#tw: implied/referenced incest

[secretly-a-catamount]

The grandfather clock down the stairs was just striking elven when the knock sounded on Peter’s bedroom door.

  It was a simple rhythm: three quick strikes of the knuckles on the wood, followed by the soft slap of a palm hitting the door.

  It was a simple rhythm, one Peter had carried with him in both his lives, born from the rules of some childhood game he could no longer remember the rules to.

  The sound rapped against his bones as it came again, echoing in the relative silence of his room.

  It was a sound he would know in death. It was a sound he had known in death, the taste of Lucy’s cordial branded on his tongue.

  Three knocks and a slap. A childhood game. Chasing each other in circles around their mother’s skirted-legs until they inevitable collapsed, as they always did, in a pile of limbs and laughter on the sun-warmed kitchen floor.

  There was only one person it could be. There was only one person Peter wanted it to be.

  (In every doorway, he wanted it to be her.

  It rarely ever was anymore.)

  “Susan,” he breathed as his sister brushed past him with a grace unbefitting of an English schoolgirl, “what are you doing here? I thought you were going out with that Smythe boy?” The one with red hair and freckles, the one Peter didn’t like, the one with the wolffish grin and a weak grip.

  (It hadn’t been Peter’s place to meet him on the the stoop, to take his hand in his, to make threats if so much as a hair on his sister’s head was slid out of her carefully done updo at the end of the night.

  It hadn’t been Peter’s place. 

  He’d done it anyway.)

  “I was.” Susan said, settling herself on the edge of his bed, smoothing non-existing wrinkles out of her skirt with bone-white hands they both pretended didn’t shake. “He got handsy.”

  “I’ll kill him.” The gun hidden his drawer, the fencing sword hanging at his hip, a kitchen knife, a loosened brick, even, there were many options, and Peter knew how to use all of them.

  Her lips — so, so red, so much like blood, so much like the wounds they gathered on battlefields a world away, the lipstick too bright to have ever been made by Narnian manufacturing — tilted up at the corners as a ghost of a smile flashed across Susan’s face. “There’s no need, I’ve already taken care of it.”

  “Is he dead?” They’d have to craft an alibi — a chess game, maybe? He’s been itching to play her a round or two or twelve.

  “Pete, do you take me for a fool? He’s not dead, he wouldn’t be useful if he was.”

  “A threat, than? For the others?” As much as he detested it, he knew there would be others. There had to be. A desperately needed illusion of normalcy, as Susan had said when she’s brought the idea of going out dancing with Randall Smythe up to Peter and the rest of their siblings.

  “Naturally.” It was a flippant, wry response, nothing he hadn’t heard from her lips before, but something about it was too much, too thick, as if she were a player trying to remind herself of her role now that she stepped out on stage in front of a brutally, unforgiving audience.

  She wore his jumper. An old, worn thing, that she practically swam in, the sleeves kissing the back of her hands no matter how many times she’d rolled the faded, grey wool up her arms.

  She wore his jumper, as she always did when she needed him close but he wasn’t allowed to be — because this was England, and here they were children, children who should turn to their parents when they have strife, not turn to each other, crumbling into their other until there was “we” and “us” but not that dreadful, useless word “I” — and Peter’s knees ached, a phantom reminder of when he’d knelt on a long-ago battlefield that had never happened to this young boy’s body that he now inhabited and swore undying fealty to Susan and their siblings, covered in the blood of their enemies, his crown and sword impossible weights to bare.

  He wondered what would happen if he killed this boy. This boy who had done nothing wrong but desire something he shouldn’t too fiercely.

  He wondered what he would do with his life — now that the sword at his side wasn’t Rhindon and the crown and the burden of High King that went along with it were nothing but memories.

  He wondered what Susan would do with hers — now that the life they had built for themselves was nothing but ashes in the wind.

  He wondered, and he wondered, and he wondered, but Peter knew: Susan wore his jumper, which meant that he had to go to her, as he always would.

  He guided the door shut behind him without looking.

  (They both pretended they didn’t see the other flinch when the lock clicked shut.)

  “Susan, Sue, Susie—“she shuttered as if she were cold, as if the Witch had once again wrapped her fingers around her throat”—what’s wrong? Tell me.” He moved to sit beside her on his bed, too close to be proper, too far away to give into what they needed.

  (Some days, the only thing he wanted to do was peel her skin off and sleep amongst her bones.

  She would let him, if he asked.

  He would not ask.

  Not this.

  Not of her.)

  “Peter.”

  “Susan.”

  They had the same eyes, Narnian water fringed by lashes the color of soot.

  “Lucy bled today,” Susan began, shoulders taught as piano wire, “and she went to her instead of me.”

[this-is-my-main-i-follow-from]

Ryan Guldemond: Being in a band is sort of like being in a polyamorous relationship except without all the sex

The crowd: Boo!

Molly Guldemond: *is his sister*

nevermind~

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

so...I have a new chapter of my Feyd-Rauta/Reader fanfic up and ready.

AO3 link: And I Don't Want Your Heart - Chapter 4 - ooihcnoiwlerh - Dune (2021) [Archive of Our Own]

I also have it below the cut. It does require some content warning/TW and is NSFW/not safe for minors.

CW: arranged marriage, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, dubious consent, implied/referenced self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced sexual abuse, implied/referenced incest, rough sex, blood and pain kinks, graphic depictions of violence

Chapter below the cut:

You wake up the next morning to the sound of the timepiece on your nightstand.

Idrisa had assumed correctly when she told you that just a half-tablet would help both with the pain and with getting to sleep later.  For half an hour afterwards, you sat in the bath, staring at the opposite wall and hoping the warm water would add to your relief.  Five minutes was all it took to start feeling better, your torn muscles relaxing, and half an hour to start feeling drowsy.

It took some effort, but you managed to get out, drain the tub, and clean your teeth before settling into bed, thinking about how this will be your nightly routine at least until you’re carrying his child.  Who knows?  You might be already. 

You’re sipping from the water still left on your nightstand when Idrisa comes in with a tray carrying a couple of mugs.  Over the past few days Idrisa’s learned that you like a bit of caffeine first thing in the morning but you’re not sure what the other mug’s for as she sets the tray down on the desk and hands you one.  You sniff at the contents; it smells savory.

“It’s bone broth for you, Na-Baroness,” she explains.  “I thought it might be nice.  It’s not medication but it has healing properties of its own.”

Bones of what, exactly? you think as you accept the mug.  “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?” she asks, trying to keep her tone light, avoiding the direct question.

“Sore,” you admit after taking your first sip, and it tastes quite nice.  “But what you gave me last night helped.”  You expected your womanhood to throb, but there’s also a persistent ache in your legs, your hips, the undefined muscles in your abdomen.

“You still have more for tonight,” she says, “just in case.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” you tell her.  She looks away before trying to figure out what she could possibly say to that.

“I can’t help you with that part,” is what she comes up with.  “But I can assist with almost everything else.”  She turns to your closets and rifles through, picking out a few items for you to choose from.  Over her shoulder she tells you, “You’ll be expected at breakfast in an hour.  It shouldn’t take too long to get you freshened up.”

One of the few things you quite like about the Harkonnen Fortress is the emphasis on good hygiene.  Of course, you have extra features to maintain that the rest of the Fortress doesn’t, but you brought the supplies and ointments needed for that and you know where to have more imported when you run out.

When it comes time to dress you decide on a combination of your own clothing and Harkonnen that doesn’t clash. A bit of a symbolic union of the Houses.  You can’t help but think that people will have certain ideas of you today as a newly married woman who had, as clear as day to everyone, fulfilled all the marital duties expected of her last night.  Your walk isn’t quite as stiff as last night, though, and if you just walk a little slower then your discomfort won’t seem obvious to anyone not looking for it.

Of course, everyone at breakfast will be looking for it; your family out of concern, your new husband and in-laws presumably out of amusement.  It’s all you can really think about as you leave your chambers and descend for the Dining Hall.  That and the look on your new husband’s face as he’ll undoubtedly want to assess the damage.

You manage a smile as Idrisa announces your entrance.  There’s an open seat next to Feyd-Rautha that’s clearly meant for you and you take into account that your family has only just arrived and everyone’s watching you.  Everyone but the Baron stands in respect as you keep your polite smile, the one that projects that nothing could bother you, and you greet the table.

To his credit, Feyd still displays the kind of chivalry your father would expect when in his presence.  He stays standing when everyone else sits down so he can pull your seat out for you.  The kindness of the gesture’s somewhat undermined by the look in his eye, gauging every movement, every minute detail, and it makes you feel naked again under his shark-like gaze.  

You don’t look him in the eye as you sit down, nor when he pushes your chair in and takes his seat beside you, nor when you quietly thank him.  You know he’s still watching you, wondering how effectively he’s broken you in already, like a pair of combat boots.

The table is laid with everything you could need as far as drinks, but as a courtesy it’s not until you sit down that food arrives, delivered on massive platters by slave girls in billowy white garb and whose biceps strain under the weight of each tray. You’re sure that the Baron’s patience is a pretense that he’s upholding to appear polite towards your family, not one that will continue after breakfast, especially when you see his enthusiasm when he digs in with the appetite of multiple men.  

The food itself takes up most of his attention, but he does discuss trade routes with your father, who seems subdued and withdrawn.  Father maintains his end of the conversation but doesn’t offer more and barely touches his food–the latter you can assume is because he’s put off by seeing the Baron eat, and you don’t blame him.  Even with the bone broth from earlier you’re pretty sure you’d have more of an appetite if you didn’t have to sit close to someone who inhales nearly half of a spread meant for eight people.

You break away from that thought when Feyd-Rautha says, “Oh, so you don’t need to head back to Arrakis so soon,” and you follow his gaze to the entranceway.

Rabban trudges in, nose heavily bruised and in a splint.  He nods in acknowledgement to your family, offering a brief salutation before taking his seat.  He doesn’t respond to his brother, but quickly accepts a small glass of what you can only assume is whatever he was drinking last night.  He pours it into a mug that he tops with coffee.

“I leave in the afternoon,” he says, addressing his uncle instead.  “The spice is abundant.”

As they briefly discuss spice production on Arrakis, you shift in your seat.  Sitting down, you’d quickly realized, is also uncomfortable, and you’re glad for your brother-in-law’s entrance causing a diversion.

It doesn’t last long, though.  The Baron says, “It’s lovely that we get to reconvene again after such a fruitful wedding.”

Fruitful .  You can’t help your blush and you’re sure everyone notices.  You wonder if they’re all thinking the same thing and as the meal stretches on, the longer the worry of it eats at you.

It all goes understood, and for you it’s excruciatingly awkward, and everyone senses it, but no one mentions it.  Rabban certainly wants to; you can feel it whenever he sneaks glances at you, and you’re certain it’s on the tip of his tongue as he looks at you.  You don’t think he’s really lusting after you, though.  He just happens to covet his sibling’s shiny new toy.  It’s more than a little immature, given that he has nearly twenty years on Feyd-Rautha, and had come of age by the time his brother was born, but you think you can understand.  You may love your siblings and they may love you too, but that’s not how the Harkonnens work.  For them, siblings are a safety measure just in case the first one dies.  They’re taught to fight one another for the approval of their parents–or in this case, their uncle–and are stripped of any sentimentality lest they become weak.

Oh, Great Mother.  What does that mean when you do finally have a child?  You’ll likely be expected to have more than one even if one is all you need to appease the Bene Gesserit.

You take a sip of water and avoid Rabban’s gaze.  He probably would’ve been amused to see how slowly and gingerly you were walking earlier, maybe he would’ve bit down on a cutting remark on how you’d be a lot sorer if he’d been your groom.

Oh, Rabban definitely wants to taunt you over what you all know transpired last night, but he won’t.  He can sense the power shifting within the family and if he wasn’t aware that his younger brother was their uncle’s favorite before, he certainly knows now and knows why.  He probably just wants to go back to Arrakis where he has unquestioned power.

The Baron is once again the one who actually comes close to mentioning it.  “With such a distinct change in environment I’m sure you’ll want to relax, especially once you’re with child,” he says.  “We have an excellent system for that, some well-trained attendants as well who can provide things like massage, special baths.  We can keep you comfortable.”

After last night, the concept seems nice, but you’ll go out of your mind with boredom if that’s all you have to look forward to.  You want to know as much as possible about the planet you’re inhabiting and the family you’ve married into, no matter how gruesome the details.  You doubt the Baron or your new husband probably had thought about that, and had just assumed you’d be content as a human incubator for the next nine months.

“That is a wonderful offer and one I’d be interested in another day, perhaps, but I was actually wondering where you kept your library?  Maybe a room of archives?” you ask.  “I’ve had some education about the history of the Harkonnen line and some of the infrastructure of Geidi Prime, but I’m interested in learning more.”

The Baron considers your interest in his people and his planet versus your dismissal of his original suggestion before saying, “We have a very fine library, young Y/N, and within it a room of records.  Your attendant will know where it is and can accompany you whenever you like.”

“I can take her, uncle,” Feyd-Rautha says immediately.  “I can give her a proper tour.”

I know you can take and give a lot with your new little pet , you can practically hear the Baron think.  

“If you prefer,” he says instead.  “We still need to discuss your birthday.  It’s only a few weeks away.”

Right.  Another gladiatorial “match.”  The one in which you’re to paint your new husband’s–-admittedly chiseled–-torso beforehand.

“We have time for that,” Feyd says.  “But I’d also like to show my bride the other parts of our Fortress, starting with the library.”  He manages to keep his tone casual, but you can tell his rebuttal irritates the Baron.  It’s almost comical, his surprise and annoyance that his nephew would want to spend any time with his wife other than the compulsory impregnation.

“Very well,” the Baron says.  “You can show her the library after our guests have left.”

They’re already packed up, as it turns out.  Worried about leaving you alone but eager to get back home, and perhaps ever so slightly assuaged by the fact that your new husband has some sense of decorum and that you seem intact.  Not your virginity, of course, but everything else.

You excuse yourself to use the bathrooms, a sort of salon with individual cubicles and sinks but a larger sitting area with vanities and larger mirrors.  You tilt your head at it, curious, because it implies that there are women of leisure on Geidi Prime, but there aren’t many that you’ve seen.  A single girl stands near the entrance and gives a small bow as you enter.

You also don’t expect to see your mother when you leave your cubicle and head for the sinks to wash your hands.

She stands in the middle of the room, looking like she wants badly to speak but not sure what to say.  You give her a small smile as you wash up.  The girl’s quick to hand you a towel and patient to wait until you’re done drying your hands before accepting it back without a word.

They truly have people for everything , you think, looking after her as she scurries back to her post and drops the towel in a hamper before you can so much as thank her.  You and your mother look back at each other.

