubt you ever think about the damage that you did."

"I hear your voice every time I think I'm not enough."

#director's cut commentary #ask box is always open #thank you thank you thank you friend #thank you for another excuse to talk about my writing <3 #jamie tartt #olivia rodrigo #the grudge #the good place #writing inspo #fic: i say i don't care i say that i'm fine #fuck Jamie’s dad #cw referenced child abuse

[scribeoffate]

Ouch, Derek. Immediately assuming Isaac killed his dad is harsh. I mean it's a valid assumption given the circumstances and the same one everyone makes. But ouch. I can only imagine how that makes Isaac feel.

Everyone knew enough about the situation with his dad to make the assumption Isaac would kill him given the chance. But no one knew enough to try and help. Ouch.

#teen wolf #isaac lahey #derek hale #cw referenced child abuse #rewatch bs

[singsofecho]

spoiled young master

#cw referenced child abuse #沈九 #shen jiu #沈清秋 #shen qingqiu #人渣饭拍自救系统 #svsss #scum villain #my art stuff #lets go actually getting art done after classes started don't expect anything from me for another month at least

[solarmorrigan]

Saw someone mention how Steve tends to get defensive when he's anxious and it stuck with me, so here's my take on the "Steve breaks a dish and has a panic attack about it" trope

cw: descriptions of nonstandard panic attack, implied/referenced child abuse

-

The distinct sound of shattering porcelain is followed by a vehemently hissed, “shit,” and then silence.

“Steve?” Eddie calls from the couch into the kitchen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve calls back, but his voice sounds tight in the way it does when something definitely isn’t okay.

Eddie pushes himself up and moves to the doorway, looking in to see what the trouble is. The kitchen of the house he and Wayne had been “gifted” by the government isn’t exactly huge, and he has a straight line of sight to where Steve is standing by the sink, eyes squeezed shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose, and to the red and white shards of porcelain on the floor by his feet.

“Hey,” Eddie says, but Steve doesn’t look up; if anything, his posture only gets tenser. “You’re not cut or anything, are you?”

“No,” Steve says, and his tone is still a little off, but he doesn’t sound like he’s lying.

“What was that, anyway?” Eddie asks.

Finally, Steve takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes, looking down at the mess on the laminate. “Mug.”

As soon as he says it, Eddie recognizes the colors for what the design must have been. “Shit, the Campbell’s one?”

Steve doesn’t say a word, just gives one sharp nod.

Eddie sucks a hiss of breath in through his teeth. “Shit,” he says again. “That was Wayne’s favorite.”

“I know,” Steve says tersely. “I’m sorry.”

His tone is definitely weird. “I mean, I’m sure it was an accident, Steve–” Eddie starts.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says again, almost snapping this time. “I’ll clean it up.”

“O-kay,” Eddie says slowly, watching as Steve jerks into motion and moves over to the corner where they stash the broom and dust pan.

“I’ll apologize to Wayne when he gets home,” Steve says as he starts sweeping up, even though Eddie hasn’t said a word.

“He gets home at, like, six in the morning.”

“I’ll make sure I’m up,” Steve says shortly.

“Steve, you can just tell him what happened later, he’s not going to stand around demanding an explanation. I mean, seriously, you think Wayne is gonna be pissed if you’re not there, immediately scraping at his feet when he comes through the door?” Eddie scoffs, but Steve remains silent. Eddie watches as he finishes sweeping in short, sharp motions, brows pulling together as Steve apparently fails to pick up on the joke. “…he won’t be, y’know.”

Steve shrugs. His expression has gone eerily blank, and he takes the dustpan over to the garbage can to dump it.

“Hey, don’t–” Eddie reaches out, and Steve jerks to a stop just in time. “You don’t have to toss it, man, we might be able to glue it back together.”

Steve sends Eddie a sharp look. “I’m not gonna be able to hide that it was broken, Eddie,” he says slowly, as though this should be painfully obvious.

“I’m not suggesting we hide it, I’m just saying we might still be able to use it,” Eddie answers in the same slow manner. “It’s not junk until you’re sure you can’t fix it.”

“Right,” Steve snaps, dropping the dustpan on the counter so sharply that the shards of porcelain clink against each other. “Can’t even clean up right.”

Eddie frowns, stirrings of defensiveness rising up in his gut at Steve’s continued sour mood. “I didn’t say that. I just said we might be able to fix it.”

“Fine. We’ll try to fix it,” Steve bites out, turning away from Eddie so he can put the broom back in the corner.

Eddie shakes his head, unwilling to engage with whatever snit Steve’s got himself worked into. “What happened, anyway?” he asks instead.

Apparently, this is the wrong tactic.

“What happened is, I’m too stupid to even do the dishes right,” Steve declares as he whirls back around. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“What?” Eddie is baffled, suddenly caught in the middle of an argument he hadn’t even realized was happening. “No! Why would I want to hear that?”

Steve throws his arms up, a demonstration of giving in. “Well I already said I’m sorry, and I am, and I don’t know what else you want from me!”

The heat of Eddie’s own temper is beginning to flare, but he does his best to shake it away because he still doesn’t know what the hell is going on and he doesn’t think getting angry will help. “I don’t want anything else from you! Why are you acting like I’m yelling at you? I’m not, I’m not even upset about the stupid mug, so what the hell is your deal?”

He takes a couple of steps into the kitchen, reaching out for Steve, hoping just to touch some part of him. Physical contact has always been grounding, has always been a comfort for them both; it almost seems like they can communicate better if they can just be in contact somehow. Instead of reaching back, though, Steve tenses up; it’s not exactly a flinch, but it’s as if he’s bracing himself, as if he’s waiting for Eddie to–

Eddie takes in the painfully blank expression on Steve’s pale face, the way his chest is rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths that he can’t quite seem to control, the way he’s angled himself just slightly away from Eddie, and suddenly Eddie feels cold.

It’s as if he’s waiting for Eddie to hit him.

Eddie wonders how the hell he hadn’t realized he was walking through a minefield until he was already standing in the middle of it.

(It still takes him by surprise, sometimes, that Steve’s anxiety, his panic, tends to look more like anger. That he tends to lash out like a wounded animal when he feels backed into a corner, hurt too many times in moments of vulnerability to do otherwise.)

(It takes him by surprise, but he’s learning.)

“Steve,” Eddie says softly, dropping his hand slowly back to his side, “I’m not angry.”

Steve stares at him, almost confused, like Eddie’s not doing it right, like this isn’t what’s supposed to come next. Eddie sort of wants to break something (he thinks, briefly, that he’d like to start with the fingers on Mr. Harrington’s right hand, and then move on to his left).

“It’s just a mug, Steve, it’s okay. No one’s upset about it,” Eddie says. “I’m preemptively speaking for Wayne, because I know he’s not gonna be mad at you. Seriously, getting upset over a broken cup? Does that sound like something Wayne would do?”

Slowly, once he seems to realize that Eddie is waiting for an answer, Steve shakes his head.

“Does that sound like something I would do?” Eddie asks.

Steve shakes his head again, though he’s still watching Eddie with something approaching trepidation.

“I promise it’s fine. I’m not angry,” Eddie repeats, and chances a couple of steps closer to Steve.

Steve doesn’t react this time, no tensing, no flinching, no verbally lashing out, and so Eddie lifts a hand again, reaching slowly for Steve’s. Steve lets him.

When he gets his fingers wrapped around Steve’s own, Eddie can feel how cold they’ve gone, can feel the fine tremble of adrenaline working through them, and can’t quite choke down the noise of sympathy in his throat. He tugs on Steve’s hand.

“C’mere,” Eddie says, invites him by lifting his other arm, but leaves it up to Steve.

It only takes a moment for Steve to step in close, and when Eddie lets go of his hand to wrap his arms around Steve’s shoulders, Steve reciprocates by cinching his own arms tight around Eddie’s waist. He takes one sharp breath, and then another, and Eddie can hear the way they shake going in and out.

“There you go,” Eddie says quietly, rubbing Steve’s back.

“I just dropped it,” Steve says, his voice a little hoarse. “It was an accident.”

“I know it was,” Eddie assures him. “It’s okay.”

“It was an accident,” Steve says again, and Eddie wonders how often someone has believed him – how often he’d ever even been given a chance to explain.

“It was an accident,” Eddie agrees. “You’re okay, Steve.”

Steve lets out a little noise, like maybe he’s trying to laugh, but then he pulls in another shuddery breath and rests his chin on Eddie’s shoulder. “Okay.”

In a little bit, Eddie might lead Steve to sit down on the couch, or maybe just take them both up to bed, because fuck doing the dishes after this anyway; he’ll make sure to leave a note for Wayne about the mug (ask him not to bring it up until Steve does, to not even jokingly make a thing about it), but for now, he concentrates on holding Steve close.

He’ll stand with him as long as it takes for the shaking to stop, for his breathing to even out, for him to relax even just a little against Eddie, and he'll promise, as many times as Steve needs to hear it, that it’s okay. Things will be okay.

[Prompt: Embracing your partner]

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #eddiesteve #solar wrote #cw child abuse #referenced but does not take place in the fic #cw panic attack #even if it doesn't look like one at first #soft ending though as always I promise

[b4kuch1n]

crumbs in your bed

transcript

#bakuspecial #comic #horror #cw: child abuse #cw: body horror #ask to tag #hi! hello. this is basically just a goosebump story I think. or a scary stories to tell in the dark entry #that's kinda what I aim for? along with the good ol vibe of fuan no tane #and also the like. Thing in east asian art where they make the main character a generic white person and then #every other thing about the setting is deeply recogniseably common asian shit lmao #that's entertainment for me. this came about extremely haphazardly... its why the first two pages look nothing like #the rest of it fsdjfhdsjhf. I slammed those out at a cafe like two days ago #went into this one no plan outside of a general sense of direction #I dont think Ive ever actually designed a single character in any of the short horror comics I did. like either its me or #I made someone up as I went. genuinely didnt know what the character'd look like until I sketched em #and then I kept referencing previous panels to draw em. dont know if I recommend this method #mmmm on reread not super sure if the sound effect of the bed leaving the room is clear enough... oh well there are other comics #been writing a lot about food and places recently Ive found out. oh yeah dyou know whats funny #I watched a wayner highlight vid of the kingdom heart charity stream today (I do not know anything about kingdom heart) and realized #how much of kingdom heart (at least the first one) is about like. places. #which is like. good job baku great deep read there isn't kingdom heart literally behind a door. arent there doors all over the place. #isnt the biggest symbol from that game taht EVERYONE knows about the KEYblade. for locks on door #fskdjfhdj but yeah its just. very cool to me that that game really does have iconic recogniseable sites. like the scenes are all tied to #where they happen at. and the climactic battle happens in a black void around a door. its good #good story about leaving ur home after ur friends aren't there anymore and being changed so much by what you go through that #you can no longer call where you started at home anymore. I am being conned by the music #anyways. yeah I go sleep now. powered thru the last 4 pages of this so its done and out there. hope my bed will not do this #have a good night lads! be careful of bugs

[phoebe-delia]

i still got love for you

I cannot tell you all how ecstatic I was to see this prompt. And how amused I was to see all my friends be confused that I wasn't the one to prompt it 😂. I've absolutely LOVED seeing everyone's take on it. Here's mine! CW: childhood trauma, referenced/implied canon child abuse. For @drarrymicrofic prompt: "seven" by the one and only Taylor Swift.

"But father! He's my friend!" Draco tried not to whine. Malfoys don't whine.

Father scowled—a nasty curl of his lip that made Draco want to flinch before he remembered himself; Malfoys don't flinch.

"'He' is imaginary, Draco," his father snapped. "You've never met the Potter boy, and if you ever do, you are not permitted to befriend his kind. You will stop this nonsense at once!"

And Draco swallowed his tears—because Malfoys definitely, absolutely, did not cry.

_______

"I used to—this is silly, but," Harry smiles, this sweet little lift of his lips that makes Draco's heart skip. "I had this imaginary friend when I was little and Dudley would get the other kids to bully me. He'd keep me company in my—my room. And everything. Then, of course, it stopped once I met Ron and Hermione. It was silly, but—I dunno. It made me feel a little less alone. Did you ever have something like that?"

Draco settles into Harry's side, resting his head in the crook of his neck. He sighs contentedly as Harry's arm comes up to hug him closer.

"Yes," Draco says. "Something like that."

