#Inter tutor

[tutorinkarachi]

Home tuition in Karachi 0313-2287896

In Karachi, home tuition has become an increasingly popular educational option, providing students with personalized learning experiences tailored to their individual needs. This approach offers the flexibility of receiving lessons in the comfort of one’s own home, allowing for a more relaxed and focused environment. With the city’s diverse educational landscape, home tuition services cater to a…

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Doddles nocturnos de un AU relacionado al post anterior

[malvoile]

Me and the Devil ; i

ɪᴛ ʀᴀɪɴꜱ ᴏɴ ᴄᴀʟᴀᴅᴀɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱʜɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ.

word count: 7k warnings: arranged marriage, politics, graphic scenes of blood, violence, & death of family. trauma, past abuse (harkonnen&feyd rautha warning) not much else. mutual mistrust. notes: hi! tysm to my new followers ily all <3 here's chapter one remastered of this fic [originally posted on @tremendum ] - (inspiration for reader's family is taken from the family of tsar nicholas ii, so if it feels familiar that's why.) feedback very much appreciated :)

prelude series masterlist

Penitent Crimes of Retaliation;

“In accordance with the legal doctrine of the 'Reprisal Accord', as sanctioned by the High Court of the Landsraad, attacked houses are granted the right to retaliate against proven offenses committed against them; This action shall such be labelled as ‘Penitent Crimes of Retaliation.’ 

Under this mandate, should sufficient evidence be presented, the aggrieved house may initiate a retaliatory strike and is sanctioned to engage in warfare against the offending party. While reparations for damages incurred during the conflict are mandated, perpetrators shall be exempt from criminal sentences ensuring a balanced recourse within the framework of inter-house disputes; as deemed by a jury of the Great Houses Major and Minor at court."

- From the Reprisal Accord, Office of the Padishah Emperor. Imperium, 10041. 

There was once a time when green was your favorite color. 

You'd enjoyed a childhood of it – Peridot stones glittering upon headdresses, jade figurines, the velveted forest of winter dresses; halls draped with verdant portraits of the faces which came before you, and before you, and before you – all shroud in that forested pride; an ancient thing, to know the ground of the planet and to take life from the same roots as the trees around you. 

A life cushioned in the nested hearth of mountainside and jade pools of glacier; and of course the breathstealing height of the sacred Pine. Viridescent flicks of the woven banner of your house, waving in the snow-whipped wind; A snarling green wolf upon grey armor, a hall of decadent verdant heirloom stones. 

And in the three months each year when the ice melts off the lower glaciers – the glacial lakes, thawed into that deep emerald green. Your brother, your sisters and you, charging with wild hollers and flailing limbs as tutors and soldiers alike chased after you; scolds and yelps of fear dying on chapped lips as young bodies leapt into the glossy pools, rippling screams through the woods. 

In the yawning abyss of childhood, there’s always been that lingering haunt color; When the men of a faraway House Major arrived to retrieve your older sister, she'd been shroud in that very same sacred pine-satin. An elegant dress, you remember quite clearly – draped in gold and jade, haunting the mouth of the ship in her shining emerald headpiece as she turned to wave goodbye for the last time.

A constant source of home, perhaps; and a reminder of the ever-churning yield of abundance the planet gifted your family. Gifts of life, spurting through the ice, growing over centuries within the warm breast of mountain caverns – miners returning to the villages and towns surrounding the castle, hands stained with verdant dust. Green, that gift of life.  

Even at your sister's funeral. 

A glossy forested casket, laid to rest in the ground of a foreign planet – the wind was sharp against the dark emerald veils of the women of House Bourbon the day you said goodbye to your sister. 

Killed by the birth of her first – a son. You became the oldest of your siblings that day. 

It was an honor, your parents had told you through tears as the earth swallowed the emerald peeks of casket through handfuls of dirt; an honor to serve your family, to serve the Sisterhood, to serve the Imperium. 

Years churn on, as they always do – and somewhere across the Imperium, perhaps a new life has sprouted ,evergreen above the plot where your sister lies in eternal rest. But you can hardly stand to look at green anymore. 

No, instead, you mostly see black.