“Father looks miserable,” you say, trying to keep your tone light.

“Your father has a hangover,” Mother says.  

“He didn’t seem drunk when I left,” you say, leaning one hand against the counter. 

“He wasn’t,” Mother says.  “He got drunk after you and your…husband…left for the evening.”

She doesn’t need to elaborate.  You open your mouth, exasperated, wishing you could explain how it feels to have everyone act as though you’ve been handed a death sentence that they put you up to.  She takes your hands without a word and nods towards the salon.

“How are you feeling, really?” she asks once you’ve acquiesced and you’re seated across from each other.

“All things considered, fine,” you tell her.  She doesn’t look convinced.  “Mother, I…” you try to articulate it.  “I can’t say that I’m happy about this arrangement, but I’m going to have to live with it for years to come.  If I act as though my life is over then it is.”

She looks down and runs her thumb over the top of your hand.  “I kept preparing you for something like this hoping it wouldn’t happen,” she says.

“Well then, you did exactly right,” you tell her with a small smile that feels fake but one that she returns, however briefly.  She sighs and looks down.  “I’m grateful that you’re worried, and trust me, I am, too.  But it would help more if you believed that I can survive this.”

Mother leans forward, eyes widening in hurt.  “Your father and I wouldn’t have let you near that man if we didn’t think you’d survive,” she says.  “The Bene Gesserit gave us their word that you will, and it’s the reason we’re here right now.”

You furrow your brow.  Mother hesitates, glancing at the girl in her gauzy white dress, who remains standing and silent, not acknowledging your conversation.  Mother needn’t worry; the Baron would never bother listening to a slave speak even if she had something to offer.  When the girl doesn’t indicate that she’s heard anything, Mother continues.

“When the Reverend Mother spoke to us, she assured us that as brutal as he is, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen won’t defy Bene Gesserit orders to make sure you’re safe to have and raise his child.  She also said that he has an ingrained sense of honor and loyalty to the Harkonnen line.  He’ll ensure your survival and your children’s survival.”  And even if survival is the best you can expect right now, you can still count on that.

....................................................

The Na-Baron accompanies you when you see your parents off; neither his uncle nor his brother does the same.  He offers you his arm and you could almost laugh at the formality of it, his entire behavior towards you when you’re both fully dressed juxtaposed against last night.  He can play the perfect gentleman all he likes, but you won’t forget how he pressed you onto your stomach and fucked you ruthlessly.  Still, you take his arm, appearing as his poised and docile new wife.  He offers his final respects to your father but otherwise stands back at a distance, watching in silence as you hug everyone one last time.  You wonder if he’s ever hugged anyone a day in his life.

He still stands, waiting, when they board their ship, when it takes off.  He watches you watch until their vessel is no more than a pinpoint in the sky before he approaches you, arm extended again.  “Shall we?” he asks.

You’re still trying to accept that it’ll be a long time before you see your family again, your correspondence with them likely to consist only of letters, and he’s probably waiting for you to speak when you have nothing to say to him.  He doesn’t understand what you’re feeling and you doubt he cares to try.  You just take his arm and he leads you to the Fortress library in silence.

“I hope you slept well,” he says finally.

“I did,” you tell him.  “Although Idrisa had to give me a mild sedative to do so.”

You glance over at him and think that another man would feel guilt over hurting his new bride, but of course you’re stuck–for now–with this one, who keeps his expression neutral but who you can already see in his eyes both that he’s satisfied that he caused you pain and that he doesn’t care what methods you used to relieve it.  At best, he’s indifferent to your pain given that you seem fine now.

“Good, because I’ll want you in my chambers tonight after dinner.  Same procedure as last night.  Your girl will collect you when it’s time.”

“Alright,” you say, and he waits for just a moment before you realize what he wants and add, “ husband .”

He glances sideways at you, as if to say, Good.  You’re learning.  Don’t get too confident, though.  What he says, though, as you reach a set of double doors, is, “Everything and everyone here is at your disposal.”  Just as you are at mine .

When he opens the doors and you get your first look, you can’t help but be impressed.  Your impression of Geidi Prime was that it was hardly a planet of scholars, but the library is immense.

Feyd-Rautha notes your surprise.  Not that he says anything, but you doubt he’s flattered by it.  A librarian’s quick to appear at your side, head bowed, and Feyd snaps his fingers in his direction before gesturing forward.  “Come with us,” he says, and gives a rudimentary tour of the layout, showing you the Archives room and different wings.  It’s even more expansive than you’d realized, and you’re grateful for it.  You’ve got your work cut out for you, you think as you see the impossibly high walls lined with shelves up to the vaulted ceilings.

How many of these have you read? you want to ask him but refrain as the tour ends.

“Make sure the Na-Baroness has everything she needs,” he says to the librarian.  He doesn’t look at him as he speaks, though.  He looks directly at you, then beckons you forward with a simple curl of his hand.  When you come forward he cups your cheek in that same hand, and his kiss is neither chaste nor passionate; it’s a simple statement that he’s claimed you.  He’s marking his territory.

“See you at dinner,” he says once he lets you go.

............................................

You know what you want to read up on first.

There’ve always been rumors about the depravity of the House of Harkonnen.  You’d heard a few of them regurgitated over the years.  Some of them, like cannibalism, you’re reasonably certain aren’t true, but there are others you can’t dismiss.

Father implied once that the Baron’s voracious appetite for food was the least repulsive of his desires.  You’d been too young at the time to understand what he was saying, nor were they for your ears as you’d been listening in, unnoticed, but you can’t help but think about Father’s disgusted tone, because you certainly know what he’d been implying now.  Not that a Harkonnen-sanctioned record is likely to provide such details in their own library, but it’s a possibility you’ll have to consider even as the thought turns your stomach. 

You start, though, with Feyd-Rautha.  It takes pulling out several books and bound sheaves from a couple of different sections to get started, but a worthy investigation once you’ve found a comfortable place to spread everything out and get to reading.

You hadn’t realized that he was born not on Geidi Prime, but on another planet, Lankiveil.  You had , however, heard about how his father, Abulurd Rabban, defected from the Harkonnen line and everything it represented, opting for a different sort of life on a distant planet with a Bene Gesserit woman who gave him two sons born eighteen years apart.  This leads you into reading about Lankiveil, how it’s cold and water-based like your own planet.  Its main source of industry is whaling, and it almost makes you laugh to picture Feyd in a raincoat on a dock.  It’s just so far-fetched, the idea that he almost had a life very different from this one.

Of course, that was never going to happen.  Rabban is infamous for one major act that changed all of their lives forever: as a younger man he killed their father for abandoning the bloodline and shaming the Harkonnen name.  For the crime of patricide, he earned the moniker “Beast,” which he wears with pride.  The Baron had already gotten his claws in his elder nephew by then, but Feyd-Rautha had still been a little boy.  You’re not entirely sure how much he even remembers his father.  You don’t know if they’re happy memories, or if he’d loved him.  It’s still hard to imagine him ever having a childhood, but not only did he have one, his early childhood had been free from the Baron, from Geidi Prime, from the expectations of the House of Harkonnen and with two parents who you’re sure must have loved him.

It's an irrefutable fact that he’d come to Geidi Prime at the age of seven.  And that is where rumor and fact intermingle.  Some have claimed that Feyd’s mother sent him away for what she thought was his own protection; after all, she had never been on Geidi Prime nor known her late husband’s family, so it wouldn’t have been unreasonable for her to assume that her son would be better off with his uncle.  Some believe she sent him away as punishment or for her own self-preservation, sensing danger in him at a young age and fearing what he’d grow up to become.  Others have insisted that the Baron had his youngest nephew taken away to ensure the possibility of another heir, having no sons of his own. 

You pause only part way through when Idrisa come in and suggests you take a break, maybe retire to your quarters and have something to eat and drink to tide you over before dinner.  Apparently no one will mind if you take whatever documents you choose back to your quarters.

“We are at the Na-Baroness’s disposal.  Whatever she desires,” the librarian assures you when you ask, his head inclined in a bow and his gaze downturned.  It’s still a foreign feeling, the way no one can bring themselves to look directly at you, their fear of you by pure association.  You clamp down on that discomfort as you thank him and return to your quarters with as many documents as you and Idrisa can carry between you.

As you reach your quarters and get settled in again, you wonder about Feyd-Rautha’s mother and the theories behind the Baron taking over as his guardian.  The first theory, you decide, is unlikely.  If she knew that her lover had defected and renounced his lineage, she would’ve known why.  He would’ve warned her about them, even if she’d never been and even if he hadn’t, the Bene Gesserit would have.  The second theory is entirely possible; you have no idea what Feyd was like as a young child.  You’d assume he was made rather than born, and that personality traits aren’t inherited, but perhaps the darkness was always there.  Perhaps she’d felt that he was doomed to be an extension of everything the Harkonnen represented.  Still not terribly likely, given his age, but possible.

What you can likely imagine, though, is the Baron simply plucking Feyd-Rautha from his home to collect and repurpose as his own.  He’s never been married nor produced any children and to simply claim one from a deceased family member, knowing no one could truly challenge him over it, would be an easy solution for that.  From what you already know about him, he probably wouldn’t even see it as kidnapping, just taking what rightfully belongs to him.

You’re aware that Feyd’s an orphan, but nothing as to why beyond Abulurd’s murder.  You find that there really isn’t enough to go on as far as his mother’s concerned other than her Bene Gesserit training and identity as Abulurd Rabban’s concubine, until you finally find the date and cause of death.

Feyd’s mother, according to the records, died when Feyd was fourteen.  She’d been murdered in her own home.  No one was caught, which means that the culprit’s been fiercely protected.  You’d be willing to bet real money that the Baron had someone kill her and take away the one motivation he’d have to return to Lankiveil.  It would line up with something else that you read; Feyd’s mother’s murder would have taken place shortly after Feyd-Rautha had attempted to assassinate his uncle.  It had been quickly thwarted and fourteen-year-old Feyd-Rautha had been punished severely but spared his life.

You can easily imagine the Baron killing the one family member left not connected to the Harkonnens so his young nephew would be so isolated that he’d have nowhere else to turn.

Are the lashes on his back part of the punishment he faced?  It would make them just over a decade old.  You’re still not sure about the scars on his inner thighs.  He likes pain; could they be self-inflicted?  Maybe done to him at his own request by a lover?  There’s an intimacy to them that you can only hope was done in an act of passion rather than a punishment administered by his uncle.

Although, and it makes you feel sick to think about, that option is also entirely possible.

If they were self-inflicted, or done for his own gratification, you wonder if he’ll one day ask you to draw a knife on him as well.  The more you think about it, the more you realize that you’d be willing to; certainly rather him than you.

“Idrisa,” you start, looking up as she enters the room carrying what looks like a pair of black dresses.  “How much do you know about the time Feyd-Rautha tried to assassinate his uncle when he was a boy?”  She hesitates.  You wait.

“My apologies, my lady,” she says, looking down, “but I wasn’t in the Fortress then.  It was before my time.” Instead of elaborating further, she holds up the dresses, one in each hand to compare. “The Baron wants you to dress in the traditional Harkonnen style for dinner this evening.  Which of these would you prefer?”

You glance between the two.  Both long, both structured, but one with paneling and a more elaborate bodice that looks like it would take more time to actually get in and out of.  “That one,” you say, pointing to it.  If Idrisa knows your logic behind your choice, she doesn’t bring it up.  She just waits for you to put your documents away and after you’ve taken to the bathroom to freshen up, helps you get ready.

When you arrive for dinner, you’re almost the image of a Harkonnen lady, the only traits betraying you being your hair and eyebrows.  As expected, the Baron is already eating and while neither he nor Feyd-Rautha stand for you when you enter, your groom does stand to pull your chair out once more as you reach the table.  It’s a simple formality, you assume, to hold up the pretense that this is a normal marriage and as something he can easily take away.

“What did you think of our library?” the Baron asks when you sit down, accepting only one answer.

“Truly impressive, Baron,” you tell him.  “A testament to the House’s power and resilience.”

If you were worried what he would think about you wanting to look into his bloodline and history, those worries were unfounded.  After the exchange he barely acknowledges you the entire meal.  He and Feyd-Rautha, however, discuss the arena and new spice routes.  You quietly take everything in and watch them interact.

The Baron switches between backhanded compliments, mean-spirited little quips, and the occasional genuine compliment for his nephew.  He oscillates between seeming to respect him as a man fit to ascend the throne and still undermining him as hardly more than a child out of his depth handling any conflict.  Feyd’s frustration remains quiet, just beneath the surface, but palpable.  He seems to know that the Baron’s toying with him, testing him constantly, wondering which new way he flatter him only to put him down again. 

It’s also immediately clear that Feyd doesn’t like that you’re seeing him like this, that once again as soon as he’s gotten what he’s wanted he’ll abruptly send you away.  Whatever control his uncle takes from him he can always claim from you. 

He tried to kill him once, when he was much younger and weaker than he is now.  What changed?  Does he still think about killing him now that he’s entering the very prime of his life?

You’ve long since finished eating by the time you realize that the men at the table have probably forgotten that you’re even there, so you clear your throat to get their attention.

“My apologies, but may I go to my chambers to prepare for the evening?” you ask, voice light.

You wait.  Feyd-Rautha turns and gives you a small nod.  “I won’t be too much longer,” he says, exchanging a cold look with his uncle.  You don’t want to think about what they say about you when you’re not around, or what kind of innuendo the Baron will leave.

..........................................

The second time of what you’re sure will become a nightly routine is a little less nerve-wracking, but not one that you’re looking forward to.

When you’re stripped down in his bedroom again you choose the same position, even as you feel like a completely different person than you were just one day ago.  There’s no fear this time, just resignation.  You’re not sure if it’s going to hurt again but it also doesn’t matter, won’t change anything.

He comes out of his bathroom in the same manner as last night, naked and only partially erect.  The sight may not scare you anymore, but you still, unfortunately, find his body nice to look at.  You’re getting used to everything else, as well.  The black teeth and gums nearly made you flinch the first time; now you’ve accepted it as the only mouth you’ll kiss from now on.

He approaches the bed.  “Lay back,” he says as he starts to climb into it with you.  “Spread your legs.  I want to check something.”

You blush, thinking, Can’t we just get this over with? as you comply and take a breath to calm yourself, staring at the ceiling to avoid looking directly at him.  You try to tamp down the embarrassment at how exposed you feel.

He inspects the damage, his fingertips pressing against your swollen folds and eyes darting back up to your face at your sharp inhale.  He gives your privates a more thorough pass-through than you were willing to give yourself last night.  You blink, concerned, as he takes his hand and spits on his fingers.