#CW: childhood trauma #referenced/implied canon child abuse. #drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #draco and harry #harry and draco #draco x harry #harry x draco #draco/harry #harry/draco #draco malfoy and harry potter #harry potter and draco malfoy #draco malfoy x harry potter #harry potter x draco malfoy #hpdm #drarry squad #drarry fic #drarry fanfic #drarry fanfiction #drarry ficlet #drarry drabble #drarry fandom #hp fic #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #hp fandom #harry potter fandom #harry potter fic #harry potter fanfic

[biblionerd07]

I have a lot of gripes with the last two seasons of Shameless (and I know I’ve been complaining a lot lmao) but one of the worst offenses, to me, is the way they refused to let any of the characters acknowledge their own histories. Nothing from previous seasons was allowed to carry over, for whatever reason. And it bothered me the most with Terry Milkovich. (I’m putting this under a cut because it turned into a damn essay lol)

They defanged Terry. They turned him into comic relief and had both Ian and Mickey turning to him for advice. ADVICE???? It did Mickey’s growth through the show SUCH disservice. There was some quote from Wells (😡😡😡 a thousand curses upon his name) about how they did it on purpose because we should all laugh at homophobes to show them their views are stupid or something like that. And like, okay I guess? That is such a straight guy stance. Maybe that works when the homophobe in question is some harmless stranger who has no effect on your life and their views are like the water turning the frogs gay.

But Terry was not that kind of homophobe. Terry was a very real type, whose abuse shaped every part of who Mickey was. Turning him into comic relief made it seem like Mickey’s fear was over the top and he was just paranoid. But when Terry walked in on Ian and Mickey, he physically assaulted them and used corrective rape by proxy. Mickey’s fears were EXTREMELY founded.

That was the crux of Mickey’s character and his development! That even with all of this terror and self-loathing and abuse, he was slowly opening himself up and not only learning to give Ian his love but to accept love. Mickey’s bravery was such a key element of his character! We knew what kind of abuse he’d been subject to, so every tiny, halting step forward made us cheer for him. Turning that into comic relief was an absolute slap in the face after that journey they’d taken him on. (And they were sure as hell happy to remember it when they were getting awards from queer outlets and using it for promo, weren’t they? 😒)

Mickey’s speech before the wedding about Terry always winning was so much more hollow than it should’ve been because for some reason they wouldn’t let him talk about his worst offenses. Having Mickey talk about Terry stealing Halloween candy and Christmas presents and ignoring the rape and abuse was genuinely bizarre. (And bless Noel, who gave his everything and made that even slightly impactful.)

I liked that Mickey was extremely defeatist in that scene. That would absolutely be his mindset! For his entire life, Terry wins. Terry gets what he wants and hurts who he wants and no one stops him. Everyone around the neighborhood (and the cops) knew exactly what Terry was like. There were always other adults hanging around. And no one ever stopped him from abusing those kids. Mandy scoffs and laughs about Terry pistol-whipping Mickey. (ZERO hate to Mandy on this, because all of this is her reality too, and she didn’t even know the whole story.) No one has ever stood up for Mickey against Terry.

Until Ian. I cannot ever get the scene in the Alibi out of my head. There’s an entire bar full of people who are seeing this happening and nobody does anything. Mickey’s right back where he’s always been, on the ground under Terry’s fists, and everyone is just grabbing their drinks and getting out of the way.

But not Ian. Ian (who, it should be noted, is also still a teenager here) pulls Terry off Mickey and fights back. This is very likely the first time in Mickey’s entire life that anyone has ever defended him against Terry.

And now he’s finally supposed to be happy with Ian in such a “normal”, tangible way, and here comes Terry to take it away. Of course. Mickey can’t even be surprised by this. It’s the way the world works. He says there’s no point in trying to find a new venue until they address the root of the problem and kill Terry.

But allllll of this hinges on us as the audience remembering what Terry’s done without a refresher, because for whatever reason, they refuse to let the characters connect to their own pasts in ways that would enrich the story they’re trying to tell. It’s such bad writing and I can’t fathom any reason for it.

#shameless us #mickey milkovich #terry milkovich #Ian/mickey #abuse cw #rape mention #like genuinely his whole ‘he took our Halloween candy! he pawned our Christmas presents! he left us with child services!’ was so weird #baby he raped you by proxy and he raped your sister not by proxy #it was So! Strange! how none of the characters ever referenced the past seasons #I’m supposed to believe Ian and Mickey never once talked about how Mickey’s first (forced!) marriage was feeding into the groomzilla stuff? #and I’m supposed to believe Mickey didn’t constantly use ‘I rolled on a cartel for you!’ to get out of the doghouse? #especially this Mickey being used for comic relief??? #they’re talking about working together and they don’t bring up that they have before #they’re talking about monogamy and their past of Mickey being monogamous and Ian not never comes up????? #just bc you’re trying to be a comedy doesn’t mean you just throw the serious stuff out the window #why did Ian have friends in the other seasons and they had wedding guests but in s11 neither of them had any friends #it was just so weird!!!!! #I want to ask the writers what the hell was going on #why was lip the only one allowed to say Mandy’s name and only one time????

[eclaire-went-bam]

i'm THIS close to just making my pronouns he/it, or just it/its, bcs istg ppl see "prefers it/it but also ok with he/they" & think it's a good excuse to not call me by my "weird" pronouns

people hardly ever use "he" either, bcs i don't pass

like. it/it's my preferred pronouns. he/they is tolerable but over time i'm just going to get annoyed. wait till they hear abt my super secret neopronouns

#a lot of my close friends/ep do refer to be as he/it with more of an emphasis on “it” so that's nice #but a lot of my more casual relationships just stick with they/them. even if they're also lgbtqia+ or genderqueer #at first i was fine with they/them but now its wayyy too ;; eugh #basically everyone 40+ i meet irl will be disgusted if i wanna be called an it or just stick to they/them #istg they/them are the standard nb pronouns that make *some* allies be more comfortable with nbs. if it's anyth other than th #**they/them they get uncomfortable #every time #the number of people i've had lecture me abt why wanting to be called an “it” is bad should be illegal #once someone referenced a book abt child abuse as the reason they won't call me it #cw child abuse mention #once someone compared it to the treatment of the victims of the holocaust #cw genocide mention #LIKE WHAT #eughhh #they/them is highkey starting to make me dysphoric bcs i know the ppl who exclus call me that #just view me as some vaguely nb-identifying girl #i can't wait to get top surgery !!! #lgbtqia #lgbtqia+ #transgender #trans #nonbinary #agender #genderless #genderfree #it/its #he/it #neopronouns

[es-quest]

you should keep moving towards the light.

You look closer and you other than the vines you can see some roses, you try to go Even closer, but you stumble and your body slides into the hole.

You land face first onto the vines you saw, but they didn't cushion you fall this time, the thorns actually pricked your cheek and your arms. You rub it carefully. Ow...

Luckily Shidou doesn't seem to have suffered any damage, actually he finally seems to be stirring awake.

That's good! You raise your head to take a look at the place you landed...

#es quest #milgram #ask blog #es milgram #shidou kirisaki #amane momose #cw child abuse #I...I dont know how to tag this actually #ooc: For the people who know what im referencing this is in a different context #but all girls are...

[runekeepershymnal]

TRC AU- Everything is the same except Adam is the ghost.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole?" a voice echoed around the warehouse as Ronan smashed plate after plate.

"My dad was murdered," Ronan answered, flinging a large dish like a frisbee in the direction he thought the voice came from. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

When Ronan threw the next plate, it didn't crash into anything, and was caught instead. The figure who caught it didn't wince at the impact against his long fingered hand. He was wearing an Aglionby uniform; it looked frayed. He was so pale and faded that Ronan thought that maybe he'd coalesced out of the motes of dust that perpetually drifted in every sunbeam.

The boy laughed, softly.

"That's funny," he said distantly. Ronan was across the room with his hand fisted in the boy's sweater before he'd even realized that he'd moved.

"Funny?" Ronan seethed, planning on beating the shit out of this kid no matter what he said next. "Tell me, you piece of shit, what's fucking funny about it?"

The air grew suddenly humid, and Ronan's right ear popped, the pressure in the left building without relief. The ancient outlets, never properly grounded, started to spit sparks.

Ronan hadn't struck him, but the boy had started to bleed, just on one side. Blood dripped from his nose, slid down the left side of his face from an ear, and, lastly, beaded at the corner of his eye until it overflowed, a viscous red raindrop.

"It's funny," the boy said, and his voice was wrong, so wrong, an echo without the source, thunder without the flash of lightning, "because my dad murdered me."

Lightning did strike then, no gap between it and the thunder because it was right outside the window. Ronan shut his eyes against the brightness, and when he opened them, his hand was empty. The sun was shining brightly as it had been when he arrived at Monmouth twenty minutes ago.

The plate he'd just thrown was on the ground, at his feet, whole. When he reached down to pick it up, Ronan noticed a drop of blood, patriotically crimson against the white of the porcelain with its decorations of Wedgewood blue. He stood. Tomorrow was the fourth, after all.

"I guess you had to be there," the boy's voice crackled right next to Ronan's ear.

The plate slipped from his grasp as he whirled in that direction, crashing to the floor and shattering as surely as if he'd done it on purpose.

No one was there. He turned and turned, but there was no one. Just dust in the sunbeams from a cloudless blue sky.

#trc #trc fanfic #horror #Adam is the ghost AU #no idea if I'll do anything more with this #cw: blood #cw: referenced child abuse #ronan lynch #adam parrish #the raven boys

[eggmuffinwaffles]

HI WHO’S READY FOR AN ALMOST FINALE

The Push and Pull

Varian thought he'd had his undead life figured out- he had a family, and he had a routine that kept him somewhat busy. What more could he ask for?

But when he meets a werewolf named Hugo, he comes to find that everything may not be what it once seemed.

Chapter 10 - The Confrontation: They couldn’t keep this up forever.

#fanfic #fanfiction #varigo #varian and the 7 kingdoms #hugo vat7k #momella #cw for implied/referenced child abuse #the momella is a lil rough around the edges

[flownintothesun]

 ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ───    [ 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 ] : 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐢𝐭. 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 @ 𝐖𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐲

                              ⋆ ✰ ⋆ ─── 𝟒𝟎𝟒 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝. ( @batteredoptimist )

       𝐄𝐃𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐁𝐈𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 of some villain in a psychological thriller — right down to the gray London skies darkening by the minute in preparation for an autumn rain. He says that he doesn’t want to make a fuss about it — but there are police cars here, and neither Westley nor Muriel do well with the police. They’ve outgrown the helplessness involved with a police trip down to the station, but there are some things that just settle at your core as trauma — and a trip back to the Joneses almost always involved being in the back of a police car. Sure, they have security at the hospital, or cops that come in with criminals, or to investigate a case — but that’s different. Their eyes aren’t on him then. Right now, he doesn’t even need to listen to Doctor May’s victory speech to know what’s at cost here — his job, his degree, his prospects, his license, his freedom — and more importantly than all of that, James and Muriel.

      Muriel’s already on the phone with Coco, his features dark and serious — he tells the police it’s their lawyer — but Coco will know better than any lawyer what to do here, and Westley can’t just believe that something like this can happen. There’s no goddamned justice to any of it. He looks down at James’s small warm hand in his own as they all try to coax his lad away from him — and he drags him into an embrace, hand on the back of his head, whispering against his hair, “I’m not going to let this stand. We’ll figure something out, bloemetje. I promise.”

      It’s about now that Westley’s really regretting his decision not to attend law school because this is taking too goddamned long, and his hands are really tied, and Edward’s face is gradually turning the color of a disgruntled and angry turnip. How tragic, to not be in control of someone’s life. Westley will sift through every legal file in London’s hearings if he has to. There’s just no fucking way this piece of shit has any rights to James. His little flower is his own goddamned person and — fuck, he’s Westley’s person, too.

      His little dear fucking whimpers and Westley’s heart is out with that sound. He wants to wrap James up in his wings, stroke along his hair and kiss his forehead and tell him that they’re going to get him out — that he’s going to be safe forever.

       “I hardly need tell you,” Doctor May continues, “That a relationship of this sort with — a patient — Mr. Greene, is highly inappropriate.”

      Westley’s face turns into a grimace — one that shows a person capable of great cruelty and malice, should he choose to embrace it, as seaglass eyes turn into a tempest. “I hardly think it’s more inappropriate than a conservatorship.” Okay, so maybe it is, but you know, Westley’s pissed. Muriel’s hand is on his shoulder, grounding him. For what his husband does for a living — he somehow still manages to be the calm in Westley’s storm, not letting him do anything too rash and destructive. “And it’s Doctor Greene.”