They'd sent you away to make for your house a fortune; a son, they'd wished, for your sake - and, by whispers of your Lady Mother, a daughter – but the nest you made was one of fear and survival; a place crawling with shadows and monsters and deadly smiles. 

Your na-Baron. 

If Feyd-Rautha ever had a semblance of hesitancy, it was when you first met four years ago. You were at the end of your seventeenth year and he, freshly eighteen – a cordial boy by at least Harkonnen standards; escorting you with an arm held out, eyes malicious and teeth glinting but nonetheless tamed to curved glances and sickeningly sinister grins. 

He'd even called you Lady Bourbon those first few months on Giedi Prime. 

Perhaps in many ways, you can consider yourself lucky. Even if only for your bloodline, or the power laced through the syllables of the name you come from – or even, Maker forbid, in some way for yourself – Feyd-Rautha has indeed taken special care of you. Perhaps he does care for you – the care a panther reserves for his chosen prey. 

Despite his endless vanity, he still has stooped so as to admit he waited too long to claim you as wife; a feat which, in some way, might bring him just a step higher in the chokehold his family holds the Imperium – and you, with tongue as sharp as your mind, know when to push and when to dissolve into those dark shadows he loves so much. 

So you’ve let him stew in fury, avoiding eyes and sneaking from column to column; ears pressed to oaken doors with a trembling hand. 

The accusations had come from Baron Vladimir; House Bourbon has been stealing the precious refinery codes, committing treason against the trading accords along the Harkonnen-dominated exportation route. And perhaps, he thought, you’ve been the one to plot against your beloved future family.

But Feyd-Rautha knows better – knows you'd never dare betray him for the sake of your life or purely through the denial of access. Feyd was, after all, the one to demand a public execution of your family and, in the same breath, redirect your sentencing to imprisonment. As if you weren't already. 

Don't look away. See what we do to scum, my pet? 

Hatred flows thicker than blood; and perhaps if you'd had your blade this morning, you would have finally plunged it right into the junction of creamy skin upon his neck, right there in the stands. 

You were, in some ways, relieved when their bodies hit the sand fast. You've never seen your brother's skin so reflective as you did this morning; and the black sun, oppressive as it is intense, still could not hide the blood that had seeped from him.

A deafening roar of the crowd still did not muffle the glistening cries of the two girls; the ones no older than seventeen and nineteen, the ones who carry your nose, and your hair, and your laugh, and your blood. The crowd could not muffle the sharp loss of breath as the blades slid slow across the seam of their necks to spill that which you share so intrinsically. 

You'd swallowed thickly, twitching to look away, gasp – to cry; but any semblance of pain was concealed under layers of unbudging, seething hatred. There is no space here for anguish; Your na-Baron would love it too much.

Why don't you leave me with them, then? You'd hissed through your teeth.

Though he was wild and psychotic, growling with hunger at the bloodsport in front of him, he heard you for what you'd said. Feyd's fingers pulled your hair hard, forcing your chin up towards his crazed stare. A sickly glint in the black sun, his teeth shone with hunger. 

You'd have me throw you to your Wolves, and lose my prize? He'd tutted, kissing your forehead with a sickening sweetness; enough so that the servants had turned away their spider-black gazes. They didn't care much for the acts of affection you'd occasionally show one another – they know just as well as you that in a world marred by ugliness, any glimpse of beauty becomes a hauntingly grotesque show of power. 

He'd snarled, a growling rumble through the chanting crowd of spectators screaming kill the Wolves; His breath was hot against your cheek. You're mine to keep – there's plenty of life left for you to serve.  

He'd held your hand tight as they slit your father's throat – he was too drugged to put up a fight worthy of retaining his life; after minutes, his blade fell. It was then both of your sisters, swift deaths prolonged only by the wisps of prana-bindu that remained in their muscles’ memories, by the screams that heightened the jeering crowd in bloodthirst. Next came the assassination of your brother; the Tsarevich, the boy whose grasp on his knife shook as he looked up towards your seat helplessly. 

Your mother had fought as much as she could in her drugged state – a Weirding Woman, whose flashing arms and darting legs outsmarted the Harkonnen fighters for far longer than what must have been expected. A Ginaz fighter until the end. 