Why would you? --you think for only a split second before he brings his fingers back down to your torn and stretched womanhood, circling your bud in lazy circles and keeping his thumb there before dipping a finger inside of you.

You instinctively clench around the digit even as it doesn’t actually hurt.  “Relax,” he says, as if that’s something you can easily do in your situation.  His thumb continues working your bud as he curls his finger inside of you, pressing forward, and you see his brief smirk as you whine, taken aback by the jolt it provides.  He does it again, slipping in a second, and the stretch doesn’t burn quite as much, doesn’t pinch so much as it tugs.  You glance between his legs to see that he’s filling out the rest of the way from the sights and sounds of you skewered on his fingers.  That in itself makes you gasp and flush at the idea that this, warming you up and seeing you aroused, gets him going.  In many ways this preparation is just as much for him as it is for you.  

Just as last time, you sense when he decides, Alright, you’re ready .

He has enough decency to pause when he’s pressed all the way inside of you, because he still feels massive, and like there’s not enough of you to accommodate him, as though your insides need to rearrange themselves for this intrusion.  

It doesn’t hurt as much as last night, you remind yourself.  You breathe through your nose as you tremble and hold onto him, gripping his shoulders and remembering how he likes the way you “get your little claws in.”  The rocking of his hips is steady and deep but not too rough, not yet.  You whimper and adjust your grip on him, managing to breathe, taking in the way he slides in and out of your bruised canal.  It’s okay.  It’s fine.  You’ll get through this .

As soon as he can sense that you’re adjusted he goes harder, faster, relishing the way your nails scratch down his back.  You raise your knees up to his ribcage and squeeze, trying to get some leverage in.

It’s no real use; he controls the pace, grips your hip with his free hand and seems to like when your whimpers and moans are laced with discomfort, wordlessly begging for him to please slow down, be gentler.  Even if he doesn’t force you onto all fours like last night, it still feels animalistic when he speeds up further, grunting against the flushed skin of your neck, keeping you locked in place around him until you feel him coming, shuddering as he fills you up.  

For a moment he raises himself up from his forearms to his hands, looking down at you with an expression he can’t place, before drawing a few errant strands of hair away from your face and pulling out.  You don’t look at him as he collapses onto his back beside you.  Somehow you feel even more used than before, more like a warm hole than a woman.

The two of you lay together in silence as you wait for the throbbing to subside.  It takes a couple of minutes, but when you start to feel better you sit up and slide your legs to the side of the bed.  You won’t wait to be dismissed.  You sense him turn his head to look at you but don’t acknowledge him.  You’ll head back to your chambers, soak in another lukewarm bath, and take the second half of the tablet from last night, even if you don’t need it as badly.  It’ll at least help you sleep. 

You get up and head for his dresser, reaching for your clothes when Feyd-Rautha’s voice stops you.

“Where are you going?” he asks.  “I didn’t tell you to leave.”

You turn and look at him, your eyebrows raised.  “You want me to stay?” you ask.

“I didn’t say I was finished with you yet,” he says.

You give his still-softened dick a pointed look.  “You look pretty finished off to me,” you tell him, and step into your slippers.

You realize you made a mistake as soon as you say it.  Feyd-Rautha’s up and at your back before you can finish pulling on your chemise.  He tears it off you, throws it to the floor and wraps an arm around your ribcage as he lowers his head to your ear.

“I won’t tolerate you questioning my own body or abilities,” he says.  “If I say I want another go, then I’ll have one.”

You squirm, and he turns you around, pinning you to the dresser as he grabs your hair and tightens.  You wince and try to push away from him, but he only grabs your wrist in his free hand and brings it down to the dresser.

“I won’t be disrespected in my own bedroom,” he says, and you force yourself to look him in the eye.  It’s the first time he’s seemed angry with you; the harsh angles of his narrow face more pronounced, his eyes pale and pupils blown out, his full lips the closest you’ve seen to a thin line.

Maybe it’s you he’s actually mad at, maybe not.  Either way, you’re the one he can take his frustrations out on.  

Play along, you tell yourself.  Even if he’s not going to kill you for insolence, he’ll find ways to make life worse for you .

“What do you want me to do?” you ask finally.  His face seems to relax slightly, and you realize when his chest moves again he’d been holding his breath.  After a moment he decides how he’ll punish you for your so-called disrespect.

“Kneel on the bed, hands braced on the headboard, with your legs spread.  Make sure to keep ‘em there,” he says.

You slowly step out of your slippers and turn, walking towards the bed.  The seconds that pass as you get into position are silent, agonizing.

You wait, and when you don’t sense him move any closer, turn your head to look at him.

He’s still staring, taking in his fill, before he strides forward and settles in behind you, one hand braced beside yours against the headboard, the other cupping your breast.

It doesn’t stay there, though.  After giving the soft flesh a squeeze for good measure he moves his hand upwards, around your throat.  Your first instinct is to freeze, wanting to move.  

He’s not going to kill you; he’s just trying to scare you, you tell yourself, and it’s working.  You try to breathe, calm your rapid heartbeat.  He can taste your fear; he revels in it.  He doesn’t squeeze but he deliberately leaves his thumb against your windpipe, his long fingers curled around your neck.

I won’t kill you but I easily can, he seems to say.  Unarmed and naked I could still kill you in brutal fashions you’ve never heard of.  And then he gently nuzzles against your hair, and the shift disarms you, makes you feel all the more helpless as you whine.

He releases your neck and you inhale, closing your eyes.  His hand trails back down, squeezing your other breast this time, down your stomach and to the apex of your thighs.   He idly strokes your bud, and it gives you a jolt despite your nerves.

“Who else has ever touched you here?” he asks.  It’s not a threat, but you could easily picture him killing anyone you name–it’s also not lost on you how fucked up that is.  Thankfully you can provide none.

“Just myself,” you tell him.  He huffs, as if to say, Yeah, I thought so , before taking one of your hands from the headboard and guiding it back in between your legs.

“Show me how you do it,” he says, his hand over yours.

You flush with embarrassment, but comply, bringing your fingertips to your bud and pressing down in a circling motion.

He gives a hmm , as you trail your fingertips to your slit, collecting the combination of his spent seed leaking out of you and your own growing wetness before bringing your digits back to your bud, has you whimpering at the slick of it.  He follows, hand tight over yours, learning your movements.  Despite your nerves it’s easier to get slicker, and to your horror you find yourself rocking your hips up against both his hand and yours.  You give a breathy whimper, unsure how your own body can betray you like this.  He finally tightens his grip on your hand and moves it to the headboard, leaving you in shock as he spits on his fingers and takes up where you’ve left off.  

He mimics your movements exactly, touches you the way you’ve touched yourself over the past few years, and yet it feels all the more exhilarating to have another hand there that you can’t help but gently move against his fingers, larger and so much longer than yours and yet so precise and deliberate.  

Before you realize it his cock, stiff again, slides against the cleft of your ass.  You gasp, wanting to turn around but he’s so close to you, chest against your back, and he grabs your hips to jut out further behind you, pulls you down his level, your thighs on top of his.

“Don’t move,” he tells you, withdrawing his hand from yours and settling back.  You can feel your body flush, your nipples stiff against the air, holding onto the headboard as you sense him grip himself in his fist and press against you.

It doesn’t hurt this time when he pushes in.  He can sense it in your moans, the way you’re wet and pliant for him, ready to take him however he comes to you.  You almost hate it, that he can do this to you.  That he probably could have from the beginning.  He rolls his hips up into you, the glide and pressure of it only on the verge of discomfort, but a welcome ache, a stretch inside of you.  

You reach a hand behind you, skimming along his flank, wanting to touch him, but he’s just out of reach and you drop your forehead against the headboard, your moans and whines spurring him on.  He grabs your hand and presses it back against the headboard before giving a deeper thrust into you, one that would’ve hurt yesterday but the push of it provides a delicious throb now.

The tension builds.  You can feel it like flames licking up your spine and belly, and he can hear it.  Your cries become increasingly desperate, your own hips rocking back down to meet his.  You hardly register that you’re doing it or why; your body takes over and makes the decisions for you.  He brings one hand to fondle your breasts again, one after the other, before bringing it down to your bud, and you can only imagine how smug he must be feeling that not only does he have you exactly where he wants you, that he’s making you enjoy it.

It finally feels good.   You’d almost assumed that it never would, but it does.  If anyone listened in, they’d hear the unambiguous pleasure in every noise you make and Great Mother, does Feyd-Rautha draw a lot of noises out of you.  

But then his hand comes back to your other hip, leaving you so close to the precipice and after several more thrusts he comes, grabbing your hips and pushing upwards with a harsh grunt against your hair.  He spears you onto him, pausing, rocking his hips up once more, and once he’s certain that he’s finished pulls out, grabs your jaw, and turns his face as much as he reasonably can to yours.

He sees your stunned expression, can feel that you’re still throbbing and in need of some sweet relief, and nods his head dismissively towards the door.

“ Now you can go,” he says.

You stare at him for a moment, not sure if you want to slap him across the face or pull him in for a furious kiss.  He can see the warring impulses on your face and looks at you as though he’d be perfectly content with either, but still will react differently depending on which you choose.

You settle for a kiss, grabbing the back of his head and mashing your lips against his.  You think that you’d like nothing more than to push him down and take him for yourself, for your own selfish pleasure like he did.  You’re not entirely sure of the positioning but you’ll figure it out.  You shift, managing to turn to face him properly before resuming the kiss.

He allows it, even responds to it, for a minute before grabbing the back of your head and pulling you away.

He tilts his head at you as if to say, ‘ Next time don’t question my virility or how I can make you feel, and maybe then I’ll let you come. ’

You bastard, you think, wondering how much he’s enjoying the clear indignation on your face.  He likes provoking you, that much is certain, whether it’s fear or lust or anger.  You don’t want to give him the satisfaction, then, and so after some awkward shuffling you dismount the bed and pointedly look away from him as you walk to the dresser.  It would probably be more dignified if you didn’t have his seed leaking out of you, trailing down your inner thighs.  

You don’t bother to look back or say anything as you quickly redress and leave.

Neither you nor Idrisa speak as you head to your chambers, but as soon as you’re behind closed doors again you tell her that you’ll need a moment alone in the bathroom.

You’re grateful that she leaves you to it without an explanation this time as you glance in the mirror and the remnants of your blush that start at your hairline and follow down to your chest.  

You shrug off your robe and turn on the faucet before finally, shamefully, bringing your hand between your legs and feeling the slick of him there mingling with your own slick and rub down, cursing Feyd-Rautha and cursing this planet and hoping that the sound of the running water drowns out your cries as you brace yourself against the sink, head bowed, and come, shaking and twitching, to the memory of his tongue and fingers against you, of him inside of you.

When it’s over you can’t bring yourself to look in the mirror was you wash your hands and turn off the faucet

You’ll need the half-tablet tonight.  Not for pain, but because otherwise there’s no way you’ll be able to sleep tonight.

[angstyandromanticwriting]

☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽

☦︎︎ “𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝑷𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒂.” ☦︎︎

☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽

A Leighton Murray X Fem!Reader Angsty, Cute, and Fluffy Prompt

[Just a Short Prompt For Today]

Minors DNI!!!

* Dealing with some possibly disturbing themes, here!

I will always try and make links between prompts + main instalments whenever I am writing for a consistent few characters!

* Feel free to refer to earlier instalments for this character + her Reader here!

The Word Count [Exclusive to this Prompt]: standing around 1.5k!

Takes place after the events of the third season!

I hope you enjoy it!

There will be more!

!TW(s) [The Specifics]: Child Sexual Abuse/Incest (Implied & Referenced), Rape/Sexual Violence (Implied & Threatened), Physical Abuse/Domestic Violence, Psychological Abuse/Emotional Manipulation, Suicidal Ideation, Self-Worth Degradation/Internalised Shame, Drug References (Contraceptives in a Coerced Context), Hallucinations/Altered Perception, Mentions of Rape of Another Family Member, CPTSD/Trauma Symptoms, Rain & Cold Exposure (Context of Neglect & Dissociation), Powerlessness & Captivity Themes, Emotional Whiplash, Familial Abuse & Themes of CSA & Emotional Trauma (!!Could Be Distressing!!) - if I’ve missed any here, please feel free to let me know; thank you, and I hope you enjoy it!

Losing/Feels So Cold

As soon as you lift your head, you realise he’s grinning again.

Of course he is; it doesn’t surprise you.

He’s always adamant on scaring you; always prided on wanting to see you in pain.

You want to drop your head back down again; want to not give him the pleasure of seeing you broken, the way you feel again, but you know it won’t matter, and he’ll just force you to look up at him anyway.

Otherwise, he’d just make the pain worse, as you sigh, before straining out the word ‘what’ back at him again.

You know it’s probably a dumb move, but you don’t know if you can bring yourself to care anymore.

If he kills you, he kills you, and you can’t bring yourself to not want him to just end things for you, before they could get even worse - before the pain of losing Leighton could intensify anymore than it already had, but of course he always had something else in mind.

He was your monster of a father, after all.

He’d spent his earlier life already beating you and your mum, and sometimes you even thought he raped her, too.

If not once, then twice, or too many more times.

You couldn’t blame her for bailing, but you didn’t know if you could truly forgive her and Aurora for leaving you to be his new ‘plaything’ instead of a daughter either.

The more you think about it, the more you just want to curl up, and just die.

Even if things had been good; even if you’d still been at home with Leighton, you couldn’t bring yourself to think you were, and always would be enough for her.

She had always been perfect, in your eyes, and that was something you just couldn’t bring yourself to see in your own body; your soul.

Maybe he’d broken you too much, by the time you’d found her again.

Maybe it was your own fault, for not getting away from him sooner, or maybe it was just a problem with you.

You couldn’t take it, but when you made to look out of the car window to your right, realising then that the car had stopped moving, your blood ran even colder than it ever really had before.

Home.

You were home again.

Not your true home; not the old house, but the new place he’d got, and suddenly you felt smaller; you felt weak again - way too weak, like he was trying to hold you down; trying to stop you from running from he always said was your only use in this world.

You also blanked, tensing up as soon as you remembered the packet of contraceptives he’d asked you to buy.

No.

You couldn’t do this again.

You really didn’t think you could do this again; you didn’t think you could survive it, or even want to survive it, but you knew he’d make you have to, like he always had to.

“What’s wrong? Did you think I’d just stop using you the only way you were meant to be used?”

He chuckles again; he must have noticed the unmistakable fear on your face; the look that always said you knew what was coming, even when you really - really didn’t want it to; even when you’d thought you’d been good; that you’d done everything he’d asked, and maybe he wouldn’t punish you like that again, and yet here you were.