       “We’ll see,” Edward says calmly. “As you gentleman can see, this — man — has confused my patient — hoodwinked him, as it were. James is confused, lost his memory prior to being found. Who is to say the trauma and abuse he may have experienced. The safest place for him is in psychiatric care where he won’t pose a threat to himself or others. Where he can’t be misled from the path of God to sin, or be given ideas of things that will never be. Come along now, James. I know you’ve had quite the adventure, dear lad, but I assure you this is for your own good.”

      Westley’s ears are buzzing, and he looks up to Muriel, whose golden eyes are flashing. They can’t let James just — go — they can’t. “Anything?” he asks, softly.

      “I’m afraid the law is on my side here,” Edward says again — “Everything documented quite plainly.”

      “We’re going to need you to come with us, Mr. Pollard,” one of the officers says, stepping forward.

      Westley’s grip tightens — not painfully, but in a show that he’s not just going to let this go. “Not yet,” he says, “Not until we’ve spoken to our lawyer.”

      “There will be time for that, still, Mr. McCarthy,” Doctor May condescends, “But the law waits for no one. James deserves a stable place where he can heal. Would you really deny him that?”

       That’s what Westley’s been trying to do this whole goddamned time. “Of course I wouldn’t. If only I could say I trusted that you had his best interest in mind. Amnesia doesn’t render him incapable of his own decisions.”

      “But it does give him the lack of background to make informed decisions.”

      The police officers look tired, one sighs, “Mr. Pollard — please come along, we don’t want to make this any harder than it has to be.”

       “Muriel — “ Westley pleads. He’s never felt so goddamned helpless in his life. What’s the point? In any of this? In all of it? If he can’t keep the two that he loves safe from the world’s harm. “Please — “ he chokes.

#batteredoptimist #➤ 𝟶. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙻 ┊ westley mccarthy. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ but i’ve no need for mighty deeds when i feel your arms around me. #♡ 𝙹𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 & 𝙼𝚄𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙻 & 𝚆𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚈 ⤷ however big ; however small… let me be part of it all. #abuse cw #gaslighting cw #manipulation cw #asylum cw #police cw #child abuse mention cw #(in the past : referenced) #tbi cw #traumatic brain injury cw #brain injury cw #amnesia cw #⋆ ⚓︎ ⋆ ── 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 ┊ 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑖 𝑝𝑖𝑐𝑘 𝑢𝑝 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑠ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔?

[buckysgrace]

Hi. You’re amazing!

Do you ever write fluff? Like if you found out you were pregnant with Billy’s baby and at first he’s upset and doesn’t want anything to do with you but after you have the baby ( a little boy with blonde curls like Billy) he gets all emotional and wants to desperately be a better father than his dad was to him 😭

Hello! Thank you so much <3 I absolutely will write fluff!

CW: Mentions of abortion, mentions of child abuse, lots of Billy being scared and a lil mean.

Billy's son is also referenced as having blonde curls and his nose, but the rest is ambiguous!

He was scared.

Billy honestly didn't know what he was going to do. There had been many arguments with you about it, but you seemed fairly determined. You were going to have this baby, whether he wanted to be a part of the baby's life or not.

It wasn't necessarily that he didn't want to be involved, but he could feel a crushing fear spreading through him every time he thought about being a dad.

His relationship with his own dad was strained. Things weren’t the best between them. He never really had a positive father figure, someone that showed him how to stay calm even when he was frustrated. The last thing he wanted was to end up snapping at his own child.

He couldn’t be a dad.

“Not mine,” He said once you showed up with the ultrasound, the bloodwork and everything. Denial was all he could think about, all he could process. He couldn’t fuck up your life and this child’s life if he wasn’t involved. It was that simple, “I didn’t knock you up.” 

“Uh huh,” Was your dry answer, your eyes looking less than amused, “Do you want a paternity test then, William?” Came your snarky response, because you both knew the truth. This baby was his, there was no doubt in Billy’s mind about that. And it terrified him. 

“Don’t call me that.” He said as he pushed his hair off of his forehead, feeling sick as it continued to wash over him. He was going to be a dad. He was going to end up just like Neil. 

“Then don’t act like you weren’t a part of this.” You said, looking just as fearful as what he felt. He sat down on the edge of his bed, tapping his foot rapidly as he thought about how good a smoke sounded right now. He’d need a lot more to make him relax. 

“It’s still early, right?” He questioned at last, turning his attention back to you. He watched the way your eyebrows furrowed tightly together and then relaxed again. Your eyes softened, telling him what he already knew. 

“I’m not getting an abortion,” You said at last, “I’ve made up my mind. You can make your decision, but I’m not letting you walk in and out of our lives whenever you see fit. You can be a part of this baby's life or we can end this. Whatever you prefer.” You were gentle with him, setting out the options softly like you always did. You understood him better than anyone else, made him feel safe. It made him sick to think about how he was hurting the one person he really cared about. 

“Can I think about it?” He asked at last, feeling like there wasn’t anything else to do. He didn’t have an answer yet and he didn’t want to end up saying the wrong thing. He was growing angry at himself. He could only imagine what Neil would say once he found out. 

“Yeah,” You replied gently, eyes softening as you nodded your head, “But I can’t wait forever. I need to know your answer soon.” Your voice slightly wavered but he looked away, not wanting to see you so upset. 

“Yeah,” He responded as he nodded his head and placed his fingers tightly together, “I’ll let you know.” He said at last, staying put until you left. Everything was falling apart, breaking down around him. He couldn’t deal with it right now. 

Ignoring you was harder than he’d thought it would be. He looked for you everywhere he went, even though he knew he couldn’t have you. That was his own fault regardless. He’d made up his mind. It would be easier this way.

Yet, when the invitation for your baby shower arrived in his mail he felt his walls caving in. They crashed into him, making him break down as he stared at your handwritten notes on the card. He could tell just by reading it that you were excited, not afraid. He wished he could be more like you. 

In the end, he decided to go. He needed closure, as he was sure you needed to. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to stand living in the same town as you, knowing that his child would never know him. Somehow, that made him feel even worse.

He felt lonely as the months drew on. He had no one to confide in for his problems; especially Neil and Susan. He didn’t know what to say when they questioned about your disappearance and he felt even more at a loss when they asked him if you were pregnant. A shrug of his shoulders was his answer. He really didn’t know. 

The walk up towards the little gymnasium felt odd, like he didn’t quite belong as he stared at the little balloons and elephant decorations that were spotted throughout the room. There were familiar faces; your friends and family. Some other people that weren’t quite as well known. He still felt awkward, like everyone knew that he was the one who had knocked you up and ran. 

“Hey,” You drew out as you approached him, your palm flat against the bump in front of you, “I didn’t think you’d be here.” You said slowly, literally glowing as you stood in front of him. You had a sundress on, your cheeks were warm and forehead a little sweaty. He wondered if it was from the baby. 

“I didn’t think I’d come either.” He admitted at last, hating how horrible that sounded. He just felt like he was in a rut, buried deep inside of a hole with no real way of coming out. You were like sunshine through the dirt, warming his skin as he watched you. 

“What does this mean?” You asked him at last, tilting your head as your eyes softened over his features. He wished that he had a real answer for you, to tell you how he felt. He was in love with you; deeply. He just didn’t want to hurt you either. It was complicated. 

“I really don’t know yet,” He mumbled, “It just felt right.” He decided on, unable to tell you just how much he missed you. He was nearly desperate enough to fall to his knees and beg for your forgiveness. He would if you pushed him hard enough. 

“Billy,” You drew out in exasperation, “I can’t have you doing this, being so wishy-washy. What do you want?” You asked him seriously, looking like you were close to cracking too. He wanted to reach out and touch you, to hold you. He needed to apologize. 

“I just want to be better,” He replied slowly, “I want to be here. For you and for-,” He stalled for a moment as he looked down at your baby bump, feeling like he was at a loss once again. He wasn’t sure if you wanted him in his life or not. 

“Him,” You said quickly, “We’re having a little boy.” Your eyes were glazed over in tears, your lips pulling into the tightest smile. You were clearly emotional, making him feel awful as he reached his hand forward. Your fingers met slowly, molding against one another. He felt sparks traveling up his arms, leaving him resentful of the past few months he’d wasted. 

“That’s-, that’s good,” He answered after he cleared his throat. He was already scared to be a dad, but to have a son? He feared that even more. He was sure he was following directly into Neil’s shows, “Have you decided on a name?”

“I kind of like Cash,” You stated as you rubbed at your belly, “Just feels right. C’mon, you can open the presents with me.” You explained as you tugged him along, leaving him a little jittery. He thought about pulling out a cigarette, but figured it wasn’t the right place to do it.

He felt a little lost but slowly grew more and more keen on what was happening. It was still a lot to process, but it felt right being there by your side. You were clearly excited despite everything that had happened. He was grateful that you were so open, that you didn’t hold a grudge against him.

“Where are you living at?” He asked instead, curious as to whether your living situation had changed or not. You were still living at home the last time he checked. He was slightly nervous, wondering if someone else had slipped into his spot. 

“Still with my parents,” You admitted as you shrugged your shoulders, “They were upset, but they’ve come around.” Your lips were pulled into a smile, looking less than worried. Apparently things had been fairly well for you.

“They probably hate me.” He said a moment later, sure that it was true. He couldn’t see how they wouldn’t. He had practically left you. You snapped your eyes up towards him. 

“Hate is a strong word,” You told him quickly, “But yeah, they’re not the happiest. Especially dad.” You explained slowly as you continued to rub at your baby bump. 

“Great,” He mumbled as he placed his hands in his pockets, “I’m really sorry.” He breathed out slowly, knowing his apology was more important than everything else. He meant it too. He shouldn’t have pushed you away. 

“You just disappeared,” You started slowly, “I thought you were gone.” Your voice was soft, full of hurt and distress. He felt his throat tightening, burning as he thought about how much he missed you. He was a fool to ever stray away from you, to leave you on your own. 

“I thought about it,” He told you honestly, knowing there was no point in lying, “I don’t want to be like my dad.” He replied at last, getting down to the root of the issue. He didn’t want to accidentally lash out at you or at your future child. He never wanted that for him. It would be better to be alone. 

“You won’t,” You told him quickly, sternly as he exhaled deeply, “You’re not like your dad. I promise you.” You cupped his face softly, your hands smooth and gentle against his skin. He leaned against you, craving the feeling. 

“What if I lose control?” He asked at last as he drew his eyes over your features, taking in the way you were watching him. You sighed deeply as you rubbed your fingers across his skin. You looked deep in thought as you pressed your nails gently against his stubble. 

“You never did that at your swimming classes,” You reminded him, “You should come stay with me. Move in. It would be good for our baby.” You moved your hands to his neck, then to his shoulder and down to his hands. You gripped them slowly, pressing them against your growing tummy.

He stalled for the longest time, blinking slowly as he felt like the world was freezing around him. Underneath your skin he could feel your baby moving. He gulped, eyes wide as he felt the smallest smile curling against his lips. He exhaled deeply as he looked towards you again. 

“I don’t know.” He replied nervously as he felt his heart hammering roughly inside of his chest. He chewed on his bottom lip, thinking that it would be easier. He’d be closer for you, for the baby. If he was really going to do this, he needed to be near you. 

“You don’t have to marry me or anything,” You started, “Or be with me if that’s what you want.” You said sheepishly, looking embarrassed as you quickly looked away. He felt his heart shatter a bit again, worried that he had truly hurt you. 

“You have someone else?” He asked at last, worried that you had moved on. He had done wrong, but he really did love you. You were the only one he was passionate about. He wasn’t sure how to move on if you had found someone else. 

“No,” You responded with a smile, “But I just want you to be happy. Even if it’s not with us.” You nodded your head, but looked like that was hard to admit. He didn’t want you to be alone. Not anymore. 

“You make me happy,” He said at last, “We’ll work this out. I promise.” He said as he brought your hand up to his lips, savoring the feeling of your skin against his mouth. He closed his eyes, feeling very regretful. He wouldn’t lose you again. 

When he returned home he felt odd, but not like he had in the past few months. He didn’t drink away his feelings, or drown his anger out with music. Instead, he worked on packing. He wasn’t going to be like Neil; not at all. He was going to be there for you. He was going to be there for his son. No matter how scared he was. He couldn’t let either of you down. 