And there he was; the man meant to apparently be your father, reaching into the plastic bag of shopping as he then holds up the same blue box, and you can’t bring yourself to look; can’t bring yourself to even breathe, or move so much as an inch, hoping maybe you being quiet and not protesting would dissuade him from wanting to hurt you, but it was a stupid thought.

You knew it was.

He never cared, and you knew he never would start caring, either.

You tried not to cry, still not moving, until he slammed his fist down on the back of his seat again, startling you enough to make you almost choke on your own spit, as you jolt, eyes wider and more tearful than they were before as you silently beg him not to do this - to please not do this, daddy, please, just like you used to, when you were younger, but you couldn’t bring yourself to even speak, let alone even plead for the mercy you knew you were never going to get from the monster he always had been.

He just laughed again, and you knew.

You knew it was over.

You knew he was going to hurt you, and that - just like before - there would be nothing you could to try and stop him again, especially now that he could shock you; now that he was tracking your every move, and constantly threatening Leighton and Aurora’s lives, as you bow your head, and nod tightly, and you didn’t think you’d ever quite felt this empty inside before.

“Just do it,” you murmur, and he doesn’t need to be told twice, although he does call you ‘boring’ for giving up as easily as you had seemed to, as you follow him inside, and he locks the door behind the both of you again.

You don’t want to think of anything anymore, after that.

Don’t want to think about how you’d cried in the shower; didn’t want to think about the pain you thought you’d never have to feel again.

So you didn’t even try.

Sure, at the darkest of points it invaded your head anyway, and without your meds you were scared maybe the hallucinations were just getting worse; more frequent, and now that he was back and doing everything he used to do to you again, you weren’t even sure of when you were dreaming, and when you were awake anymore.

You just felt - trapped, but he’d always wanted that for you, and he always said that that was what you deserved.

Your mother had said it, too.

You didn’t know if it was out of fear, but you were scared they were right; you didn’t think you could ever be stronger.

Didn’t think you could ever be good enough for anything on the outside again, and you hated yourself for even trying to live a normal life before he’d found you, and started threatening the only people who had ever made you feel like you could be happy, and safe, outside of your cage again.

You hug your knees to your chest, sniffling shakily, but quietly; you don’t want him to know you’ve slipped out briefly for some fresh air, just sitting on the step of the house, as you keep your head low, not wanting to be seen anymore.

Just wanting to disappear, but of course it was never that easy, and - again - you knew you could try and run, but you didn’t see a point anymore.

Besides, Leighton and Aurora deserved to live more than you did; that was what you couldn’t stop thinking, now, alongside the usual other shit that liked to pop up in your head again.

You didn’t even care, when it started raining; you just kept your head down, not wanting to go back inside - not yet - please, not yet, but when you heard a door opening off to your right, you tensed up, curling your shoulders further inwards as you silently begged not to be noticed; as you silently begged for whoever it was to just go back inside; to not even look in your direction.

You didn’t want to get in trouble again, not after he’d already hurt you again tonight, as you hug your knees tighter, and that’s when you hear another voice piercing your ears softly and yet you feel it too sharply against your skin as you wince again.

“Congratulations, you probably have pneumonia sitting out here in the cold like this - well, you know what I mean.”

You can already feel your body beginning to tremble again, as you tentatively lift your head, eyes tight, and jaw tense as you recognise the neighbour from earlier, as her expression softens, and you can see the worry in her eyes.

You can’t explain the way it terrifies you, to think you were being noticed, right when you didn’t want to be, for fear of what he would do to you again, if he found out, as you cautiously made to move, needing to get back inside, and as fast as you could, as she worriedly calls after you, but you can’t stay out there to have someone try and get you away from him; not when Leighton and Aurora were in danger, if things went wrong, as you staggered back inside, and hastily but gently locked and closed the door as you rushed quietly back into the front room so you could curl up in the corner, where he’d demanded you stay when he didn’t need you for anything just yet again.

☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽

Thank you so much for reading, guys!

I hope you enjoyed it, and are looking forward to the next one!

I will ensure to get this uploaded onto the Leighton Murray Masterlist, shortly, as well as posted onto ao3, at some point!

*I’m taking a short break from ao3 at the moment due to some recent occurrences, but will try and get back onto it if anything does end up sadly happening to Tumblr somehow, or if I just decide to start posting what I’ve done on it again before that can end up happening perhaps!

Until then, I hope you all have a lovely rest of the day/night, and I look forward to seeing you again, soon!

For now, however, I have been - as usual,

And as always,

Your ever faithful, H.H.

Until the next time, guys! 💜

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[wolftheawoo]

Chapter IV - How things go.

NSFW FANFIC - DDDNE

Reverse Fall(s) - Twisted Realities

Relationships: Bill Cipher/Ford Pines, Will Cipher | Reverse Bill Cipher/Ford Gleeful | Reverse Ford Pines, Will Cipher | Reverse Bill Cipher/Dipper Gleeful | Reverse Dipper Pines, Will Cipher | Reverse Bill Cipher/Mabel Gleeful | Reverse Mabel Pines, Bill Cipher & Will Cipher | Reverse Bill Cipher, Dipper Gleeful | Reverse Dipper Pines & Mabel Gleeful | Reverse Mabel Pines, Dipper Gleeful/Ford Gleeful, Mabel Gleeful/Ford Gleeful, Bud Pines/Gideon Pines, Mabel Gleeful | Reverse Mabel Pines/Pacifica Southeast | Reverse Pacifica Northwest TAGS/TW: DDDNE, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, Consensual Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Underage Kissing, Anal Sex, Anal Gaping, Piss, Vomiting, Object Insertion, Gore, Visceral, Violence, Reverse Falls, Alternate Universe - Reverse Portal (Gravity Falls), Alternate Universe - Reverse Falls | Reverse Pines (Gravity Falls), Reverse Pines Family (Gravity Falls), Ford is sadic as fuck here, Dipper and Mabel are very very bad, there will be blood, Bill is a spectator and voyeur, Voyeurism, Mabel suck his grunkle to get what she wants, Incest, Sibling Incest, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Uncle/Niece Incest, Stancest, pinecest, Spanking, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Oral Sex

Summary:

Bill Cipher, the most chaotic triangular demon in the universe, is about to discover that not all cosmic power is hole-proof. Stumbling into a dimensional rift, he plummets straight into the universe of Reverse Falls, where everything is twisted, sinister, and a little more broken than he remembered. Instead of looking for a way back, Bill decides to do what he does best: turn this chaos into his personal playground. With constant misfortune and characters darker than ever, he plunges headlong into a universe where nothing makes sense, but everything is potential for fun. For Bill Cipher, the more wrong the situation, the better. And in the end, he may even discover that the chaos of Reverse Falls is where he really belongs.

Chaos, acid humor and a lot of misfortune guaranteed. After all, for Bill, hell is an amusement park.

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(⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧ NOTES: Grenda and Pacifica, Mabel and Stanley, Will and Dipper... yeah, this chapter is full of people having intercourse. NOTES 2: I'd like to thank everyone who's been following my fanfic, and for all the kind comments and Kudos. You're all in my heart. Thank you very much.

Pacifica's body shook violently as Grenda thrust inside her. She was bigger than Candy had imagined, and watching what was happening made her wet, even though she didn't want to admit it. Mabel had told them both to clean up the place, but she hadn't said they couldn't have a little fun first. As Grenda drove her cock deeper and deeper into Pacifica, blonde strands stuck to her face and saliva dripped from her mouth; her legs spasmed slightly and her insides tightened. Southeast's small womb was brutally beaten by Granda who, close to the climax, grabbed Pacifica and held her body in her arms, crushing her until she heard her bones crack and, inside her canal, emptied herself until not a single drop of semen remained. Candy was perplexed and very excited, and as Grenda pulled out of Pacifica, her seed ran down the girl's legs who, when she was released, only fell to the floor in her own urine.

Mabel's two friends, as ordered, cleaned the bathroom of any residue that might have remained from the "game". They mopped it with the janitor's mop, and used a lot of toilet paper to leave everything clean. Pacifica, on the other hand, was left a mess of saliva, tears and cum.

“What do we do with her?” said the Asian girl, fixing her glasses.

“We leave her here. She must be too embarrassed to go out like this, and even more embarrassed to tell anyone.”

“Yes, you’re right…” and crouching down in front of the blonde, Candy smiled mischievously: “If she tells anyone, I doubt they’ll believe her. It’s easier to think she did it because she wanted to.”

Bill, in the little corner he had taken, stayed there the whole time Pacifica was fucked by Grenda. He had liked the way those girls were... they reminded him of his own henchmen who carried out his orders without question, but who were still his friends. The band of misfits and exiles from their own planets and universes. The gang of forgotten and despised people. Just like the six-fingered one who, if he wasn't so altruistic, might have been on his side. In any case, the triangle stuck around to see what the girl would do. And the two girls were right: she was too embarrassed. There was blood, urine, and all sorts of fluids on her body, running, dripping, dirtying her. When she tried to get up, her legs gave way and she fell miserably to the floor, and with her, the tears fell. She was pitiful.

With a restrained sob, Pacifica clung to the walls and, on shaky legs, got up to go to the sink where she turned on the water and began to clean herself. She took her hand between her own legs and touched it, rubbing her fingers against her vagina to remove the excess semen. When she looked at her own hand, her face twisted in a mixture of disgust and sadness. The smell, she contested, was horrible, and she almost vomited. In fact, she regurgitated some of what she had eaten in the canteen into the sink and, completely dazed, washed her hand under the cold running water. As if she had turned on autopilot, she did the same thing a few more times: she used her wet hand to wipe her pussy and then washed her hand in the sink, and repeated this until she felt clean and there was nothing left on her palm.

Then it was time for the legs, and the body. At least, the places Mabel had scribbled on. She rubbed the pieces of paper she'd torn from the dispenser until her skin turned red, and when blood balls were forming under her dermis, she stopped. Leaning against the sink, she lowered her head, letting the strands of hair cover her face. As curious as Bill was, he didn't have to move to notice that Pacifica was crying copiously and the more she cried, the more she trembled. She was on the verge of a breakdown: she threw, pushed, hit, punched, kicked and finally sat down. She punched the wall, kicked the garbage cans, knocked over the soap dispensers, threw paper rolls away and pushed open the cabin doors, then let herself fall to the floor to cry and cry.

It was a long time. Long and tortuous minutes until the bell finally rang, telling them to return to their classrooms. Two more bells rang before Southeast had enough courage to get up. She was more or less dry now, and finished drying herself with toilet paper. She washed her face to uselessly hide her tears and reduce the swelling a little, and, taking a deep breath, smiled at the mirror before leaving. She had to grab her backpack, and she did so, telling the teacher that she wasn't feeling well and needed to go home. Sent to the nurse's office, the poor woman who attended to the students there let Pacifica call her parents, noticing the girl's visible emotional distress. She needed her home. She needed her mother's lap. She needed to go back, that's all.

[…]

Mabel wrapped her legs around her great-uncle's waist as the thrusts became more intense and less spaced out. The girl's thighs pressed against his sides and her heels on the older man's lower back squeezed him enough for his fat, hard cock to enter his grandniece's little pussy completely, making even more of the juice that wet her drip. He was so close to cumming inside her that his moans became even hoarser and lower, close to the girl's ear, who felt shivers run down her spine. The pleasure was overflowing just as was the liquid that dripped from her tight entrance, and as Stan thrust his cock deeper and deeper, Mabel let her voice be heard more and more, moaning like the little slut she was.

"Ohhh, darling... like that, like that... my god, what a delicious pussy... and all wet like that for your great-uncle... what would they think of you if they knew you were my personal little whore?"

The laugh that came from his throat made Mabel arch her back and groan. The girl couldn't think clearly, much less contain herself. Meaningless words left her mouth as her nails dug into Stanley's back and served as an incentive for him to hold Mabel's waist in his arms, lifting her hips off the bed, lifting her so he could fuck her harder and faster. He was going to cum, he was sure he was going to cum because she was squeezing him tightly, and when he reached her womb, the walls of her vagina contracted and crushed him inside.

Stanley's belly rubbed against Mabel's thin abdomen, and his hair tickled the girl. He was sweating like a soccer player on top of the girl, and the strong smell coming from his old body was masculine; a mix of wood, aftershave, cheap perfume and manly body. That delicious body smell that men produce when they work out. Mabel was so horny for it that she would sink her face into Stanley's neck, chest and sometimes armpits just to smell him while she was being fucked hard by him. The rogue's fat cock gave another three thrusts before he buried his cock as deep as he could in his grandniece, making her moan and melt all over his cock as his testicles contracted and he spilled his sperm inside her, filling her up. They didn't usually use condoms, and Mabel loved that. She liked it when she was full, full of cum. She liked it when she put on her panties and, in no time at all, she'd get her entire panties soiled with her uncle's sperm. She liked to feel it running down her legs, and to force it out, and she liked it even more when Stanley decided to fuck her with his fingers, pulling the cum out before shoving the same fingers he'd used in her vagina into her mouth. And Mabel sucked; she sucked with pleasure, moaning and delighting in Stanley's thick, rough fingers.

“Ugghn... yeah, like that... good girl, good girl...”

When he pulled out his still dripping cock, Mabel's pussy was throbbing. She hadn't cum yet, so the old man slipped two of his fingers inside her, bringing his mouth closer to her clitoris and sucking on it. Gleeful wriggled on the bed and tried to push the old man's head away, to no avail: he licked and rubbed his mouth on her, sucking on the labia minora and smacking his lips on the girl's sensitive little button, as she moaned Stan's name. She even grabbed him by the hair, but as he was bigger and stronger, he wrapped both of Mabel's wrists in one hand and held her like that, still, trapped and receiving a pleasurable oral while he lasciviously fucked her little hole with his fingers.

The orgasm came when Stan stuck his index finger up Mabel's already trained urethra and she spasmed and urinated all over the bed, soiling not only her grandfather's hand but also the mattress. The orgasm had been so intense that afterwards she didn't even have the strength to move or clean herself up. Stanley just laughed at the situation, slapping his niece's pussy, teasing her about being a pisser; and he absolutely loved it. He loved knowing that he was making her piss herself with pleasure. He loved knowing that he was making her almost pass out from exhaustion. He loved being able to empty his sack into her and have her beg for more. Mabel was his sex toy, and as much as he loved it, she loved it too.

The girl's calls for Will to go to her room and clean up the mess while she showered were in vain, as Dipper was already busy with the blue triangle demon of that universe.

Stanford wanted to be left alone, as was often the case. He dismissed Will who, still wondering how he was going to find the extra-dimensional being, found himself pacing back and forth until Dipper called out to him.