“Where are you going?” Neil’s voice made him jump, surprising him as he paused with the article of clothing in his hands. He turned slowly, looking at the way Neil was leaning against the door frame. He had his hands crossed tightly over his chest, his eyebrows furrowed together tightly. His features were stoic, like he was deciding whether he should be angry or not. 

“I’m moving out,” He said as he turned away, shoving the clothes back into his bag, “I uh, found a place.” Billy replied slowly as he finished zipping up his bag. He wondered how much he’d really be able to take with him. Probably not much if his dad got angry. 

“You moving in with that bitch?” Neil tilted his head up as he spoke, like he was trying to make himself taller. His eyes were sharp, cold as his gaze cut into Billy. He felt sick as he gulped harshly, trying to keep his tone at bay. 

“Don’t call her that.” Billy responded hotly, feeling defensive of you. You weren’t anything like that and you were letting him back into your life; just like that. You were everything and more to him and he wasn’t going to let Neil speak ill of you. 

“Is the kid yours or some little bastard?” His lip curled up in disgust as he spoke, his features filling with disappointment. Billy didn’t care. He was going to be happy with you. He wouldn’t be like Neil. Not ever. 

“Mine,” He said roughly, “And don’t you ever call him that.” He snatched up his bag, taking his few items with him as he moved forward. Neil scoffed as he shook his head, irritated as Billy pushed forward.

“She’s going to ruin your life,” He grumbled as he gripped Billy’s shoulder, holding him in place for a moment, “And don’t even think about crawling back. I won’t have you.” He said threateningly, like he might change Billy’s mind.

“I won’t come back.” Billy promised, stern with his answer as he walked past him. He wouldn’t let his son suffer the same way he had. They both deserved better than this. 

The rest of the months passed breezily, making him come to terms a little easier as your due date approached. He had done a lot of ass kissing, pleading and groveling until he got back on your good side. He brought you flowers every day, rubbed your feet after work and gave you plenty of kisses.

You complained about how you looked as the final weeks approached, but he thought that you looked beautiful. Stunning. In his opinion, you were glowing. He loved rubbing your tummy too, feeling like he got a deeper connection that way.

Your labor was messy, a little chaotic. Billy was terrified something would go wrong, but stayed close to you regardless. By the end of it, his hand was numb and his wrist aching from how tightly he’d been gripping you.

“Look at him,” You breathed out as you held the little boy in your arms, “He’s so cute.” You sniffled, looking like you were seconds away from breaking down again.

He stared and stared, memorizing his son's features as he came to terms that he was a father. He had a little boy, someone to take care of. He looked so fragile, so tiny. It made him nervous. He was fearful that he’d accidentally hurt him by holding him wrong, or by dropping him. He wasn’t sure how his rough hands were supposed to hold something so soft. 

"Billy," You breathed out quietly, making his throat grow raw as he stared down at the little boy. Soft blonde curls and the same sloped nose he had. Everything else about the little boy reminded him of you, "Are you crying?" You asked gently, making him feel even more emotional as he shook his head. 

“No,” He said hoarsely, doing everything in his power to keep from breaking down, “S’just a lot.” He mumbled as he wiped at his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose as he tried to calm himself down. His hands were shaking, his heart thumping roughly inside of his chest. 

“I know,” You replied softly as you sat up a bit, gesturing the bundle in your arms towards him, “C’mon. You’ll feel better.” You reassured him, but he still felt hesitant. He pressed his fingertips together before he nodded, accepting the little baby from you.

Names hadn’t quite been figured out yet, but that didn’t matter at the moment. He looked healthy, his cheeks full and fists clenched together as he stretched his arms out. Billy felt a small chuckle leave his neck, fighting over the sob that was threatening to burst free.

He suddenly couldn’t remember why he had been so nervous, or scared. As his son curled against his arms it felt natural, like he already knew what he was doing. He savored the warmth, the way the little baby cooed as he adjusted him in his arms. Everything felt right suddenly.

“I won’t let anything bad ever happen to you,” He promised as he kissed his little head, sighing deeply as he snuggled his little son towards him, “Not ever. I promise.” 

#Billy Hargrove #Billy Hargrove fic #Billy Hargrove x reader #Billy Hargrove x yn #Billy Hargrove x you #Billy Hargrove is a good dad #Dad!Billy Hargrove #Billy Hargrove request #Billy Hargrove angst #Billy Hargrove fluff

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

Eddie Munson's second chance

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 14

Prompt: Angst with a happy ending

Rated: G

CW: referenced child neglect/abuse

Tags: Modern AU, Royalty AU, Royal Steve Harrington, Rockstar Eddie Munson

Notes: Continued from day 11. This was angstier in my head, but Eddie is a silly goose.

Eddie Munson is no stranger to fucking up. He's long accepted that. It's just a thing that happens.

Sometimes, you'll miscalculate a stage dive and have to cancel the rest of the tour. 

Sometimes, you'll get so caught up in your stupid rockstar stuff, you'll forget about the youth center you founded to give other kids a better childhood. 

Sometimes, you'll meet an adorable guy named Dustin at said youth center, and rant about how useless the monarchy is, only to find out that Dustin isn't Dustin at all, but Crown Prince Steven Harrington, aka the future king, aka owner of the saddest pair of puppy dog eyes that Eddie has ever failed to get out of his goddamn head. 

Which brings him to his current predicament, sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting for Chrissy to pick up the phone. She does after the second dial tone, which is pretty impressive for three in the morning. 

"We must cancel the royal visit," Eddie blurts before she can ask what's wrong. 

"Eds," she yawns. "We've been over this. Just because you can't stand the guy-" 

"That's not it," Eddie groans. "Listen … I met him yesterday? Only I didn't know it was him? And I flirted with him and he was really cute but I couldn't keep my fucking mouth shut and now I can't ever see him again because I don't wanna rot in some dungeon, understand?" 

"No," she says. Damn, it sounded perfectly logical in his head. "But this doesn't seem like something we should discuss on the phone. Stay put, I'm coming over." 

*

They don't cancel the royal visit, but Eddie refuses to make an appearance. Instead, he watches from behind the curtains of the office window like a creep. The Prince looks dashing in his tailored suit, smiling for the cameras, joking with the kids, listening to Chrissy with polite attention as she shows him around the place. Eddie loves her so fucking much, will be forever grateful that she filled in for him. 

Even if she tied it to one condition. 

He watches how she whispers something into the Prince's ear, how his smile melts into an angry frown. How they both turn to stare at the window. Eddie flinches away from the curtains, heart in his throat. 

He wonders if the dungeons have WiFi. 

*

"You have exactly ten minutes," says the bodyguard. It’s the same one from yesterday, the one called Hop. Eddie doesn’t reply, just nods stiffly. Hop looks at him like he's contemplating murder, but then he ducks out of the room with a muttered all clear.

Prince Steven steps in. The door clicks shut. Silence descends. 

"Well," Eddie finally mumbles. "I guess this is the part where I bow and grovel." 

The Prince snorts. "Please don't, Mr Munson. I'd rather you save us both the embarrassment."

Eddie winces, because ouch. That stings more than it should. 

Neither of them says anything for a long while. The clock on the wall keeps ticking. 

"So," Eddie rocks awkwardly on the soles of his combat boots. "Who's Dustin?" 

Those plush lips twitch into a smile and those pretty eyes light up. For a moment, Eddie glimpses the boy from yesterday. 

"My housekeeper's kid. He'd be so mad if he knew I met you and didn't get him an autograph." 

He says it with genuine concern, like he's honestly afraid of getting shit from a little kid, and Eddie can't help but grin. 

"Don't worry, I won't tell." 

This gets him a huffed laugh. 

"He'd love this place, it's really cool." 

When Eddie looks up, the Prince is looking at the picture frames on the walls, photos of smiling kids and drawings in crayon and watercolors. Eddie sighs and joins him, stares long and hard of a picture of Max on her skateboard. 

"Thanks. I, um … grew up around here, and I wanted to give these kids a safe space. Where they can just … be children. I never really had that myself." 

A thoughtful hum. Those hazel eyes are soft with an expression that looks weirdly like longing. Eddie remembers watching stories about the royal family on his uncle's rickety TV set. A solemn-faced boy his own age trailing behind his parents outside of private jets, in lush parks and gilded halls. Always in expensive suits. Always well-behaved. Always way too grown-up.

Well, shit. 

"Listen, your highness …" 

"Steve is fine." 

"Listen, Steve …" Eddie lets the name linger on his tongue, finds that he likes the feel of it. "I guess I've been a bit of a dick." 

A hint of that bitchy little smile. "You guess correctly." 

"Whatever," Eddie huffs. "I'm trying to apologize here, so may I? Or are you throwing me in the dungeons?" 

"The …" Steve blinks. Then, his mouth starts to curl. "We, um … don't actually do that anymore. Unless you're into that, then I'm sure it could be arranged." 

Eddie sputters and Steve bites back a laugh. 

"If you really wanna make up for it," he then says. "I hear your concert next week is all sold out? Dustin would love backstage tickets." 

Eddie frowns. 

"Dustin as in the kid or …" 

"Steve?" Hop cracks the door open. "Time to go, c'mon." 

Steve smiles, bright and sunshiny. "On my way." 

He turns to Eddie, grabs a pen and a notepad from the chaos on the desk.

"Backstage tickets, two of them. I'll be expecting them by tomorrow." 

*

When Chrissy bustles in not five minutes later, she finds Eddie in the office chair, staring morosely at the still drawn curtains. 

"Eds? Everything okay?" Eddie just groans and hides his head in his hands, so she crouches down in front of him, hands on his knees. "He didn't give you shit, did he?" 

"Shit? I wish. No, it's far worse than that." Eddie cackles hysterically and unclenches his fist, presenting a crumpled piece of notebook paper. "He gave me his number." 

Part 3

All my holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie brainrot #steddie fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddie holiday drabbles #hype's holiday drabbles

[rekaning]

Painful Silence | The Originals x Mute!Child!reader

CW: Canon-typical violence, implied/referenced abuse of a child

Summary: Takes place after the events of "Not A Peep". A bit of backstory of Mute!reader from an unexpected source.

She had never been a vocal child.

Her Papa had voiced his concerns about that when Mama was still alive. Mama had merely smiled gently down at her three year old, quietly playing with a hummingbird figurine set.

"Nothing wrong with a little silence," Mama softly told her Papa, running a loving hand over her daughter's hair. "Her silence allows her to perceive the world so much more. She's an observant child. She listens, rather than just hears. And that is a precious gift for a bloodline like mine."

Her Papa still had his reservations, but he trusted his wife. Magic and witchcraft still confounded him but his lover's carefree attitude eased his worries for his daughter's lack of vocalization.

As the days went by, her Papa had felt more and more at ease, having heard several peels of laughter and grunts of frustration erupt from his daughter at times when he was at home. It was only a matter of time before she would begin to speak, he'd told himself.

Their household had been a happy one.

Until it wasn't.

It happened in the middle of the night. Papa had was at his usual night shift at work, with only her and Mama at home.

She had been woken from a rather lovely dream of talking pelicans and flying penguins.

Angry voices coming from the living room downstairs had her creeping slowly off her bed, making sure to grab her pastel green throw blanket with baby chicks printed in patterns, and tiptoed over to the second floor landing to find out what was going on.

When she peeked in between the banister, she could see her Mama with two other women in the living room.

"The laws of the coven no longer apply to me, sister. I renounced my position when I did." Mama said calmly.

One of the women, who had a very similar resemblance to her Mama, stepped forward, voice forceful, "The child is of our bloodline, tainted, though it may be, but ours nonetheless. She must be with her people."

Mama took a step forward, her face hardened, eyes alight with fury, "You will not touch a hair on her head. I left because I no longer believed in the covens ideals and practices. What makes you think I'd let you take my daughter to the very thing I cut ties from?"

The third woman, aged beyond the years of her Mama and the other woman, spoke, "The elders will not allow one of our kin to grow outside of the coven. She must come with us."

Her Mama looked at the older woman pleadingly, eyes stinging with unshed tears, "Mother, please, please, you can't take her from me. She is everything to me."

The old woman, the child's grandmother, held herself with poise and looked down her nose toward her pleading daughter, "I am sorry, child."

Her Mama's sorrowful face quickly morphed into rage and before the young girl could blink, her mother had let out a vicious cry, lifting her hand toward the woman that looked like her, Mama's sister.

The child felt the hairs on her body raise from the electricity in the air. The air seemed to vibrate and the girl stared in wonder as she saw lines of color and light dance around her mother.

An audible, sickening crack broke the girl out of her awestruck wonder and she gazed down at the still figure of her mother's sister, her auntie, on the floor. Her neck was at an odd angle, eyes open in shock, glazed over, seeing nothing.

"What have you done!" Came the shrill cry of her grandmother.

A rumble coursed through the foundation of the home in response.

Her Mama yelled back, "Leave! You are not welcome in this home!"

Her squeak of shock was her undoing. Both her mother and grandmother looked toward the banister and spotted the shaking form of the child.

Her mother's eyes went wide with fear, "My little Bluebird, please, go back to—MOTHER NO!"

The young girl felt the magic before she saw it. Flames erupted to the girl's left, barring escape from the stairs. The child squealed in terror as the fire nipped at her feet. It got close enough that her blanket, trailing limply at her feet, caught fire. The girl quickly let go of the cloth.

"Sweetheart, run!"

She obeyed her mother and stumbled shakily away from the growing flames. She didn't dare to look back, but she could hear the cries and yells coming from both her mother and grandmother in the living room, could feel the magic like static shocks to her skin.

She took refuge in her room, grabbed the penguin stuffy that she had and hid herself under her covers.

Blasts and yells could still be heard. Her room was getting hotter and hotter. A chocked sob erupted from her throat, and the only word that spilled from her lips was, "MAMA!"

The only thing she could hear was herself, her guttural screams for her mother, her pulsing heartbeat in her ears, her ragged coughs as she inhaled smoke.

The door to her room burst open after a few moments. The blankets were ripped from her, and she was brought into the familiar and warm embrace of her Mama.

"You're going to be alright, little Bluebird. Mama's here. She will always be here."

The child, exhausted from fear and panic, fainted in her mother's hold.

Her mother didn't have the sufficient power to calm the inferno raging in her home. Only enough to block it from spreading into the child's bedroom for now.

There was not much she could do. Her own mother and sister lay dead in the living room and she herself would not survive this night. The hex her mother placed on her before her death would complete its task within a few hours.

She looked down at her daughter's sleeping form. Tears welled in her eyes knowing this would be the last time she would see her. Her trembling lips gently kissed her forehead, "I love you, my little Bluebird. Mama loves you."

With the last reserve of power she held, she cast a protective spell over her little girl. Although her mother and sister were dead, the coven would not rest until they had her kid. The spell would deter any unwelcome eyes, keeping her girl safe for a few years at least.

As she lay at the foot of her daughter's bed, clutching the girl safely within her embrace, her last thoughts were of her baby and her husband. She hoped he would not resent her for this mess. He knew her coven was coming for their child. He never liked the whole witch aspect of her life and she could only pray that his hatred of it would not consume him after this.

Her gaze flitted down to her little Bluebird. Hearing her child cry out for her had filled her with so much joy and so much anguish. She had no idea how this night would affect her. She could only hope that her father would help her recover. As she closed her eyes for the last time, she could only hope.

Let my little one find happiness in this life.

***

The three Original's stared down at the child in the woman's lap.

The child's mother stroked her hair soothingly. The girl snuggled further into her mother's touch, a smile forming at the nostalgic ministrations.

Klaus turned his wary eyes to the woman.

Her presence in their home had been unexpected. He had found out that the Veil, which acted as a barrier between the physical world and the Other Side, had been brought down due to the goings-on in Mystic Falls. Because of this, supernatural entities that had previously died, could now interact with the physical realm.

The Mikaelson siblings had been skeptical of the woman's identity when she had appeared before them. All doubt about who she was had been dashed the moment their little Bird had caught sight of the mystery woman.

It had been a shock to the three ancient vampires when the girl, whom hadn't uttered a single sound since meeting, had let out a wail so primal, so heartachingly hurt. The three siblings could still hear the haunting cries in their ears.

The woman had scooped the little girl in her arms, rocking her soothingly and muttering sweet words into her ear, "I'm here my little Bluebird. Mama's here. You've been so strong, sweetheart."

Klaus was loathe to admit that he felt a pang of envy roll over him, seeing his Little Wing being soothed by another, but he had to reign in his ire, reminding himself that it was her mother and that ripping the two apart right now would not go over well. With his Little Wing, nor with his siblings.

"Thank you." The woman's voice broke through the Mikaelson's thoughts.

Each of their questioning looks at her gratitude caused her to smile as she explained, "For looking out for her." Her eyes strayed back to her daughter, "You have no idea how agonizing it was to see the aftermath of my death. To see her detach from what happened, see that she blamed herself for it, and even seeing my husband hurt her the way he did."

Her eyes shot back up to them, brimming with tears. "Thank you," she said again.

Rebekah huffed, irritated, "Your husband was a worthless, wretched wanker. Good riddance, I say. How could you even stand to stay with him?"

"I make no excuses for how he treated our daughter after my death, but he was never that way when I was alive. He worried for our little Bluebird. He knew about my being a witch and he knew that my coven would be coming for her." She gestured to the sleeping girl. "I truly loved him, but what he did...the neglect he subjected her to was..." She stared off into the distance her eyes glazed before she turned them to Klaus and Rebekah, silent fury burning bright in her gaze, "I do not condemn what you did to him. My only regret is that I could not partake in his judgment."

Her admittance eased Elijah's mind. He was pleased to know that their Baby Bird's mother had the proper motherly instinct to eliminate any threat or harm to their child, regardless of who the cause of it was.

Klaus grunted and crossed his arms, ire still simmering within his chest, "Your blessings regarding that brute's death aside, what else did you hope to accomplish with your limited time?"

Elijah rolled his eyes at his brother's rude attitude. He understood his irritation, he could see the jealousy festering in him, and he would be lying if he said that he didn't feel similar himself. The three of them had come to care for the child. At this point, she was a Mikaelson in all but blood.

Rebekah tsked at her brothers tone, "Honestly, Nik."

The witch, however, seemed to find the hybrids tone amusing as she chuckled softly, a knowing smile spreading on her lips, "Niklaus Mikaelson. I thank you for your concern for her, but there is nothing more that I want than to spend what little time I have left holding my daughter."

The hybrid narrowed his eyes at her, cold gaze studying her carefully, "I find that quite hard to believe. Any sane parent would fight tooth and nail to drag their child away from a monster like me."

The witch regarded him warmly, "Hm. It seems I have yet to witness this monster you speak of. The man I have seen with my daughter has been nothing but gentle and sweet; aquiescing to her needs when the situation called for it."

She turned her gaze to Elijah, "She has been under the protection of the one they call the Noble Brother. Who has treated her with equal care as you, Niklaus."

She finally turned to Rebekah, "Besides, this beautiful spitfire that is your sister has shown that she has the instincts of a mother bear when it comes to the protection of my child."

Her eyes went right back to Klaus, "Tell me. Why would I take her from a family that has prioritized her happiness and safety?"

The three Originals said nothing.

There was no sense in denying her observations, it was clear that she had been there for all their interactions with her child, invisible to the from her place on the Other Side.

The mother said nothing further, merely continuing the soft caresses on her little Bird's hair.

#the mikaelson siblings #the originals x reader #elijah mikealson x reader #klaus mikealson x reader #rebekah mikealson x reader #mute!reader #elijah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

Happy Sunday, my Darlings! I have a new Feyd-Rautha/Reader chapter up! (18+ Only)

Tags for this chapter: arranged marriage; dubious consent; breeding kink; overstimulation; blood kink; period sex; pain kink; oral sex (m+ and f+ receiving); vaginal sex; Feyd-Rautha who is his own walking content warning; problematic smut; slow emotional burn; Feyd-Rautha having the most insane recovery period; discussions of pregnancy; implied/referenced past abuse; implied/referenced self-harm

Tags and notes for this story overall and full chapter below the cut. Please let me know if you would like to be tagged when I update!

CW for the entire fic: arranged marriage; forced marriage; forced pregnancy; dubious consent; implied/referenced child abuse; implied/referenced sexual abuse; implied/referenced incest; sadomasochism; pain kink; rough sex; problematic smut; vaginal sex; vaginal fingering; oral sex; blood kink; breeding kink; orgasm denial; eventual switching

Just as a note: this fic was going to be a lot shorter and completely plotless but that was 40k words ago and there's no end in sight, so I'm going to make some minor edits and rewrites to earlier chapters, but this story will end up factoring into the greater plot of the story.

Chapter Five: Playin' with Fire Burns a Little Bit

He keeps his word.  It’s still somewhat dark outside when you wake to a hard cock against your backside and an arm wrapped around you, and you remember where you are and what happened.

Your ass doesn’t sting as much as it did last night; the more pressing matter is that Feyd-Rautha’s cock is slotted against the small of your back, just over the slope of your backside, and his arm that’s been looped around your ribcage is moving.  His palm presses against your stomach.  You give a soft grunt as you shift in his grasp and he raises himself up on his opposite elbow to get a good look at your face and your now-opened eyes.

“You’re awake,” he notes, voice even rougher first thing in the morning, and with that information decides to slide his hand from your ribcage to your crotch.  

“You really meant it when you said first thing ,” you say, still drowsy, voice still laced with sleep.

“I have a busy schedule,” he says, rubbing down and sliding his fingertips along your slit before giving a quiet hmm as if to say, ‘ Not quite wet enough yet.  Unfortunate .’  So he keeps circling your bud, nuzzling against your neck and jaw as you start to warm up, your breaths getting shorter.

When he wrings your first gasp out of you, he brings his fingertips back to your slit and gets the affirmation he wants that he’s getting you wet, enough that he can commence with his actual plans for you. In any case, you’re wide awake now.

You remind yourself that this isn’t the most depraved thing you’ve heard of on Geidi Prime.  You don’t have to remind yourself that even as off-putting a concept it is, it felt great last night.

He turns you on your back and wastes no further time bringing his head between your legs.  He takes just a moment to smell the blood between your thighs before he’s alternating between licking over you, wriggling his tongue inside of you, and suckling at your bud.

This time your hands are free to explore, to press against the back of his neck and scratch along his shoulders and biceps, to cup your own breasts to add to the stimulation until he covers them with his own.

He’s good at this , you realize, head falling back against the covers, hips arching up, and you have no frame of reference, no comparison for this, so it’s just a feeling.  You’re pretty sure he likes this, likes the way you taste perhaps in part because of the blood coming out of you, and you’re willing to set aside how morbid that is if he keeps this up.  You pant and moan, unconsciously grinding against his mouth and he lets you, lets you grip the back of his head as your breath comes in harsh and your entire body flushes hot.  You couldn’t form a coherent sentence if your life depended on it.

Your whimpers turn into a warning, one that he ignores as he keeps going, pulling back only to spit on his thumb and bring it to your bud as he presses his tongue back inside of you.  He doesn’t let up, either, when you shake and come, trembling against his mouth.  If anything it spurs him on, giving you too much. 

You wish he had hair so you could tug on it to pull him away and give you a moment to cool down.  You’ve never just kept on going after coming and it’s too much, it’s too intense.  And that, apparently, is the idea because he keeps your hips pulled to him, his face still buried in between your legs.  You groan, frustrated, knocking your head back against your pillow as your hips clench and you give another spasm.

He rocks his hips against the bed, devolving into grunts and moans against your sensitive skin, like this might be what sends him over the edge, too.  Not that you realize it yet but he actually could.  If he chose to, he could let the friction between his cock and the sheets below him get him there.  But that would be a waste of his seed that he’s bent on spilling inside of you.

So after a minute he pulls away so he can sit up and flip you onto your stomach, pulls you up by your hips, and takes a moment to look at the remnants of the damage he did last night.  It must be still sufficiently red and look as tender as it feels because he wastes no time squeezing the cheeks of your ass, probably smirking at your responding pained whine.

He chose this position on purpose, you realize.  You’re still sore from last night, and you’ll feel the sting of his hips slapping against your ass, especially at the punishing pace he often sets.  Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as he quickly, wordlessly, assures you this morning’s no different.

When he makes a ponytail out of your hair and tugs, spurred on by the noises you’re making, you wonder about the collars in the armoire.  Are those because women on Geidi Prime don’t have hair to pull? Or will he use those collars on you, too?

He starts talking; a little unusual for him, since he doesn’t normally talk while he’s inside of you, but the words spill out of his chest in his gravely timbre. You just have no idea what he’s saying, it’s all guttural Harkonnen battle language that you haven’t learned yet.

You barely manage to hold your upper body upright, and you’re sure that’s mostly because of Feyd-Rautha’s grip on your hair.  He stops talking altogether and his speech devolves back into grunts and growls with each snap of his hips that almost drown out your moans and whimpers.