“I need your help,” he said, grabbing the thick chain that was welded to the metal collar around Will's neck. Tugging hard just for the fun of watching the demon stumble, Dipper dragged him into the very room he affectionately called his laboratory. It was there that he trained his spells and, when he managed to steal Ford's books, studied them to understand more about science and the weirdness of the Falls. As they entered the place that Will already knew with the palm of his hand, Dipper pulled the chain so that Will was forced to kneel down, hitting his knees on the wooden floor, making a loud sound. The wooden door closed and Dipper sat down, staring at Will.

“About this creature you sensed... what else can you tell me?” The way the boy crossed his legs and leaned his head on his hand, that... was typical of Ford. Furthermore, not only did he imitate the posture, but he also kept the chain in his free hand tensioned, forcing Will downwards the whole time. “Answer, slave.”

“I only know that it was as powerful as me, if not, more...”

“And that's possible?”

“...but of course it is.”

A tug was given, and Dipper clenched his jaw. With the back of his hand, he slapped Will across the face. It was never as strong as Ford's slaps.

“Sir! You refer to me as sir!”

“Yes, sir”

“Well? Is it possible?”

“Yes, sir, it's possible”

“How?”

“Well... there are many universes. Many beings in countless timelines, dimensions and alternative realities. The time baby, for example, is very powerful. Just like me, who came from a place with beings from a very different dimension to yours... where I come from, people are 2D, whereas your reality is completely 3D... sir.”

“...I understand. And this being? What is it?”

“I'm not sure, sir... but... if you want, I can find out.”

“Not only can you, but you will.”

“Yes, I will, sir.”

“With you by my side, Mabel doesn't stand a chance. I order you, while we're hunting this creature, to obey only my orders.”

“...but your uncle...”

“My uncle won't mind. He didn't say anything about us not being able to use you. And I'm sure he'll be too busy studying or doing whatever it is he does in his spare time.”

“Yes, sir...”

“Good boy, Will. You're a great dog.”

Despite wanting to, Will held back the urge to roll his eye. The more Dipper tried to look like Ford, the less respectable he seemed. Still... he wanted to please him a little. That's how he got the things he wanted when it was with Dipper.

“Sir...” the boy muttered, crawling across the floor towards Dipper. “Let me... look after you... you look tense.”

As much as he hated it, he crawled towards the boy and, when he was very close, knelt down in front of him. Carefully and with great caution, he slid his velvety fingers up Gleeful's legs and untangled them, placing himself between them.

“When we find this creature together, your uncle will be so proud... and as a wish, perhaps you could ask him to give me to you, to serve you only and exclusively, what do you think?... Or maybe he could give you this creature... and it will be yours. Your first acquisition.” As Dipper's eyes glazed over at the thought of being noticed, Will deftly and quickly unzipped his pants. It wasn't long before he had the boy's meat out, and wrapping his hand around it, he began to stimulate it with slow movements. It was noticeable when he shivered, and when he locked a moan in his throat, since Ford would never moan. “Still... Mabel could get in our way... don't you think it would be more useful if I looked for this creature while you distract her?”

He was careful with his words so that there would be no suspicion. If he looked for the being on his own, and if he found it on his own, he might be able to hand it over on his own. Without Dipper, without Mabel. He would be the one to give Ford what he wanted, and receive the desire in return. The movements were slow, and puberty was brimming through the boy; his erection was already beginning to form, and he clutched gently at the swivel chair he was sitting in, panting softly.

“If we look together...” he started to say, and before he could finish, Will took him in one go, putting the length of Dipper's cock in his mouth. He didn't want him to finish his thought. He couldn't let him think clearly. He had to clear his head. The boy contracted and, moaning low, grabbed onto the blue hair of the tanned-skinned demon with both hands. Will's mouth was warm, welcoming and moist. He'd spent too many years sucking cock at Ford's behest, and had acquired enough experience to provide excellent blowjobs. Dipper's cucumber was nothing compared to Stanley's thick cock or Fiddleford's long dick. When Cipher had swallowed it, he touched his lips to the boy's waist and sucked on it, even smacking his lips around it.

There, he began to move his head, sucking him, slurping him, causing Mason to lay his head back and open his mouth, letting the hot breath escape. Will looked up to see Gleeful fully flushed, with his jaw clenched to stop him moaning and wriggling, twitching, close to cumming. Yes, he was fast, and that was great as it meant Will wouldn't have to keep his jaw sore. Pulling his mouth away from Dipper's cock, Will sighed, jerking him off with one hand while the other stroked the boy's testicles.

“Mabel can get in our way... she has Stanley, Fiddleford and Soos on her side... and you have me... if you can distract her, I'll find this extra-dimensional being and bring him to you, and then you can do whatever you want... Master Stanford will give you what you ask for, and it can be anything. Anything,” he said emphatically, noticing that Dipper was so close to cumming that he couldn't answer. He therefore decreased the frequency of his masturbation, “What do you say, Master Dipper?”

'Master Dipper', that had been his last card. Mason couldn't think with two hands so soft and so skillful caressing his cock and balls at the same time, and in his urgency to cum, with his ego softened: “Fine! So be it!”

Ohhh, but the happiness Cipher felt was great enough to bury his mouth once again, this time with real enthusiasm, in Gleeful's cock. He sucked and licked it, making noises with his mouth, so excited was he. Dipper, for his part, grabbed his slave's blue strands and pushed his head against his own intimacy, contracting his testicles as the seed filled Will's mouth, who, in turn, swallowed it without hesitation. In the end, Mason was limp in the chair, his pants down, and Will, licking his lips, helped him get dressed and clean himself up with wet wipes. It was only at the end that he heard Mabel's calls, and when he got to her room, he realized what had happened. She wouldn't be waking up any time soon, so he left everything clean so that he could start his search.

Was it possible? Could everything have turned out so well?

[...]

That night, Mabel slept like a baby, not even waking up to drink water. Dipper spent the night making plans on how he could keep his sister occupied, one of which involved drugging Stanley with enough Viagra to keep his cock hard. Pacifica cried when she ate dinner in her room, unable to eat without throwing up afterwards. She cried in the shower, scrubbing herself until bruises formed on her body. She cried herself to sleep in bed, and had a strange dream about a yellow triangle offering a deal. Gideon went home without his best friend, and his father counted the money his strange friend always gave him when he wanted to see the white-haired boy. And Will? Well... Will went off in search of the creature that had shaken the structures of that world with its presence.

If only Axolotl could see him now.

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Sexy ABC's CORDELIA for Cordelia

Sexy ABC

(tw – incest-adjacent, implied/referenced non-con)

C ─ Condoms. Do they use them ?  Do they have a preference ( color, flavour, etc… ) ? Have they ever had an accident ?  Would they continue anyway, if they’ve forgotten/run out of them ?

She uses them the vast, vast majority of the time. only people (with dicks) who do not have to use them are Santino, Brooklyn, Miguel, Declan, Kingston, and her two other main sugar daddies. Some of her partners (rapists) will not use condoms even when she wants them to, but other hookups and less significant sugar daddies have to

O ─ O’clock. What time do they usually have sex  ( mornings, late at night, during lunch break, etc… ) ?  Are they usually in a rush, or do they take their time ? How about on weekends / holidays ?  

All of the above, as often as possible.

R ─ Recording. Have they ever filmed themselves having sex ?  Did they watch it together afterwards ?  Has anyone else seen their videos ? 

She has. She may or may not have an onlyfans in which case she regularly films herself (solo and with partners) and posts them. Otherwise there still are some videos (mostly courtesy of Miguel, unless anyone else wants to film her). I feel like she and Miguel have watched them together, she would absolutely watch them with Clover if that's something she wanted, and she doesn't ask questions about who Miguel shows them to

(she doesn't want to hear the answer. As long as she doesn't know if he's showing them/offering to show them to Alex or not, she doesn't have to have an opinion on it)

D ─ Dreams. A wet dream my muse has had about yours, and whether they’d want to make it come true.

Cordelia's favourite wet dreams are pretty much always the same combination – public, multiple partners, overstimulation (and too many orgasms), and indulging her size kink as much as possible. She wants that to come true, and she wants Declan and Clover to be a part of it (and Miguel, and preferably Brooklyn, and Cove if she's interested, and Kingston, and basically anyone)

she has also had wet dreams about Alex and they always make her cum the hardest and then she usually cries and feels weird and avoids him for a while and gets really cagey when the group talks about sex — similar but less extreme to how she is when he gets out of rehab

E ─ Experimenting. Are they willing to experiment new things ?  Is there something they’d like to try with their partner, but haven’t had the chance yet ?Any experiments gone wrong?

She is very open to experimenting. She has wanted to experiment with ovipositors and lactation but has not ever asked anyone for that. The only "experiments" she's had that have gone wrong, so far, have been with partners who ignore her safewords. She doesn't consider other experiments failed, even if she safewords – sometimes something is good but just too much, other times maybe she didn't like it but she learned that safely and now she knows.

L ─ Lingerie. Do they enjoy wearing it and/or seeing their partner in lingerie ?What kind of lingerie do they find the sexiest ? Any other clothing they love seeing their partner in  ( like grey sweater pants, wearing nothing but an apron, really short shorts, etc… ) ?Do they often wear what the other likes, just to please them?

Yes. Teddies are, at all times, her favourite thing to wear, but she owns an extensive lingerie collection – not only does she buy herself a bunch, but she is a lingerie model and works into all of her contracts that she gets to keep anything that she wears (whether the photos make the final cut or not, or whether the outfits even get photographed or not).

Has the exact same taste for partners as Clara Waldorf. Girls in lingerie is always a yes, and boxer-briefs are the best underclothes for a male partner. Men in grey sweatpants is a huge yes, also very into men wearing suits (suits with no tie and the shirt partially unbuttoned is the hottest variation of it), or with an undone tie and open shirt, and yes she absolutely dresses to appeal to a partner.

I ─ Infidelity. Has any of them ever cheated on their partner ?  Whom have they cheated with ?  If not, is it something they could do ?  If yes, have they told them or has the other found out ?  Could they forgive and forget ? 

She has not cheated. She is very open about her sex life and does not do exclusivity (exceptions were when she was with Miguel, and when she's with Brooklyn, but they are both aware of and consenting to her sleeping with other people — within their respective, pre-negotiated limits). I don't think that she could ever forgive being cheated on. She's very okay with sleeping around as long as it's been discussed, so if a partner still either went behind her back or ignored whatever limits she might set about it, that would be unforgiveable.

A ─ After care. Do they take care of each other after sex ? How ?

She does not typically get the aftercare that she needs. She tends to have a bit of a delay into sub drop, and is often alone by then. Sometimes at the Paradise she might call Santino and ask him to take care of her (after anything traumatic, I feel like she might call Alex, just wants help getting herself into a bath and then wants to wear cozy, oversized clothes and get a bit of a cuddle while watching TV because he's her safe person), I could also see her calling Clover in those situations.

General aftercare for her looks like a partner running a bath for her and helping her in/out or wiping her down with a cloth, making sure that she has water (and a snack if necessary). She usually just wants to sleep after a scene – with partners she doesn't like/trust she kicks them out immediately and just deals with it herself unless she crashes too hard and can't, but with her favourite people she doesn't ask for much but wants them to still be there when she wakes up. And she needs to be told that she did a good job. And wants forehead kisses and very gentle, nonsexual touches

[slytherinlives]

Belated submission for Gaunting Salloween day 11: Knife.

Rating: Explicit. 18+!!

TW: Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knife Play, Blood Kink.

MINORS DNI!!

(It’s my first time writing this type of setting so apologies if it’s clunky)

[dhr-ao3]

Amarrados

Amarrados https://ift.tt/hiDX6nQ by Pixys_Malfoy Quando Hermione descobre que Sirius ainda está no Véu, ela decide trazê-lo de volta por qualquer meio necessário. Infelizmente, esses meios envolvem Draco Malfoy.   | Uma história de ligação acidental que prova três coisas: Hermione Granger também comete erros, o Ministério não é tão nobre quanto ela pensava anteriormente e o amor é realmente a magia mais poderosa de todas. Words: 2135, Chapters: 1/17, Language: Português brasileiro Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, Multi Characters: Hermione Granger, Sirius Black, Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Blaise Zabini, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Original Characters Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Sirius Black/Hermione Granger, Sirius Black/Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: POV Hermione Granger, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Adult Hermione Granger, Bring Back Black | Sirius Black Returns From Beyond the Veil, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Not Epilogue Compliant, Accidental Bonding, Rituals, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Original Spells and Potions (Harry Potter), Polyandry, v triad, No Incest, Minor Harry Potter/Blaise Zabini, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mutual Masturbation, Teasing, Hogwarts Library Restricted Section, Chapter Nine TW's:, Dark Character, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Murder, Dark Magic Rituals (Harry Potter), Dark Magic, Evil Plans, Very Secret Diary, angst got a bit heavy sorry in advance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, Morally Grey Kingsley Shacklebolt, The Ministry of Magic is Corrupt (Harry Potter), Soul Bond, Forced Bonding, using the bond during sexy times, Double Penetration, Threesome - F/M/M, Sex Magic, Shameless Smut, Complete, Kingsley Shacklebolt Bashing via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/pFOYPBb April 11, 2024 at 02:30AM

[secretly-a-catamount]

[defensivelee]

ok here is the continuation of the last ask!! this is the 'pet name' prompt, for William and his father in the Six Lives verse. this takes place in a bit of an interim period between "You Could Have Been a Bird, You Could Have Been a Swallow" and the next chapter, which will be called "Never Knowing the Reason Why"

you know how their relationship is. William is twelve here.

TW: explicit CSA, father/son incest, pedophilia, child abuse, implied/referenced death of a mother, drinking, sex under the influence.

If you were to say to William that he had never once known affection from his father, he would call you a liar, and, depending on who you were, he would show to you the marks of his father’s “affection.”

These were marks upon his neck, on his arms, but more than anything, on his thighs, where presently new ones were being made, as teeth like those of the devil rulers sank into his skin, accompanied by a nimble, sharp tongue lapping at the bruises.

He turned his head to the side and bit into his pillow, stifling a gasp. He was sure he had felt worse pains, but this made him want to scream like nothing else did. Was his father drawing blood? What did he want?

There was something else to his breath as he sat up, then leaned in again to kiss his son, pushing one of his legs to the side. William recognized the alcohol there, the scent alone dizzying him. It had been more obvious to him, lately, how drunk his father would get. Maybe he had never noticed before, or maybe it had been Mary’s death that had been bothering him. But he hated it.

William jolted when he felt teeth nip his tongue, and he shifted his head away, trying to push his father back. “Sir,” he tried, cut off by a gasp as his father moved down to bite into his neck. His lashing tail was pinned down by his father’s knee.

Ugh! He closed his eyes and braced himself as he felt nails digging into his thighs, where they still stung. It would be quick this time, he told himself. If his father passed out over him, it was better than him going all night.

“Princess,” he heard instead.

“Hm?” He opened his eyes again, huffing as his father made his way in. He was so tired. “W-What are you—”

“Shh.” His father laughed beside his ear, an uncommon sound that sent a shudder through him. “Look up at me.”

“I- I can’t, sir,” he said. He had never been able to look into that empty gaze.

“There’s no I can’t, princess. There’s only I can and I will and yes, sir.” The elder William shoved forward once, and William cried out, trying to pull himself out from under his father. His wrists were pinned down beside his head, where his father kissed him, grunting into the damp hair as he moved. William realized he had started to cry, which was no surprise— this was when the tears usually began.

Something was different this time, however. There were words in his father’s meaningless whispers.

“Ah, my beautiful princess—”

A smack on the thigh.

“All for me—”

Another rough kiss on the neck, this one lingering.

“Oh, my Mary, I shall never leave you—”

Fingers forced into his mouth, whereas he was forced to bite back his whimpers.

“My dearest, most perfect angel!” His father sat back, still laughing, holding onto William’s waist. There was blood on his thighs now.

The names were new, but by no means welcome. William groaned and turned to the side. His father had named him many things over the years, but his favorite would always be nothing but worthless brat.

[ao3feed-alienstage]

The Love of Ivan

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/qZgCxYM by honeisenpa1 In which, Ivan is an emotionless monster in human skin. He doesn't even know what he's doing is wrong, he was just born that way. He thought love was an insignificant emotion that made people lose all reason. The world through his eyes was gray with red tones. He was never shown a different world and thought this was all there was to it. The drugs. The sex. The slaughter. He was under the impression he had no time for love...for life. Until he met Till.   ---   *TW* (This is Alien Stage in a modern world. Their alien guardians are basically their parents...except Till. I apologize in advance for all the trauma inducing content this story will have. If you don't like it, please don't read it.) *(!!!PLEASE ADHERE TO THE TAGS!!!)* Words: 8501, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English Fandoms: Alien Stage (Web Series) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Categories: M/M Characters: Ivan (Alien Stage), Till (Alien Stage), Luka (Alien Stage), Mizi (Alien Stage), Sua (Alien Stage), Hyuna (Alien Stage), Unsha | Ivan's Guardian (Alien Stage), Nigeh | Sua's Guardian (Alien Stage), Io (Alien Stage), Shine | Mizi's Guardian (Alien Stage) Relationships: Ivan/Till (Alien Stage), Hyuna/Luka (Alien Stage), Mizi/Sua (Alien Stage), Mizi & Till (Alien Stage), Ivan & Luka (Alien Stage), Ivan & Sua (Alien Stage) Additional Tags: Hurt No Comfort, Heavy Angst, Blood and Violence, Blood and Gore, Top Ivan (Alien Stage), Bottom Till (Alien Stage), Bottom Luka (Alien Stage), Top Hyuna (Alien Stage), Minor Ivan/Luka, Ivan and Sua are Siblings (Alien Stage), Ivan is Bad at Feelings (Alien Stage), ivan is a little shit, Luka needs a hug, Luka needs a therapist fr, Till is a little shit, Till needs a hug, Luka is a slut, Ivan is a slut, nobody is happy except mizi ig, sua is a slut x10, hide your girl from sua fr, ivan is ruthless, One-Sided Mizi/Till (Alien Stage), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, mafia, anakt family needs therapy, very little fluff, don't expect fluff unless its manipulative fluff, Smut, a lot of smut, i'm sorry for even releasing this fr, Brother/Brother Incest, <-- I'm so sorry, Triggers read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/qZgCxYM

[ooihcnoiwlerh]

New chapter is up for my Feyd-Rautha/Reader fic. I'll provide the AO3 link here: And I Don't Want Your Heart - Chapter 3 - ooihcnoiwlerh - Dune (2021) [Archive of Our Own]

But if you'd prefer to read it here I can provide it under the cut. As you can imagine, there are trigger warnings for this fic in general as well as this chapter.

TW: arranged marriage, forced marriage, dubious consent, implied/referenced self-harm, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced incest, heavy violence, first times, rough sex, blood kinks, and of course Feyd-Rautha who is his own walking content warning.

If you haven't read my fic yet I do recommend reading the prologue and first chapter to get what's going on. It's all on AO3.

CHAPTER TWO: THE MOMENT YOU'VE BEEN DREADING

“It’s time, Na-Baroness.”

You turn to look at her.  She keeps her head down.  “We need to get you to your bedchambers to prepare,” she adds.

You take a breath.  He and everyone else need you to be living and healthy at least for the time being.  You’ll be able to manage whatever happens tonight, you tell yourself.

You give a small nod, reach for your goblet, and finish the contents in three big swallows before setting it down.

Your mother sees you get up and her eyes widen just a fraction.  You smile at her as you make a detour to wish your family a good night.

“I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast,” you tell your parents.  Afterwards all off-world guests will be going home, and you’ll have to deal with the fact that this desolate killing field of a planet is your home now.  You try not to think about how you probably won’t be seeing any of your family again until the next wedding or funeral as you give each of them a crushing hug.  When your younger sister hugs you back, you wonder if she’s thinking about her future, if she’s terrified that she’ll have an even worse match.

“You look beautiful, Y/N,” Father tells you as you pull away from his embrace.  When he looks at you, you can tell he’s thinking, I’d give anything right now for you to have been born a son.

“Thank you, Father,” you tell him, thinking, Come on, now.  You can’t put me up to this marriage in the first place and then act as though I’m going to my execution.  You need for them to have hope that you’ll be okay.  One of you has to believe that I can get through this.

You sense the Baron watching you.  You can feel his distaste at the open sentimentality but he doesn’t say anything, so it seems that he’ll allow it.  How kind of him, you think bitterly.

When you start to move past them your mother tugs at your wrist one last time and you turn to face her.  She doesn’t say anything, so you end up speaking for her.

“It’ll be alright,” you say softly, taking her hands.

She almost smiles, then swallows.  “I should be the one saying that to you,” she says.  You just give her a small smile of your own and kiss her cheek.  You end up letting go of her hands first, but it takes only the first tug for her to relinquish yours.  You resume your trek out of the Great Hall when you reach the head of the table and stop, remembering one last obligation before you go.

You need to pay your respects to the Baron first and it makes you hesitate.  You don’t want to talk to him, don’t want to look at him, don’t want to even think about him.  His nephew strikes fear in you, but there’s a kind of revulsion that the Baron inspires that is tangible even as you can’t quite explain it.  Even if you didn’t know his reputation as a bloodthirsty warmonger that makes your father seem like a pacifist by comparison, even though you’re sure that there’s more you haven’t discovered yet, even with the limited interactions you’ve actually had with him, he makes your skin crawl.  You step forward, eyes downcast, incline your head, and dip into the deepest curtsy you can manage in your gown.

“Thank you, Baron, for your gifts, your kind reception, and your hospitality,” you tell him.

After a pause he seems to think you’ve expressed an adequate amount of gratitude and says, “May you continue to please my lovely nephew,” he responds, voice low enough that your family won’t hear but the people next to him will.  He knows that you know what he means.

Contempt and shame war within you.  You refuse to look up at him.  “Yes, Baron,” you manage, face flushing.  Your hands shake.  You rise and turn away.  Idrisa’s there within arm’s reach to escort you out.

It’s a long stretch of silence to get from the Great Hall to the Harkonnen private chambers, but neither of you know quite what to say that you’d be willing to risk anyone hearing.

She guides you back into your bedchambers.  Once there, you stand in the middle of the room, frozen and useless.  “Will he want me in this?” you ask after a moment.  You picture him tearing the fabric of your underskirts, maybe slicing your bodice with one of his hidden blades.  It’s easy to picture him desecrating a symbol of your union.  It’s also easy to picture him simply pulling down your undergarment, bending you over the nearest flat surface, and debasing you as you’re still fully clothed.

Idrisa shakes her head.  “The Na-Baron had some specific requests.  He’d like you out of this,” she says.  “I’ll help you.”

She’s so gentle with her touch and the meticulous way she undoes your bodice and arranges your skirts that it unnerves you rather than soothes you.  It’s such a contrast to how you’re certain you’ll be touched as soon as you leave these chambers that you tremble at her fingertips.

“It’ll be alright,” she says softly.  “You and the union between the Houses is too important for him to seriously hurt you.”  You don’t miss the disclaimer of ‘seriously’.  You have nothing to say to that, only watching as she sets the gown back on the mannequin it arrived with and turns to you, in just your boots and undergarments.  

You sigh and take care of your boots and the stockings underneath as Idrisa reaches into your drawers for a chemise and robe.

“He wants you to take off your undergarments,” she says over her shoulder.

“Of course he does,” you mutter, working on those next, stripping down bare.  “For ‘ease of access.’”

“It’s not an unreasonable request,” Idrisa says mildly, taking your discarded clothes and handing you the chemise to put on.  “We’re almost done.”  She sets down a pair of slippers for you to step into and gives you your robe before taking a step back and taking inventory of you.  She tilts her head and bites her lip.

“Hair down, I think,” she says.  “Your make-up held up well, so we won’t need to reapply anything.”

“We could, you know.”  It’ll buy me some time to collect myself.  Although that isn’t entirely true; you’ll still be just as nervous an hour from now as you will be five minutes from now, and you both know it as Idrisa quietly arranges your hair into a style she thinks your groom will find suitable.

His chambers, as it turns out, are just next door.  “Thank you,” you tell her when you get inside.  It’s a large room, as austere as all the other rooms but the limited furniture within it is of high-quality.  A black armoire against the opposite wall with dressers and a desk and chair to match, and then of course the bed.  

It’s a massive four-poster with a steep headboard.  You can’t help but notice rings and hooks lining each bedpost.  You don’t think you’re ignorant by any means, considering your overall lack of experience, but you’re not sure what they could possibly mean.  In the next room you can faintly hear the sound of running water.

“The Na-Baron is finishing up in his bathroom.  He’ll be ready for you in just a moment,” Idrisa tells you, before reaching for your robe.  You instinctively move away, wanting the barrier between your skin and the suddenly oppressive air of an unfamiliar room.

She holds on, undeterred, to your sleeves.  “The Na-Baron said that he would have his wedding gift already unwrapped and in bed waiting for him,” she says apologetically.  

You think of your father’s words from days ago (“oiled and trussed up before being thrown into his bedroom”) and take a breath before shedding the robe and stepping out of your slippers yourself. You don’t look at Idrisa as you raise the chemise up and over your shoulders before tossing it to the floor and once you’re completely bare try to cover yourself with your arms as you take a few steps back.  It feels dumb; she’s already seen you naked and so will the man on the other side of the bathroom door in just a minute, but you want to hold on some semblance of modesty in this unfamiliar room.

Idrisa looks away as she picks everything up.  “I’ll leave you to your privacy, then,” she says.  

“I’ll be nearby,” she adds, folding your clothes and setting them on the dresser and the slippers on the floor just beside it.  She glances over at you one last time as if to say, Good luck, before turning and leaving.  The door clicks and you’re left in silence.  The water stops.

Better get moving, then, you think as you stare at the bed.  You wonder briefly what such an intimidating piece of furniture has seen over the years, and you’re honestly not sure how to present yourself once you reach it.  Do you lie on your back, like you’ve been told, is the civilized, kind manner in which to take a bride?

You think of the way your groom prowls, the way he kills.  He’s barely civilized and he’s certainly not kind; the animalistic way he moves and looks at you suggests that he’ll fuck you like an animal too, on all fours and without preamble, but the idea of getting into that position, of presenting yourself to him in such a way, makes you wince the moment you imagine it.

So you compromise and settle on your side, facing the bathroom entrance where he’ll soon emerge.

Your heart races as nearly a full minute ticks by before the door opens and Feyd-Rautha emerges, as naked as you are.

You try to stay composed and keep a sense of demure composure about you as you take inventory of him and what is meant to go inside of you tonight.  He is indeed smooth everywhere, and half-hard.  You digest the fact that even without a full erection, he's larger than the limited sample size you've witnessed.  You think that it’s kind of funny that he looks more powerful naked than he does in his armor, or even in his undergarments but to your relief he’s also as unarmed as he can possibly be.  And if this is to happen, it is a comfort knowing that it will be with a man whose body you find beautiful to look at.

His eyes drift over yours, mapping everything as he takes his fill,of the rest of your body.  “Have you ever taken a man inside of you?” he asks.

You shake your head and try not to let your nerves get the better of you as you wonder how much this is going to hurt.  He sees the fear in your eyes, though, as he crosses over and slides into bed alongside you without another word.  Your breath hitches, your heart pounding.  Not for the first time he makes you feel like a rabbit in a field.  It’s hard to reconcile that and the excitement within you; perhaps it’s adrenaline.

He slowly angles you to lay back as he props himself above you.  Your pulse thuds in your ears and you hear your own gasp as if it’s coming from somewhere else.

There’s a moment he’s looming above you, and you’re caught between fear and a growing heat between your legs, your nerves on end, before you surprise the both of you.  Without allowing yourself to think about it you lean up, cup the back of his head and pull him into a kiss.  This much you’ve done before, anyway.  You hope that it’ll help ease you into everything else.

It catches him off-guard, which gives you a brief sense of satisfaction, feeling like the playing field has been leveraged, before he kisses back.  He seems to like it, the hint of a challenge, and responds in turn by deepening the kiss and pressing his tongue into your mouth.  After a moment’s hesitation, unsure where to put your hands, you find that trailing them along his arms and back feels right.  

For the first minute it actually feels nice.  Then the first brush of the tip of his cock against your stomach makes you gasp.  You can feel him filling out the rest of the way and try not to look down.  It won’t help settle your nerves at all to see just how large it is when fully engorged.  The soft skin of it bumps against your bare stomach again before he shifts his legs so both are between yours, forcing you to spread your thighs around his hips.  He breaks the kiss and watches your face as he shifts one hand from beside your head to between his legs, taking himself in hand.

You clench your thighs and gasp, heart racing.  Without thinking you give a small cry when he guides his cock along your slit.  You feel stupid for it; he’s not even inside of you yet, but you can feel yourself seize up.

He pauses, as if trying to gauge something. Then he releases himself to slide his fingertips between the apex of your thighs instead.  Your chest heaves as you think about how you’re the only one who’s ever put a hand there, and even then only a few times.  You have enough time to think that you’ve never felt more helpless in your life before he brushes his fingers along your slit, all the more sensitive for the lack of hair, and then brings a thumb to the bud between your legs you only discovered for the first time a few years ago by accident.  He circles his thumb lazily, watching your stomach clench and your lips part in a gasp.  You shut your eyes, the intimacy of it already more than you could’ve anticipated.