And then it’s done, he comes, one hand clutching your hip and the other still buried in your hair.  For a few moments he stays there, still holding you onto him as he begins to soften, then he moves his hand from your hair to your stomach, coaxing you up until your back aligns with his chest.  He breathes in, shifting his hand upwards until it curls loosely around your neck, which you turn in alarm to try and face him.  Your blood is quickly drying, tacky and dark, on his mouth as he tilts his head and presses those blood-stained lips to yours.  He only gives your neck the lightest of squeezes, a reminder of what he’s capable of but not a real threat, before moving his hand to your breast, palming it roughly.  He keeps at it, kissing and fondling every exposed part of you he can reach until he gets hard again and you gasp at the feel of it, him filling out and stiffening inside of you once more.

Is this…normal?  It can’t be, right?  You’d probably have heard about it if it was.

He’s not a normal man , you have to remind yourself.

He took you in this position a couple of nights ago, when he had you brace your hands against the headboard as he fucked you, but right now the headboard’s too far away and so you rely on him holding you onto him, one of your hands reaching behind you to grab his hip as the other rubs down against your bud, your cries high and reedy as your fingers brush so close to where he’s pistoning in and out of you.  His grunts and growls against your ear grow ragged; you half-expect him to snap his jaws and sink his teeth into your neck for the animalistic way he fucks you, like being inside of you makes him an even baser and more primitive creature.  It makes you rub harder, feeling helpless to do anything else.

He lets you come this time.

For a full minute afterwards, he holds you to him, his breath going from panting back to normal, his pulse slowing back down, before he wordlessly tilts your hips forward and coaxes you on to your front before pulling out of you.  You shut your eyes for a moment, hearing the telltale sounds of him padding over to the bathroom and take a moment to readjust yourself, shifting to lie on your side, waiting for him to come out.

When he does, his face and cock have been cleaned off and he heads for the dresser, and you’re about to get up to use the bathroom for yourself when he starts talking.

“I’ll grab you again in three hours for breakfast,” he says as he reaches into his drawers for clothes to train in.  “When you didn’t show up yesterday my uncle was concerned that I may have been too much for you and wanted to verify that you’re still in one piece.”

“Was he really?” you ask.  The best opinion the Baron seems to have of you is one of polite indifference; an adequate broodmare for the Harkonnen line.

“Harkonnen men can get overzealous,” he says.  “He wants to make sure that I’m taking care of my new bride.”

That’s one way to put it , you think, shifting again to sit on the edge of the bed.  It’s an effort, and even though the sheets are soft you can’t help but wince at the feeling of them against your well-used backside.

“Fine.  I might get an hour or two of sleep before then.”  You could certainly use it; your husband has certainly proved his stamina and energy in bed.  

He glances over at you as he reaches for a training shirt.  “I’m going to have a door installed connecting your quarters to mine.  It’ll make it easier for us to meet at night,” he says, as if it wasn’t already easy.  “Save us the trouble of having to get dressed before and afterwards.”

You could almost laugh.  It would figure that’s his reasoning.

“Alright, I’ll be up in just a second.”

You’re a little surprised he’s not openly smug about how he wears you out.  You’d almost expect him to joke about how hard it is to keep up with him, but he must realize he doesn’t have to.  The way your legs shake a little as you walk over to your discarded clothing, the way you wince as you bend over to pick them up, speak for themselves.  He does watch you, though, the rest of his clothes momentarily forgotten, as if trying to commit the sight of you to memory before you leave.

**********

You manage to get another hour’s sleep in which you quickly realize that sleeping on your back is out of the question for now.

Idrisa comes in shortly after you wake up to bring you water and coffee and prepare a bath for you.  You’re so grateful for it that you could cry, hissing as the water hits your backside.  

Idrisa peers in, concerned.  “Everything alright, Na-Baroness?” she asks.  

You look over at her.  “Would you be so kind as to get me a glass of water and one of those menstrual pain tablets?” you ask.

**********

You finish getting ready just in time for the Na-Baron to greet you in what you’ve gathered is his typical politician’s attire; black, clearly high-end and well-tailored material to show off his form.  Too formal to train in but fitted for ease of movement.  He has a holster on his thigh that holds a knife in its scabbard.

He gives you his arm for you to take; it’s almost whiplash how he oscillates between fucking you like a beast and having you on his arm like a courtly gentleman, but you accept and stroll down the hall together in silence for a moment.

He looks ahead as he says, “It’s going to be uncomfortable for you to sit down for a couple of days.”

“I figured that out earlier, but thank you,” you say.  

“He’s going to notice and he’s going to bait you.  Don’t acknowledge it.  Getting flustered will just add fuel to the fire,” he adds.

“ You like seeing my discomfort,” you tell him.

His jaw tightens.  He opens his mouth enough to run his tongue–strangely pink despite everything else being black–over his teeth before he clicks his tongue against them.  “I like it for my own amusement, not his,” he says.  

You reach the Dining Hall, with a spread being set out.  It’s already too much food for three people, but with the Baron it’s unlikely that it’ll go to waste.

You stop and curtsy as Feyd-Rautha pulls your chair out for you.

“Good morning, Baron,” you say, face downcast, waiting for him to give you a nod before you sit down.

Feyd wasn’t lying, sitting in a chair’s even worse than sitting on a bed.  You try not to shift around to get more comfortable; you just know that they’re going to notice. 

“I suppose you’re still adjusting to Geidi Prime and married life?” the Baron asks you.   You know he really means, Still adjusting to getting railed by my nephew, eh?  Can’t say I’m surprised; I’ve heard that he’s hung like a donkey.  

“Yes, Baron.  It is getting easier, though.  Everyone’s been accommodating,” you tell him as you take a sip of juice and avoid looking directly at him.  He can probably sense your dislike despite your best efforts to be polite and deferential.  He probably doesn’t care.  He probably likes that you have to simper and fawn over how gracious he is when you wish you never had to speak to him.

“The relaxation chambers are still at your disposal, if you’ve changed your mind,” he says.

“Thank you, Baron, that’s an excellent idea.”  And it is, much as you hate to admit it.  All that worries you is the idea of anyone but you, Feyd, and Idrisa knowing that there’s no way that you’re pregnant yet.  You’ll have to investigate first and see how bad the risk is of exposure.  If word got back to the Baron…you’re certain he would be less thrilled than his nephew.

Conversation quickly turns to Arrakis. Since regaining it from the house of Atreides Rabban apparently has been struggling to overpower Fremen rebels.  You’re a little taken aback that they’d be willing to discuss this in front of you and realize that it’s because you have no one to talk to about this anyways.  The Atreides have been all but exterminated, not that you really knew any of them in the first place.  Even Father was shocked to see how swiftly they met their end when it happened.

The Fremen, it turns out, are another story.  It’s not a surprise that they can match the Harkonnens in brutality; they’re the only ones who inhabit a planet just as hostile and unforgiving as Geidi Prime and they’ve found ways to adapt to Arrakis that the Harkonnens haven’t needed to before.

“We’re going to need to train our men harder,” Feyd-Rautha says.  “We’ve allowed ourselves to get complacent when we can’t afford to.  The Sardaukar army helped us win back Arrakis; we need to hold ourselves to their standards.  Until then, Rabban needs to stop trying to ply his ego with direct combat and use aerial strikes instead.”

The Baron looks up from his food and sits back for a moment, considering his nephew’s words with a small smile.  See, this is why you’re my successor and not him, he seems to think, even when their conversation leads elsewhere.  It’s the look of a man who’s playing a game he has yet to reveal, and it sticks with you for the remainder of breakfast.

What else does he have planned for his nephew?

******

Feyd-Rautha walks with you out of the Dining Hall, still playing the courtly married man, taking your hand on his arm as you pass slaves and soldiers alike who lower their heads in deference.  It’s going to take some getting used to.  He apparently has a meeting to attend, though, as he escorts you back to your quarters.

“I’ll see you this evening,” he says, with no need for innuendo.

And so it continues for a few days.  At night he takes you into his own bedchambers, tastes you until you nearly weep from the overstimulation, fucks you until you’re sore and shaking, sleeps with you, and wakes you up early the next morning to do it all again before he leaves to train.  You save your energy during the day by staying more sedentary than you’re used to, remaining in the library or your quarters and listening to recorded lessons of basic Harkonnen words and phrases.  Your pronunciation when you try to mimic the guttural tones is laughable, but you put in an effort.  You’ll save the relaxation chambers for when you start training.

The fourth night, before he buries his face between your legs, he has you do the same to him; has you kneel as he sits on the edge of the bed and pushes his cock into the confines of your mouth.

“ You’ll learn to take everything, ” he tells you, one hand buried in your hair as he pushes you down farther than you’ve managed before, until tears spill out of the corners of your eyes and the noises your mouth makes around him sound utterly obscene.  He lets you brace your hands on his legs and it’s between then and when he pulls you off of him to bring you up into bed that you notice something.  The scars on his inner thigh have an uneven mirror; there are scars on his other thigh, as well, along an invisible inseam, but they don’t match.  Those other scars look shorter and like they run deeper.  It’s yet another question you’re sure you won’t get to ask anytime soon.  Before he devours you, though, he cups your chin in his hand and looks over your tear-stained cheeks and lips puffy from sucking his cock with unrestrained lust.  

“What is it about me like this, husband?” you ask, after it’s done and he’s come inside of you.  You’re both naked, sprawled, and spent in his bed.  The blood’s been lighter and lighter and soon you imagine these visits will go back to just the evenings.  “Do you only like tasting women when we’re like this?”

He looks over at you and draws one arm behind his head.  “Not only then,” he says.  “But I like enjoying something other men are too weak to even attempt.”

You wait for him to continue his explanation, but he doesn’t.  You’ve been continuously worn out and sore since your wedding night, but there’s something pleasant in your ache. Perhaps it’s just your body getting used to being thoroughly debauched on a regular basis for the first time in your life, but there’s also a part of you that’s starting to enjoy it.   

“It’s time,” he adds.  “To start training you.  It can’t last long so it will have to be comprehensive.”  

“I already have training,” you tell him.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he says.  “Tomorrow morning.”

You consider this.  “Fine.  Do I sleep here tonight or in my room?”

He gives it a moment’s thought.  “Yours.”

You’ve been sleeping with him the past four nights; you suppose it had to end eventually.  You’re surprised at how easy it was to fall asleep next to him even with the early mornings.

“Now?” you ask, trying to keep the conversation as business-like as possible.  It’s just easier that way; to shut off any impression that you want intimacy from him that he simply can’t provide.  You’re pretty sure it’s impossible for him.

He looks over at you, considering.  “In a few minutes,” he decides.  “I’m not sure if I want to go again tonight or not.”

As it turns out, he doesn’t, but that doesn’t stop him from glancing over at you a few times, his eyes-half-lidded as his gaze goes up and down the length of your body.  When you meet his gaze he looks back at you as if to say, What?  Am I not allowed to look at my own wife?

He finally tells you what hour he wants you up.  “Get a good night’s rest,” he adds.  “You’ll need it.”

He sits up to watch you as you rise from bed, padding naked over to his dresser.  He stares unapologetically at your form as you get dressed and leave for your quarters.  Construction for the door connecting your bathroom to his is almost complete, and soon you won’t need to leave your quarters to meet him in his.

********

Idrisa wakes you up early.

“My apologies, my Lady, but the Na-Baron wants you to meet him in the Training Halls before breakfast,” she says, holding a pair of flat boots and a couple of other garments in her arms.  “He has this for you to wear,” she adds, setting the boots on the floor and everything else on the dresser.  “Your coffee is on the desk.  He’s given you half an hour to get ready and wants you to bring your dagger.”

You blink, trying to take in what she’s saying before rubbing the heel of your palm against your eyelid.  Right.  The training.

“Would you like any assistance, or would you like me to wait by the door?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” you say, wondering for a moment if Feyd-Rautha was preparing you to get up this early for the past few days knowing that you’d be training with him.

Probably not.  I think he just wanted to fuck in the mornings too .

You sip your coffee before plaiting your hair and taking a look at the clothes your new husband wants you to wear.

It's a practical training outfit; you're pretty sure that Geidi Prime doesn't make training clothes for women, and that he had this commissioned for you given that it fits better, especially in the hips, than you expected.  Women on Geidi Prime don’t serve in combat, much like your own planet and if there’s any formal training for women you haven’t heard about it yet.

You manage to make it to the Training Halls in time but still not feeling fully awake.

Feyd-Rautha senses you from the moment you enter, even at the farthest end of the room.  It occurs to you that you haven’t seen him in something as innocuous as training gear yet; simple trousers and boots, a fitted but breathable black shirt that stretches across his chest and shoulders, a holster strapped to his thigh.  If it weren’t for his bearing he could almost blend into his surroundings.

“Good morning, Na-Baron,” you tell him with a polite incline of your head, figuring that his most formal title would be best to address him in front of the very men he’s meant to lead.  You imagine that you make an unusual match for him as it is given how unambiguously foreign you are.

“Good, you’re here,” he says.  His tone is casual, light; in front of his men, you may as well be an acquaintance.  “We have a lot to cover, but today my main agenda today is to see your skill level as it is now.  When we first met you said you were out of practice.  How long has it been since you’ve sparred?”

You try to think.  “It’s been about eight months since I’ve done anything,” you admit.  

“And when did you start?” he asks.

“Age fifteen,” you tell him.

“And how often would you train?” he asks.

“About an hour, two or three times a week,” you tell him.

He looks both unsurprised and unimpressed with this new information.  Instead he takes a small, black device from the waistband of his pants and holds it up.  “Have you used one of these before?”  You immediately recognize it as a shield activator.

“I have, Na-Baron,” you tell him.  “During fighting lessons.”        

“Good.  You’ll be using one for all of our sessions, just in case.” He hands it over to you to clip onto your own waistband before he signals to another man who’s slight of build and several inches shorter than him.  The man strides over to you and lowers his head in deference.

“Na-Baroness,” he says.

“This is Korvo,” Feyd-Rautha says.  “He’ll make a suitable opponent,” he says, looking you both over as if to confirm that the two of you are in a similar enough weight class.  “Which are you more familiar with?  Knife or dagger?”

“I would say the dagger,” you tell him.  

“Then I’ll start you off with the knife,” he says.  “Start with mid-range fighting and work from there.”

“Alright,” you say, looking over at Korvo, who finally raises his head to look you in the eye.  They’re dark brown; there’s a scar along where one of his eyebrows would be.  His expression is entirely neutral; if he has a single opinion about you, you’d have no idea.  It’s been a week since the wedding and you still don’t know how any of Harkonnen's subjects feel about you.

Feyd-Rautha pulls a knife from one of many lining the walls and hands it over.

“Thank you,” you say softly, taking the handle.  He releases it immediately, watching you adjust it in your hand.

“How’s the grip?” he prompts.

“Fine, thank you,” you tell him, glancing over at him before he steps back to a safe distance, and turning your attention back to your opponent as you turn on your shields and settle into position.  Korvo does the same, staying still until you both hear Feyd-Rautha’s voice give the simple command, “ Go. ”

You circle each other, and you try to remember your footwork, trying not to cross one leg in front of the other, keeping your stance guarded.

Korvo waits, letting you get nervous as you keep expecting him to make the first move.  He makes no offense until you finally think, Oh, get on with it, and lunge first.

For a minute Korvo seems to let you get reacquainted with the practice; one of you strikes, the other blocks, still circling each other.  You remember to play to your strengths, which you’ve been told is your form and your flexibility.

So far so good, you think as you block a blow to your shoulder.  Then he sweeps his leg, nearly tripping you, and you realize that you haven’t been paying enough attention to his footwork, too preoccupied with his upper body.  You startle and recover, regaining your balance just in time for him to swipe, and he’s closer than you realized.  When did he get this close?

Too fast! you think, gasping as you try to lean back, as Korvo’s knife swipes just under your breasts, your ribcage protected only by your shield that reverberates with the resistance so hard that your teeth chatter.

“One,” Feyd-Rautha says.  He sounds like he’s moving to get a better view as you and Korvo progress.  You try to tune him out, inhaling sharply, before finding an opening at your opponent’s left side and lunging.

You’re proud of yourself for about two seconds in which your knife meets Korvo’s shield, even as the humming of it reverberates in your bones.  Korvo counters with a knock of his forearm against yours with a force that knocks you off balance again before you realize that he’d been holding back.  There’s a mechanical coldness in his eyes as he moves.  You can only counter and have no time to lunge or attack, just trying to keep up with the barrage of swipes as he gains on you, forcing you back, before he lunges.

You stumble and trip, falling flat on your ass and in the blink of an eye Korvo’s on top of you, his blade at your heart, and you scream.

Were it not for your shield you’d be dead , you think as you stare, panting and wide-eyed up at the man who’s far more lethal than his appearance would suggest.

He immediately withdraws the knife.  “Na-Baroness,” he says, tone apologetic, as he offers you a hand to guide you up.  You’re just glad you fell on the flesh of your backside and not your tailbone.  You hadn’t realized it was happening, too caught up in your work with Korvo, but people are watching you.

Of course people are watching; you’re new, you’re unfamiliar, and you’re the future Baroness.  You sense their gazes on you but you ignore the embarrassed flush and turn to look over at Feyd-Rautha.  It’s been a while since you’ve practiced this, and longer still since you felt so out of your depth.  

He considers you, head tilted, arms crossed, as he looks between you and Korvo.  Finally he speaks, stepping in closer to you both.  “Alright, you have some decent baseline form and technique but you still need to reacquaint yourself, especially with speed and footwork.  Korvo will continue to train you.

“Speaking of which,” he turns and immediately punches the man hard in the stomach and as the man drops, raises a knee to spike him in the jaw.  You recoil at the sickening crunch.

“For scaring my wife,” he explains to the man now crumpled on the floor.

“ Was that necessary? ” you demand, voice cracking.

“He’ll be fine,” Feyd says.  “We have Healers for anything broken, and I can help you with the rest of our session today.  I’ll test out your skills with that cute little letter-opener you keep hidden in your boot.”  He grabs another shield activator from a nearby table and clips it on.  

Out of the corner of your eye you notice Korvo slowly getting up and spitting a small wad of blood onto the floor before shuffling to his feet.  An attendant quickly comes to his aid and escorts him from the Halls.  You look down, not wanting to see whatever Feyd-Rautha may have done to his mouth or jaw.

“Now I’m going to want to get an idea of where you stand with the dagger,” Feyd-Rautha says, getting your attention again, holding out his hand for you to hand over the knife, which, once he has back, he hands over to another attendant to set amongst the others.

“Let’s see it,” he says when he turns, nodding at your boot.

You haven’t pulled it out of its holster since your last lesson eight months ago.  You’ve been carrying it around with you more as a good-luck charm rather than a weapon since then.  You pull up your pant-leg to unclip it and draw it out.  It’s a very pretty blade, if you do say so yourself.  The handle was made with a woman’s sensibilities in mind.  Feyd-Rautha waits for you to unclip it from its holster and tilts his head when he sees it.

“Ornamental,” he says.

“Still functional,” you tell him as you hand it over and watch him twirl it in his hand and examine the blade.  It was designed specifically for you, so it’s almost baffling how deftly his larger fingers twirl it with such ease.  He looks at it as if it shares deeply guarded secrets about you before looking back at you.

"The dagger's close range," he says, as if you didn't already know.  “What were you taught about evasion and disarming techniques?” 

“In the event of an ambush, don't rely on brute strength, don't hesitate, and don't bother trying to fight honorably.  It’s not a duel; they're not looking for a fair fight, either.”

“Good.  Let’s start with disarming techniques,” he says.  “In case you’re caught unarmed or unable to reach your weapon.”

The first exercise is easier; it’s one of the first things you’ve ever learned, the way to grab his wrist and pinch the flesh of his palm.  This is familiar, and you ease back into the confidence you’d had earlier.  After a few goes of it, Feyd-Rautha watching your form, decides to move on–you have no doubt that he’ll come back to this, go faster, go meaner.  This all seems to be a diagnostic, something he can use to gauge your potential.

“Alright, you get the concept,” he says.  “Let’s move on to disarming an opponent who’s behind you.”

Fine .  You assume nothing will phase you quite as much as sparring with Korvo earlier as you get back into a neutral stance, waiting for the tell-tale signs of moving feet, but instead you feel the long, chiseled lines of your husband’s chest and stomach against your back, his free arm wrapped around your ribcage, and your own dagger at your neck.  Or rather, you feel the hum of both of your shields vibrate at the contact.

Oh.   This kind of close range .  You inhale sharply.  You don’t need to see Feyd-Rautha’s face to see the unrestrained delight in his eyes.

“Nervous?” he asks.

Exposed .  Your pulse quickens.  He hasn’t done anything, he’s fully dressed.  His hand is on your ribcage, not your breasts or between your legs, but you feel like the two of you shouldn’t be doing this with other people around.  They have their own training to get through, of course, but they’re noticing.  Even as they keep their heads down and try not to stare, they’re paying attention.  They’re probably wondering how you take the Na-Baron's cock inside of you each night. 

The vibration of his shield merging with yours doesn’t help.

You take a breath and twist in his arms before he tightens his hold.

“Sloppy work,” he says.

You would argue in your defense that your previous instructors for this weren’t men who’ve been inside of you or licked your pussy until you screamed from the nerve-shattering pleasure of it.  It’s more distracting this way.

He starts the position again, his front against your back as he presses the dagger just up against your shield, the hum of it so close to your throat it gives off an almost-purring sound.

Do you like being pressed up against me? you want to ask.

He answers before you get the chance.  “I changed my mind.  I’ll instruct your close range fighting personally.” 

You could laugh, but instead you simply reach behind you, grabbing his crotch and twisting hard–with the shield it won’t hurt him in the slightest, but you were told it was one of the most effective ways to disarm a male opponent.

He snorts and presses the tip of your dagger further against your neck.  “Should’ve known you’d go there, pet,” he murmurs in your ear.  “It’s not always a reliable technique.”

He’s aroused.  You can feel the outline of his cock straining against his trousers as it presses against you.

“Try again,” he says.

*********

Two hours later you’re worn out and beset with what you’re sure will become bruises.  So, all in all a very typical two hours with your groom.

You part ways so you can each shower, change, and reconvene for breakfast.

“Unless you’re actually sick or he’s elsewhere, my uncle wants you to attend breakfast and dinner with him as a sign of respect,” Feyd-Rautha tells you.  “But you’re free to do as you wish and go where you like during the day.”

That freedom would sound more appealing if you enjoyed going outside, but you still get short of breath easily every time you go out under that black sun, so that means more research, more time listening to language recordings, and more time re-learning everything you forgot plus everything you hadn’t realized you didn’t learn about self-defense.

But today you end up re-reading from books you brought from your old home and writing letters to each of your family members.  You write to them about learning basic battle language, about how your husband has recently taken the liberty of teaching you what he knows about self-defense to build on what you’ve already learned.  You ask them about the weather, about your friends, about how their lives have changed since you last saw them.  It feels far longer than a week.  You ask about the stars, about the natural light displays.  Your planet has a beautiful night sky.  You have to keep reminding yourself that you’ll see it again one day, even if it’s not as soon as you’d like.

Feyd-Rautha’s as polite and restrained towards you at dinner as he always is in his uncle’s presence.  During your meals together he seems detached, almost indifferent to you when you’re pretty sure he’s not.  He doesn’t show an ounce of warmth but always pulls your chair out for you and waits until you’re seated to sit down himself. 

You find that you prefer it; you don’t want the Baron to get so much of a glimpse of the carnality of your marriage and the way his nephew takes you apart with enthusiasm that’s almost frightening.  

The only indication that Feyd gives of his interest in you is when you’re both leaving the Dining Hall and he stops to mutter in your ear, “Tonight I’ll come to your chambers instead.”

You think about how he’d gotten hard during practice.  When you’re getting ready for the night’s rendezvous you wonder if he took care of it himself in the bathroom later that morning or if he decided to hold off until he could unleash his pent-up lust on you.

You get your answer when you’re in only your robe.

“Your husband, the Na-Baron,” Idrisa says, eyes downcast, as she opens the door for him.  He’s barefoot, in just a pair of trousers he quickly undoes, and it’s clear both that he’s already hard and that he’s wearing nothing underneath.  Your eyes widen.  

Idrisa’s still in the room! you want to snap at him.  She doesn’t want to see you like this!

Instead you watch as he steps out of his trousers and hands them off to Idrisa without a word or a look back at her.  She inclines her head, accepts the garment, and turns to neatly fold it and place it on top of the dresser.

“Thank you, Idrisa, you are relieved,” you tell her, and she inclines her head and leaves after a soft, ‘ Thank you, Na-Baroness .’  You drop your robe, standing beside the bed as he comes closer.  You look at each other for a moment.  He raises his browline at your wide eyes.