“Look at me,” he says sharply, and you force your eyes open.  He tilts his head ever so slightly as his thumb presses down and your hips arch up.  You hold onto him, your hands gripping his shoulders as you bite your lip, trying to breathe normally.  He blinks as he takes in your reaction, his gaze traveling from your face to your hips before moving his hand, shifting his fingertips to your entrance.

The press of one finger inside of you is a stretch, unfamiliar but not unpleasant once you adjust to the feeling of being penetrated for the first time, and you want to look away, embarrassed at just how exposed you are to this man but as soon as you do, he repeats, irritated that he’d have to say it again, “Look at me.”

Your eyes snap back to his.  He curls his finger inside of you and your mouth falls open in a silent cry, your stomach clenching, and he tilts his head slightly, pulling his hand back to add a second finger alongside it, and this time the burn of it’s just a little too much.  You try to pull your hips back, face pinched in discomfort, and he gives a frustrated exhale as he tries twisting his fingers, only to get the same reaction.  He pulls his fingers out, and seems to think about what to do next.

He glances down at your chest, at your stiffened nipples, and lowers himself down onto his forearms, his head down to your breasts, teeth and tongue scraping against one, then the other.  As you whine and cradle the back of his neck you wonder if this is like a game for him, trying to see what noises he can pull from you where, and doing what, as he travels from one part of your body to another.  You try to collect your breath as he stops, traveling lower, his body sliding almost serpentine along the length of the bed and you can’t help but watch the muscles in his back and shoulders.

You briefly notice that there are old scars there that you hadn’t been able to see properly in the semi-darkness of the fighting halls.  They look like lash-marks that span from his shoulder blades to the tops of his buttocks.  But that’s the last coherent thought you have before Feyd-Rautha’s face disappears between your spread legs and you cry out, back arching at the first contact between his mouth and your lower lips.

You were expecting and fearing a lot tonight but hadn’t accounted for your groom licking your newly-shaved privates.  It’s shocking enough that it takes you a moment to understand how nice it feels.  You pant and squirm, your moans pulled out of you with each swipe of his tongue along your slit, each flicker of it against your bud.

“Oh!” you manage, incapable of saying anything else as your thighs shake and you wish he had hair that you could bury your fingers in as he laps at you.

When the heat of it really starts to build and your whines start sounding more desperate, the very core of you slick along his lips and tongue is when he stops.  It’s all a means to an end and as far as he’s concerned he’s done more than enough to prepare you. 

He ignores your whimper of protest as he pulls away and props himself up above you again, taking inventory of your flushed face and chest, your parted and kiss-swollen lips.

Good, you’re ready, he seems to think.  He lines himself up, and your breath hitches as you shut your eyes.

“Keep ‘em open,” he says immediately, and you relent, gazing up at a pair of eyes that glint nearly silver, pupils wide.

The blunt head of him is wide, and you realize that the preparation, his fingers and tongue, weren’t enough to ease the passage.  He’ll tear you open.  He watches your face and the growing panic in your eyes and presses forward.

Fear is the mind-killer.  It is the little–

The first press of him knocks the air out of your lungs in a sob.  You lurch up, clutching at his back as your inner thighs clench around his sides as he thrusts in the first couple of inches.  You squirm around him, shifting, hoping to get unstuck like you’re a worm on a hook.  He just pushes in deeper with a grunt, his hand clutching your hip to keep you still so he can bury himself within you the rest of the way.

It hurts, you want to protest, as if he can’t tell already.  As if he doesn’t enjoy how he’s skewering you onto him.

You’ve been in worse pain than this.  Remember when you broke your arm when you were nine?  If it weren’t for the fact that you’ve never felt more vulnerable in your life to the most frightening man you’ve ever met who–you hope–is now fully inside of you, you’d almost laugh.

Virgin sex: not as painful as breaking an arm.

You dig your nails in.  Feyd-Rautha gives a breathless laugh and a sharp thrust that has you crying out and digging your nails in deeper.

“Does my little pet want to get her claws in me?” he says, the first time he’s spoken in several minutes.  You try to relax your hands, just gripping onto his back.  “I didn’t say ‘stop,’” he adds.

He likes pain, the Reverend Mother told you.

Well, alright, then.

You grit your teeth and scratch down the length of his back.  He groans, a rumble deep in his chest before pulling out nearly to the tip of him and pushing all the way back in again.  It helps, in a way, the feeling of reciprocating the pain.  The difference is that you’re barely tolerating it, but he’s enjoying it.  He seems to like the pressure of your kneecaps digging into his sides, the nails down his back.

Curiosity strikes and you reach up and pull him down close enough to bite down on his collarbone and he gasps, hips stuttering for a moment, a moan pulled out of him before he resumes thrusting into you with deeper rolls of his hips.

You’re not sure when the moment happens that you start to adjust, the sting of it fading to a sore stretch.  You still feel impossibly full, but the ache of it feels like a minor tear, not like you’ve just been split in half.  

It’s soon after that he draws the first real moan out of you since before he entered you and it gives you pause; the stroke of his hips had been just right, you’d tilted yours in just a way that actually felt good in a way that tugged at your insides.  After a moment he tries again and you can’t help but make the same noise, holding onto him as the push and pull of his thrusts finally starts to feel right, like an act that’s natural rather than a punishment.

It’s then that he pulls out, and you yelp in shock; you were only starting to get adjusted to having him inside of you and he hasn’t spilled his seed yet.  You barely have time to understand what’s happening as he flips you onto your front and hauls you up, grabbing your hips.

It feels like another invasion, the angle tighter.  You won’t be able to hold onto him or take your pain out on him.  You scramble to get your forearms under you as he well and truly starts fucking you.  You hadn’t realized that he’d been holding back at all.

You do realize, though, that he not only tolerates your hair but likes it, when he wraps your tresses around his hand and sharply tugs like your hair’s a harness.  You can’t help any of the desperate noises that you make, shaking, as you’re repeatedly pulled back onto his cock.  The heat of tears builds in your eyes as you lower your head, only for him to tug it back by your hair. 

You give another cry, which spurs him on.  Pleasure, pain, it seems like it’s all the same to him so long as he can keep pulling desperate sounds out of you.  He speeds up, goes harder, the snap of his hips against your ass loud to the point of obscene within the echoes of his room.

And then you feel it, warm and viscous inside of you as he gives a choked moan, grunting as he thrusts into you one last time and holds still, his hands still on your hips.  You gasp, freezing, before moaning even though you're not entirely sure if you like the sensation of it or not.

You feel him pull away from you and twist onto your back, your legs bent to avoid colliding with him, as he kneels on the edge of the bed and wipes his bloody cock off on the sheets.

You catch your breath as you bring a hand against your forehead, trying to think.

It’s done; you got through it. 

He turns to look at you, at your parted lips, your breasts rising and falling as your breath evens out, your inner thighs where a small smear of blood remains, and wordlessly brings a thumb to the tacky skin there.

You blink, eyes widening as he looks you in the eye and licks off the already-drying blood.  He tilts his head, still looking between your legs, when his fingertips slide against your slit, collecting both a little blood and a dribble of his seed that leaked out of you.  Without a word he settles back over you and brings his fingers to your lips.

You try to think about what he’d want from you at this moment, and all that comes to mind is to mirror him.  You try to shut out the part of you that feels revulsion at the sight and the smell and part your lips.  

You can’t look away from him as he presses the calloused pad of his thumb on your lips and pushes further, onto your tongue.  You want to flinch away at the salt of your blood mixed with the viscous salt of his seed, but with his other hand he cups your jaw.  His movements could be seen as gentle and if he were a different man this act could be seen as intimate, but no, not with him.  He’s trying to humiliate you, you’re sure.  Because he then says, quietly, “Close your mouth,” and you hesitate, face heating up with shame, before you do.

For a moment you want to pull back and spit the mixture back out into his face.  There must be a flicker of that want in your eye because he tilts his head in a silent challenge.

Go on.  Try it, he seems to say.

You want to, but you do the opposite, the new goal to be to catch him off-guard again.  You force yourself to taste the residue from both of your bodies off his fingers.  You lick delicately around the digits and watch his eyes widen just a fraction.  You do it again, slowly, realizing that you’ve surprised him again.

He pulls his fingers out, his full lips parted.

“Don’t swallow,” is all he says before crushing his mouth against yours. 

You didn’t think you were ignorant, but you don’t fully understand what this is, what it’s called, why he’s enjoying it so much.  It’s a tool you think you might have but don’t have any frame of reference for and aren’t sure how to use as he groans as the liquids merge between you in a desperate open-mouthed kiss.  You just know that you’re learning enough to keep him interested.  He lays fully against you, and you have enough time to think that his chest feels nice pressed up against yours before he reaches in between your legs to feel the puffy, bruised apex where he’d buried himself.

Is he already getting aroused again?  

You get your answer when he flips you onto your stomach for the second time and pulls your hips up just enough for him to settle behind you.  For a moment you lurch forward, away from his grip but of course he pulls you back.  Alarm sets in.  I need time.  I’m still recovering from the first time you split me open.  You hear yourself whine as he slides his rapidly-stiffening cock in between your tender folds as if to plead for his mercy.  He doesn’t grant it, moaning at the desperate sound.  You realize that he’s working himself the rest of the way in his own hand before pressing it back up against you and pushing inside of you in one sharp thrust.

In some ways it’s easier; you’re sufficiently stretched out at this point to take him inside of you, and the combination of blood and semen’s added second and third coats of lubrication.

But then he’s rougher; there’s no preamble, no brief moments of letting you adjust to the intrusion.  He goes hard and fast on your torn and bruised insides, and this time he doesn’t say a word.  All you hear are beast-like grunts as he pulls you onto him.

Just finish.  Please just finish and get it over with, you think as your cries become hoarse, and then nothing more than pathetic whimpers.  That in itself seems to spur him on, how much he’s wearing you out and taking you to the very limits of what you can handle. 

You collapse the rest of the way onto your front, panting and sweaty, and you shut your eyes when you can sense he’s almost done, shuddering as his thrusts become more erratic and he finally–thankfully–comes, filling you up a second time and you could cry with the relief of it.

He holds on for a moment, as if trying to make sure as much of him as possible stays inside of you as he settles down, his front against your back, his breath against the nape of your neck.  And then he pulls out and you wonder if this is how it feels when a person who’s just been stabbed feels the knife leave their body right before you sense him turn and fall onto his back against the sheets.

You remain on your front,  the side of your face resting on your forearm as you just don’t have it in you to move again.  You just hope that Feyd-Rautha’s finally done for the night.  You turn your head to the other side to look at him and confirm.

His penis looks a lot less intimidating when it’s soft and resting against his thigh.  You watch his chest rise and fall and briefly think about running a hand over it, and long the ridges of his abdomen even as you can’t say you’re proud of yourself for the instinct.  He just seems almost docile now, reclining on his back, after he’s rutted inside of you twice. It's almost like wanting to pet a sedated dog that had been trying to bite you.  You watch him raise one leg slightly, enough to bend his knee, and you notice more scars along his inner thigh that are even paler than the rest of him.  They don’t look recent, but not as old as the ones on his back.

He turns his head and looks at you, and reaches out, bringing a hand to your backside, lazily caressing a cheek before bringing his palm down in a hard smack.  He smirks at how the soft flesh jiggles and at your responding yelp.

“It was right there,” he says by way of explanation.  You’re tired enough that you can’t help but snicker as you keep your head pillowed on your forearms and try to focus on the softness of the sheets under you rather than the unrelenting ache between your legs.  You look at each other, him likely surveying the damage as you catalog him in what is probably the closest he ever gets to a relaxed state.

“Can you stand?” Feyd-Rautha asks after a moment.

You’re not entirely sure you can move your legs.  “In a moment, maybe,” you admit.

“Then take a moment,” he says.  “Then you can call your girl to take you back to your quarters.”

You get up on your forearms to get a better look at him.  “You’re sending me away?” you ask.  You don’t mean the hurt tone in your voice.  Not that you even want to stay the night, but his dismissal feels insulting.  You’re the one whose insides are sore and bleeding, after all.  Is he not even going to give you more time to recover and just relax here?  Maybe kiss you one last time?  

“It’s more practical if I do,” he says.  “I’ll be up a few hours before you tomorrow.”  His tone is so matter-of-fact that any trace of intimacy over the past couple of minutes dissipates into thin air and you remember who you’re with.

“Right.”  You look over at your clothes on the dresser.  You wince at the effort, but turn to your side and sit up facing away from him.  You can feel his stare burning into your back.

You wince as you sit forward and try to get your limbs to coordinate with you as you shift your legs.

You look down at the sheets and wonder if Feyd-Rautha’s going to have someone come in to clean them immediately after you leave.

No, you realize.  He’ll have someone come in to put down new ones, certainly, but he’ll be holding on to the bloodied sheets.  They’ll serve as a trophy, proof that he deflowered the heiress to the House of Y/H.

You don’t look back at your new husband as you get up, shakily at first, needing to hold onto the bed to stabilize you.

You need to walk gingerly, and the feel of Feyd-Rautha watching your discomfort makes it worse.  You feel tears build again, this time from anger.  You think to yourself that you might’ve been able to handle everything else tonight better if he were a little kinder to you afterwards, and gave you something to temper the roughness as he’d prepared you beforehand.  And here he is smugly watching the pain you’re in because of him, congratulating himself on how he wrecked your virgin cunt.

This is fucking undignified.  I’m part of a Major House, too, you think as you pull on your chemise and step into your slippers.  Finally you’ve decided that you’re not going to let this insult pass and turn to him.  He’s sitting up, his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped loosely around them as he watches you and that somehow makes it even worse.  “Is this amusing for you?” you demand, thinking, Of course it is, you stupid girl.  He and his kind get off on this sort of thing.

He looks neither embarrassed nor smug, but leans forward a little as he considers you.  “You did well tonight,” he says. 

“Thank you, Na-Baron,” you say coldly as you reach for your robe.  

“I like it when you call me husband,” he adds, and you glance back at him.  “That’s what you should call me when we’re alone together.”

You look at him a moment longer.  You realize that this is just about the closest he can get to being kind to you, at least tonight.  Whatever tenderness he’d shown when he first touched you was to serve his own purpose.  Now that he’s taken what he wants there’s nothing else to give you.  It’s not even intentional cruelty on his part, you don’t think.  It’s just the absence of everything else.

With a resigned sigh you pull on your robe and give him a curt nod.  “I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow, husband,” you tell him, pad over to the door, and open it just far enough to see Idrisa standing post just outside.  You head into the hallway and shut the door behind you without another word or glance backwards.

“How much of that were you able to hear?” you ask her.  