“Is this another test?” you ask finally.

“Just something new,” he says.  He glances towards the bed and back at you.  Go on, get in , he seems to say.

You keep your eyes on him as you slide into bed, sitting up with your hands braced behind you as you wait for him to follow, unsure what position he’ll want you in.

As it turns out, you’re exactly where he wants you.  You feel the dip of the mattress as he gets in, planting one knee in between your legs, then the other, before descending upon you.  He leans in and you lean back, letting your head hit the pillows as he braces himself above you and latches his mouth to your neck, nipping and sucking what you’re sure will be little pink and red marks that his men will notice tomorrow when you train.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for hours,” he says.  “I was nearly about to fuck you in the Training Halls during our session.”

“There were other people there,” you tell him.

“I could’ve told them to leave,” he says, in a tone that suggests he wouldn’t have cared either way.  “Next time I might.  And then I’ll pull down your pants and claim you on the floor.”

He doesn’t give you the chance to give you a rebuttal before he kisses you fiercely and you can’t help but respond in kind, as spent as you feel.  

You cry out, back arching at the first full thrust of him inside of you, and he smiles.

Oh yeah , he seems to think.  I’d make sure everyone can hear the noises I draw out of you .  He braces one arm beside your head, holds your hip with his free hand as he normally does at first when he’s taking you in this position.  He watches your face, your breasts and the movement of them as he rocks into you, his mouth open as he slides his hand from his hip to the small of your back.  And then he sits up on his haunches, taking you with him.  You gasp, a high-pitched moan spilling out of you at the change of angles.  You scramble to get your knees under you in time as he continues thrusting upwards, one arm around your back and his other hand still clutching your hip.

“Ah!” you manage, sliding down onto him.  It’s the most leverage you’ve gotten with him, making you gasp and whine as you hold onto him; it’s the most he’s really let you move and it comes instinctively.  He lets you take over the rhythm that he started as you roll your hips on top of him and clutch at his back.  

In a sense it feels almost like you’re the one fucking him, him rocking up to meet your movements and his hands on your hips encouraging you.  The heat grows faster this way, with the angle and the friction and the way he eases up and follows your pace, his harsh breath against your ear as you keep thinking about how you want to kiss him but your gasps and moans against the open air are too much for you to collect yourself enough for that.  The desperate noises that he pulls out of you, that you pull out of yourself, spill from you without thought, louder than his own grunts and growls.  You just keep moving, faster and harder, your nipples stiff and your entire body flushed as your body chases after your release.

I’m close.  I’m so close , you want to tell him if only you could speak.  Instead you find a spot at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and lean down to bite down as you keep grinding down on him.  That’s the moment that does it for him, and you gasp, rocking down onto him one last time as he comes within you.  Your hips jerk and stutter as you feel him painting your insides and remove your mouth from his neck with a sloppy lick and try to find your bearings.  You’re still on top of him, he’s still inside of you, you’re both panting and you wonder if he feels as close to delirious as you do.  You’re still hot, still pulsing, and give a closed-mouth whine as you squirm on top of him.  C’mon, please , you want to tell him.  I was almost there .

He presses his forehead against yours, panting against your mouth, before with a snarl he grabs your hips to hold you still and brings his thumb down to where you’re joined.  It takes only a few passes, especially when he brings his mouth just under your ear.

You come around him, shutting your eyes around the intensity and digging your nails into his shoulders; you’re starting to grow them longer for this very purpose.

He holds onto you, his forehead resting against your shoulder.  He stays inside of you as he wraps one arm around your back, uses his free hand to clutch your hip as you readjust for the second time and he lowers you back down on the bed. 

You assume that once you hit the mattress again that he’ll pull out and pull away but he doesn’t; he pulls his hand out from under you but otherwise stays where he is, buried inside of you and draping over you to rest his head against your sweat-damp collarbone.  It’s like he’s sinking into you, laying on you, still inside of you even as he’s going soft.  It feels oddly nice.  Like he’s finding a home within you.  As if the two of you are actually coupled by choice rather than mandate.  Even the weight of him on top of you feels somehow reassuring.

You absently stroke his back and wonder what he’d look like with hair.  What color would it be?  What texture?  He has long eyelashes, but there’s little else to go off of.

“Is my hair going to fall out?” you wonder aloud after a moment.  It’s a reasonable question to have; none of your body hair has grown in again, not even a hint of stubble.  

Feyd-Rautha pauses and raises himself up on one forearm to look at you properly, perhaps trying to figure out if there’s an implied insult in your question.  

“I just wonder how all of that works here,” you tell him. 

“You can’t lose something that never grows in the first place,” he says.  “People born on Geidi Prime never grow any as long as they’re living here.”

You frown as you run your fingertips along the back of his head.  “But you weren’t born on Geidi Prime, either.  I looked it up; you were born on Lankiveil.” 

“When I came here I was ordered to have everything shaved off,” he says.  “None of it ever grew back.”

You consider this, enjoying the tenderness he’s letting you show him for now.  “Is that why you have eyelashes?” you ask, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.  There’s the faint memory of freckles on his cheeks; it makes you wonder what his pigment would be on a planet with a proper sun.

“Yes.  He didn’t think removing them was necessary,” he says, not needing to specify who ‘he’ is, and his tone is clear: I don’t want to talk about my uncle while I’m still inside of you .

Fair enough.  He sinks back down, content to forget the entire conversation, and you drop it, but because this is the first time since you’ve met that you truly feel comfortable with him, you keep talking.

“What was it like on Lankiveil?” you ask him.

He gives an irritated huff.  “Why,” he says.

“Just curious,” you say.  “The climate sounds a lot like my planet.  I grew up surrounded by water, too.”

He sighs, his chest expanding.  “Then there’s not much to tell you, now is there,” he says again, voice flat.  After a moment, “Even if you were blind and deaf you could smell that you were on an ocean planet just from the salty air.  It was cold, damp, dark.”

“ Hmmm .”  There are so many questions you want to ask.  Did you like it, though? What did you like about it?  Have you ever missed it?  Were you happy back then?  Did you love the family you’ve lost?  Have you ever tried going back?  You won’t ask them, not anytime soon and potentially not ever.  “It’s not a smell you ever think you’ll miss,” you say instead, both hands absently stroking his back and shoulders in no particular pattern.

“Didn’t say I missed it,” Feyd says immediately.

“I do, though.”   You already miss the sounds of the ocean crashing against the rocks and stormy sunsets over the rolling tide.  Geidi Prime has nothing.  It’s a wasteland devoid of life, devoid of seasons.  You try not to think about that, and instead the new information Feyd-Rautha’s given you.

Your children will be hairless .  You’d implicitly assumed, but it paints a more vivid picture of what to expect.

“You miss home already?” he asks.

Of course I do.  Geidi Prime's atmosphere is overwhelming and you're far away from your family.  Idrisa’s the only friend you've made and she's obligated to spend time with you.  Of course I'd rather be home than here.

But you're not about to tell him that right now, not while you’re the closest thing to content that you’ve felt since you landed.  “It’s just what I’m familiar with,” you tell him.  “I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

He finally slides out of you as he raises his head again, and you can’t place his expression, but you’re struck with a thought as you bring one hand to his face.

I really want to kiss you right now.

You almost do, and maybe he can see it in your face.  You’re not sure how you’re looking at him but he blinks, looking at first your eyes and then your lips, and before you can lean up he gets up, slides out of bed, and pads over to your bathroom.  You turn to your side to watch him go, to see his shoulders taper down to a narrow waist, the slope of his ass, and those long legs and how even when soft his cock hangs between them.  Tomorrow construction will be complete and your quarters will be connected to his.

Given his abrupt departure to the bathroom, when he returns you expect him to pull on his trousers and leave, but instead he slides back into bed alongside you without a word.

He settles for a moment, turning to face you.  He seems thoughtful for a moment.

“Even with the protections you have, it would reflect poorly on me and the Fortress if we had you training while you’re showing, if you’re not pregnant already,” he says.

“I’m no Bene Gesserit,” you tell him.  “I can’t tell if I’m pregnant yet, can’t control or predict the sex of the baby–”

“I wouldn’t want a Bene Gesserit wife,” he says.  “I can barely tolerate them as is.  That’s not the point.  We train you as well as we can for the limited time you have.

“But while we're talking about the Bene Gesserit, they will be visiting in three weeks for my birthday.  They'll be able to sniff out right away if you're pregnant or not.”

“Given the rate that we’ve been going, that won’t be an issue,” you tell him.

He looks down at your stomach, as if picturing how soon it’s going to swell with his progeny.  “Training to be a warrior starts early,” he says.  “I was seven when I began and that was later than normal, so I had to work harder than the others to make up for lost time.

“This is not an easy planet to grow up on, so the training is necessary.  Especially with Arrakis.  We’ve been in conflict for decades and it’s only gotten more severe.”

“Spice production isn’t your only means of industry,” you tell him.  What Geidi Prime lacks in vegetation it makes up for in fuel and minerals that get heavily mined.

“Maybe not, but it’s our most lucrative, and until we find a different planet with as much spice as Arrakis, we won’t end our occupation there.  In any case, we need to remind the Fremen of our might.  I want to build my troops to be the most powerful in the universe.  That’s what our children are meant to inherit.  That’s what I want to lead and for our son to take over after I’m gone.”

After I’m gone .  

 Within ten minutes he takes you again, against your headboard as he holds you up, hands under your ass and your legs wrapped around his hips.  He mounts you like you’re an animal he killed for sport and hung up on his wall as he murmurs something in Harkonnen battle language against your neck and all you can make out are my woman and something about his semen.  He controls the pace this time, fucking you up the length of the headboard as you hold onto him, moaning and panting.

Afterwards you lay side by side, and you look over at him as he starts to doze off, one arm across his ribcage, the other behind his head, one leg bent at the side.  His lashes flutter closed.  He looks peaceful.  He'd be blond, you realize.  His lashes are fair so his hair would be some shade of blond.  Or rather, he was blond, once.

Perhaps he’d be too beautiful with hair and a normal mouth, you think.  Maybe the strange appearance is another layer of armor.  The teeth certainly are; he must dye them with some kind of charcoal.  

“What,” he says again, his tone annoyed even as he doesn’t open his eyes.

“Nothing,” you say simply, and turn away.  When you’ve slept together it’s been with his chest against your back.  Neither of you have discussed it, but you both seem to prefer it.

As you drift off you picture a version of him with more pigmentation; sun-kissed skin sprinkled with more freckles; wavy blond hair and tawny eyebrows, a white-toothed smile.  A version of him almost too pretty to look at, in a life he was never going to have.

**********

You wake up as the early morning trickles in a sickly gray from the window.

Feyd’s turned away from you at some point during the night and it registers as odd, not having the already-familiar sensation of the warmth of his body against your back and his cock nestled against you.  You blink, turning around, and seeing that his back is turned towards you.  For some reason his scars look worse in the morning light.  Your pink little scratches and bite-marks will fade soon and be replaced by others; the lash-marks will probably never go away.

You reach out, fingertips skimming his back.  The unmarred skin is so soft, stretched over the sinewy muscle, that the raised skin of his scars feels like a road map of what he’s quick to endure.  You wonder about the scars along his inner thighs, if he’d let you touch them.  You think about how you’d like to, how you’d like to explore more of his body as you trail your fingertips along the deepest and ugliest of his lesions.

No sooner do you think that then you can sense Feyd waking and turning to face you in an instant.  It takes you by shock, barely able to comprehend what’s happening, as he grabs your wrist in a vice.

His pale eyes look silver; his nostrils flare, his jaw clenched.  For a moment it’s like he doesn’t see you.

You want to pull back but he holds onto your wrist–for a moment you worry that he’ll squeeze tighter and shatter the delicate bones.  The two of you stare, caught in silence.  Then he blinks and seems to take in the fear and confusion in your eyes, and whatever he saw wasn’t you, not with the recognition sinking in.  He releases your wrist, looks away, and rolls in the opposite direction of you.

“What are you–?” you start, stunned.  You feel utter whiplash from the difference a few seconds could make, unsure exactly what you did.

He gets up without a word.  He doesn’t look back at you as he pulls on his trousers. 

“What did I do?” you ask him.

He pauses, starts to look back, and turns his head back to the door and leaves.  You stare after the door once he’s shut it behind him, wondering what happened.

You don’t go back to sleep.  You lay in bed for the hours it takes for light to more prominently trickle in.

Not that he said it out loud, but you think you just got confirmation for how he got those scars.

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