She tries to spare you.  “The walls are thick, Na-Baroness,” she says, and you’re even more grateful for the short distance to your chambers than you’d been before.

At your bedside you notice that there’s a jug of water and a glass, then beside them a dish.  You head for it to inspect closer and it turns out there are two small white tablets.  You turn to look at her.

Idrisa shrugs one shoulder.  “Part of the benefits of being promoted to your attendant,” she says.  “I felt it would be safer to take precautions and assume you’d need pain relief after…” she trails off, realizing there is no polite way to say getting fucked hard for the first time by a man who delights in your pain and just repeats, “after.  I spoke with a Healer who agreed that it would be safer to plan for that.”

As you reach for a tablet she adds quickly, “I wouldn’t take more than half if I were you.”

You pause, the tablet to your mouth.  “Why?” you ask.

She hesitates.  “I wasn’t sure how severe your pain would be afterwards,” she says.  “I really didn’t know how to predict so I requested two tablets.  Looking at you now, half a tablet should suffice.”

You look down at the dish and then back at her.  Just how badly did you think tonight would go for me? you want to ask, but then realize that there are some questions you don’t actually want answers to.  

You smile at her in gratitude, snap the tablet in half, and wash it down with the offered water.  “Will it help me sleep?” you ask.

She inclines her head in the affirmative.  “Now let’s get you cleaned up and ready for bed,” she says.  

“It’s alright.  I can handle the rest myself,” you tell her.

Her brow furrows and she frowns.  “It’s my duty to look after you,” she says.  

“I understand, but right now I need to be alone,” you tell her.

She looks nervous, as if her dismissal is some kind of failure on her part and something for which she’ll be punished later.

“You’ve done a great job,” you tell her.  “But the best way to take care of me tonight is to let me do this myself.”

“Whatever you wish, Na-Baroness,” she says finally.  “Good night, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

……………..

You pad over to the bathroom and a minute later find yourself sitting on the edge of your bathtub with a warm, wet towel in one hand as you inch up the hem of your chemise with the other.  

You wince at the first press of the towel against your tender skin.  You don’t want to look directly at the damage, wishing you still had hair down there to obscure some of it.  You shut your eyes as you wipe around your inner thighs.  You wipe directly between your legs and the sharp bite of the pain makes you briefly double over.  After a moment you look down at the used towel; there’s not as much blood as you thought, as it feels like it was spilled out of you, but you’re going to have to wring it out and start over if you want to feel clean.  Maybe you won’t feel clean again.

The reality of it all hits you, sharply, and you feel like you’ve been stabbed and a part of you realizes that the worst is yet to come.

For the first time since finding out you would be linked to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, you break down and cry.

[angstyandromanticwriting]

☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽

☦︎︎ “𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒐𝒆𝒔𝒏’𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖.” ☦︎︎

☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽

An Angela Orosco (SH2R V.) X Fem!Reader Angsty, Cute, and Fluffy Prompt

[Just a Short Prompt For Today]

Minors DNI!!!

* Dealing with some possibly disturbing themes, here!

I will always try and make links between prompts + main instalments whenever I am writing for a consistent few characters!

* Feel free to refer to earlier instalments for this character + her Reader here!

The Word Count [Exclusive to this Prompt]: standing around 1.6k!

Takes place after James has achieved the ‘Leave Ending’ + engaging with the ‘loop’ perspective of the game!

I hope you enjoy it!

There will be more!

!TW(s) [The Specifics]: Child Abuse (Implied & Referenced), Sexual Abuse/Incest (Implied), Emotional Manipulation & Psychological Trauma, PTSD Reactions/Panic Responses, Self-Worth Issues & Internalised Guilt, References to Suicidal Ideation/Self-Harm (Emotional Implications), C-PTSD Symptoms (Dissociation & Fear of Abandonment & Hyper-Vigilance), Mentions of Past Domestic Violence/Family Trauma - if I’ve missed any here, please feel free to let me know; thank you, and I hope you enjoy it!

It Happened/Can’t Hide Away

You don’t know what to do, after that.

For a few moments you just freeze up.

You’re glued to the ground you’re half-pushing yourself up upon just to keep your gaze on her, worried that maybe she’ll disappear again if you look away, but she doesn’t move.

She just stays perched in place, shaking lightly as she whimpers, keeping her head low as she hunches over slightly, holding her legs to her chest again.

“Stop,” you hear her whine, as your heart sinks; you hate seeing her like this, as you carefully reach for her again, only to prompt her to jolt back as her eyes widen, glistening with unshed tears as she shuffles further away, and you feel more empty than you ever have before.

“Ange,” you strain, voice trembling faintly as she shakes her head, eyebrows furrowing as if she can’t work out who you are again; can’t see past the barrier in her head as she whimpers barely audibly, just wanting the pain of everything to go away somehow.

“I - I can’t,” she manages, eventually, shaking her head a little more numbly as you nod tightly, carefully shifting forward a little, and hastily raising your hands in surrender as she looks back up at you, alarmed, eyebrows tilting upwards a little the way they do when she’s thinking too hard, and expecting everything to try and hurt her again.

“Then - Then don’t - Angela, you - I - I’m not expecting anything from you, okay? I - I could never-.. just - please, don’t-”

“But-.. why? Why aren’t you-? They all said it - they said I deserved it, why - why wouldn’t you-?”

“They were all nothing, but liars, and assholes, Angela - you shouldn’t even bother thinking anything about what they told you, because none of it was true - I know it wasn’t; it - it could never be-..”

Her head is bowed again as she lightly shakes it, eyes closed tightly, and you want nothing, but to try and hold her again; to try and take the memories away, but you know better than to try and move just yet, as you continue to try and fight back the urge, heart beating way too fast again.

“You weren’t there,” she murmured, and you winced, before nodding your head as you shrug nonchalantly, determination still written upon your face despite the ache in your chest, pulsing violently against your ribcage.

“I didn’t have to be to know that what they all did to you was wrong. It all was. E-Even if you never really said what-.. I know what happened to you.”

She tenses up again, at that, a sharp breath escaping her as she looks back toward you, and you wonder - just for a brief second - if it had been a mistake to admit or even claim that you knew when she herself hadn’t really said much about her family, other than that they were emotionally manipulative, and some snatches regarding her father that made your skin crawl hatred, and pain, all at the same time.

But you thought you knew, now, from one of those dreams.

The dreams that helped you and Angela both to try and break the barrier between memory and reality; past, and present, despite everything the town had been trying to threaten you with and communicate to you somehow.

They’d never once lied, or failed you.

Except when you’d had to see the Angela you often saw in the same dreams die, in different ways, and several times over.

It was painful enough having to see her suffer like that; to be stuck in place as she disappears each time, and the dream fades out, but having to see her do stuff like that to herself?

It was almost enough to break you more than you could ever break yourself, and yet the only thing that stopped you from breaking down was the fact that when you woke up each time she was still there for you.

Still breathing.

Still close by.

Not running away again.

That being said, yes - you were sure you knew at least almost everything now.

Her mother, the liar.

Her father, the drunk and incestuous rapist.

Utter abuser.

Bullshitter.

Her brother, the bully.

The manipulative.

Your heart sinks as you think about it again.

As you think about them, and what they did to her.

“It wasn’t your fault, Angela - what - what they did, it - it could never be-”

“No-!”

She strains out sharply, as you falter, worried maybe you’ve crossed a line as you bow your head, a pained expression forming too easily on your face again.

“I’m sorry, Ange,” you murmur, as she breathes shakily; a little more shallowly, gaze still wide and wet as it remains locked upon you, even as you coax your voice back out, and she continues gently to cling to your every word, “but I can’t just sit here and say that they were right; that - that they-.. that you deserved what they did, when-.. Angela-.. I can’t just trust the word of anyone or just trust anyone who doesn’t absolutely love you, like - like I do. I just can’t. Especially not - not when I know that they-.. that they hurt you the way that they did, okay? So no, I’m not going to agree and say that they were right; that you deserved anything they gave you, because you didn’t. You never could. Angela-”

“Then-.. what do I deserve, if-.. if I don’t deserve what-.. what they-..?”

She asks, gaze averting for a brief moment as she looks back up at you, and your breath stutters again.

“More,” you breathe, first, as her eyebrows furrow, and she tilts her head partially back at you, “so much more.”

You shift slightly, but not enough to scare her away again.

“You deserve to be loved, Angela - not hurt, a-and I - that’s why I - well, partly why I’m still here; still bothering to try and breathe, just for you, I-.. I love you, Angela Orosco, okay? I loved you since I-.. and I’m sorry if - if all I’m doing is overwhelming you, b-because I - that’s not what I wanted to do - I could never just-”

“You don’t overwhelm me,” she interjects softly, voice just above a faint whisper, as you falter again, gaze timidly meeting her beautifully dark orbs like they did before, “he does. Y/n, you - you could never-”

Her voice cracks, as she winces, before tightly shaking her head, and averting her gaze away from your own again.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, as you shake your head, not wanting her to think she has to apologise to you when she hasn’t even done anything to hurt you whatsoever.

She never could.

You didn’t think you’d ever trusted someone this much with your life before.

Not like this.

Not even Clara could make you want to give yourself up like that, the way Angela does.

And just for her, too.

No matter what.

“It’s okay,” you reply softly, and her shoulders relax slightly as she looks back toward you, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen her eyes that sparkly before.

Part of you wondered if it was just the tears, but another half of you couldn’t help, but think maybe it was more.

Maybe she was seeing you.

Truly seeing you.

More than anyone else ever had before.

More than you could even see yourself, too.

Your heart stutters, at the thought, before you awkwardly clear your throat, and timidly look away when you feel your cheeks heating up again, and faster than they ever had before.

“We, erm - we should probably have some food, before we head out again, right?”

Angela tenses for a moment, before she nods tightly, unable to stop how she remembers the next hallway, and the door at the end of the corridor.

You frown, when you notice the faint hint of worry on her face; the way her eyebrows tilt again, as her eyes grow cloudy with something distant, and your heart sinks just to see her like that as you gently voice her name, prompting her to jolt a little as the guilt faintly washes over you, before you try and coax your voice back out through the numbing pain of the fear of doing something to make her run away as you try and continue, her demeanour gradually relaxing as you went along again.

“We don’t have to go down there yet,” you whisper gently, and she falters in place again, “I promise you we don’t; hey, erm - why don’t we check out what’s upstairs, instead? I don’t want you to feel like-”

“Okay,” she manages faintly, her voice hardly there, as a shuddery breath escapes you, the relief intensely gripping you as you smile softly over at her, and carefully reach out to gently hold her closest hand again.

She’s hesitant, at first, to reach back, as if she’s having to relearn how to cope with this strange, but beautiful new feeling as she carefully lets her fingertips meet your’s, her eyelids fluttering for a moment as she then lets her hand slip over to rest on top of your offering as you carefully reach for the bag of supplies you’d both compiled together to pull out some of the remaining dry goods you’d both found in the last room as you share them out together, and try and hide the dread still settling in the depths of your stomach as you think about what’s to come, and what might be waiting for you both when you finally decide to move toward the staircase, and to navigate the first part of the second floor together with worried, but hopeful composures as best as you both can again.

☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽

Thank you so much for reading, guys!

I hope you enjoyed it, and are looking forward to the next one!

I will ensure to get this uploaded onto the Angela Orosco Masterlist, shortly, as well as posted onto ao3, at some point!

Until then, I hope you all have a lovely rest of the day/night, and I look forward to seeing you again, soon!

For now, however, I have been - as usual,

And as always,

Your ever faithful, H.H.

Until the next time, guys! 💜

☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽☦︎︎☾☽

[crime-bot]

tw ... implied/referenced trafficking, s/a + incest, & average loki shenanigans such as broken bones & trying to kill akechi goro

i actually imagined goro and loki earlier in 3rd sem with everyone around, loki trying to hurt him + them and robinhood restraining him so goro can be a little shit /positive and say shit like "i don't recall you being the one on display for the conspiracy, loki. i don't recall you sucking daddy's dick just to live." and the pts are like omfg. lots of comfort for goro that day even from haru who hates his ass. goro has a new scar across his throat because loki attempts to slit it. futaba finding footage and covered up with hush-money articles once goro's asleep across ann, sumi, & akira's laps and confirms it and the pts all quietly agree to do smth abt it regardless of how they feel abt goro. pts giving him affection though he tries to push it away. makoto tells sae and that leads sae to tell naoto shirogane (previously mentioned 1st detective prince) and that leads to sae and naoto and sojiro all being somewhat protective of but also guarded around this kid who they wish they could've saved.

goro needs to be happy actually.

HELL YEAH YOU SPEAK UP GORO!

And all the PTs comforting him the day after... them realizing all the kinds of shit he was put through... and the Adults being protective with him!!!! FUCK yeah man!!!

It just warms my heart, having stories of Goro getting the care and protection that he's been missing for Too Damn Long. Of having his deeds acknowledged while also being aware of how he's a victim to a shit ton of messed up things...

[golwenlothlindel]

Based on the sun-disk dragon, it's a pretty safe bet this is Welsh mythology in an art-deco interpretation. While plenty of cultures have dragons, to the best of my knowledge they were only associated with the Sun in Wales.

What this probably depicts is Gwydion finding Lleu Llaw Gyffes in the tale of Math fab Mathonwy from the Mabinogion. The characters in the Mabinogion are usually interpreted to be Celtic gods, recast as folk heroes after Christianization (for one thing, they do an awful lot of shapeshifting for supposedly human heroes). Lleu was a god of fertility, kingship and oaths: hence the wheat motif on his clothes. Gwydion is associated both with trees (his name is interpreted as "born of the trees") and with the Milky Way (traditionally called "the castle of Gwydion" in Welsh). Hence presumably, the blue cloak with gold oak leaves especially in that particular curve.

Lleu is wounded by a spear and exhausted from flying, Gwydion has just taken him down from an oak tree where he was hiding and transformed him back into a human. This is often interpreted as a "death", although the narrative does not come right out and say that Lleu died. Thus this story is often associated with Lughnassad, the end-of-summer harvest festival. Though how accurately this reflects pre-Christian Celtic practice is probably unknowable.

Although in the Mabinogion version these characters are Father and son (albeit secretly), it's not clear what their pre-Christian relationship was. According to this particular artist anyway, they're the Welsh version of Hades and Persephone: this pose is nearly identical to a famous depiction of the Greek deities from the same period. Which has some errr... uncomfortable implications unless this is from a version of the tale where they aren't related. And plus, Hades isn't really the best comparison for Gwydion (who is not a death god, nor a god of the underworld, and also considerably more morally dubious). But well... if you were putting the gay in the Gay '90s then nobody was much concerned with accuracy, I suppose.