You saw it all with nails torn into your palms; the Harkonnens are ruthless, and Feyd-Rautha had sat calmly beside you with a sickly grin. 

Your mother met the slow knife’s blade against her throat. It should have finished quickly – but in your horror: The neckline of her gown was too high, and too thickly inlaid with encrusted heirlooms. 

Bless their voided souls.

The emeralds that tore from her gown as she'd spilled her blood to the sand sent a ripple of pain out of your throat; and Feyd had buried his face in your neck, teeth sharp and gaze glued to your own ruby blood beading out of your clenched palms, blackened in the sun's light.

If anybody would have bothered to look before burning the bodies, you know they'd find all the family diamonds sewn into the fabric of their clothing. Centuries of your House, melted away.

And Feyd-Rautha had drank up your agony with his lips, smiling as his hand wrapped around your throat. 

Now, alone and away from the thick industrial air, your chambers are cold and suffocating.

There are screams coming from the hall – not the kind that you've grown to associate with your na-Baron testing his new blades, but the kind that comes with danger. With change. 

As it turns out, you are not Feyd-Rautha's to keep any longer.

A loud noise outside of your quarters jolts you from your bed with shaky legs, whispering to yourself. They're coming for you. The sheets are crisp against your awaiting, tensed body; the blade gifted to you on your nameday three years ago by your husband-to-be grasped in your palm; still tainted with the ghost of your own blood.

Your whispers reverberate in the empty room, a spiny crawl of black moulding curling around your bed and awaiting the coming voices. "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me–”

Your voice shakes, despite yourself. Air puffs from your lips as your blood rushes - few things remain from your early days of training, before you were sent off to become a Harkonnen; This remains a relic.

A loud clash outside – blades against the failing force of shields.  

For a moment, a hand grasps your arm; ghost-white and possessive, it claws at your skin, voice rumbling through your mind. Don't look so sad, my pet. 

The door to your chambers begins to slam with an external force; Soon, the soldiers will enter, and you will do what must be done. 

The hand squeezes upon your wrist harder – you bite back a cry. I will never let them keep what is mine. I will find you again. 

You almost wish he will. 

Slow as a predator, you rise from the sheets; a preparation for a fight that will end before it begins. A fight that has already been won.  

Even when the hand upon your arm is gone into the shadows, succeeded only by a whispering ghost of bruises clutching your skin, you do not stop the old prayer; in fact, you hardly notice that you're saying it at all. 

Even as the doors give in. 

"-and when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing – only I will remain–” 

The soldiers arrive in a burst of splintered doors and smooth movements; the one at the front, flanked by only two others clad in Atreides-tan armor, triggers some faint memory from a lost childhood. 

He moves towards you in the sickeningly familiar stride, and it fills you with rage. 

Duncan. Why did you wait so long? 

It is too late. You lunge, snarling like the wild beast you've become; You fight, because that is the only thing you know how to do. It is the only thing you have left. 

Your blade falls within minutes and you're taken by the man from your past not a minute after; you're on a ship, watching the black Opiuchi B disappear in an hour. 

“My Lady.”

There is a buzzing downfall of drizzling rain that slides over the umbrella’s spine above you. The air here is thicker, laced in salt and terra; the voice snaps your mind back to the ground. Wind whips the veil draped over your head as you step forward stiffly, arms sore and eyes heavy. 

The dress you wear, salvaged from your family's old castle, is dusty and pressed. 

It clings to your skin, drowns you, as the rain falls. A staff of House Atreides holds the umbrella above you, shielding the intricate detailing inlaid along the trim of the dress as you walk. 

The dress upon your shoulders is as tight a cage as the one you inhabited on Geidi Prime; and though it was an effort of good intentions, the Atreides' insistence of providing you with the necessities for you to perform your Sabberon's traditional customary mourning rituals has left you with a prickled spine and a saturation of spite bleeding into your heart. 

Your family may be gone, but the ghosts of their deeds remain with you; a hard goodbye to give when you alone remain to pay for their transgressions. Still, you have found yourself draped with the veil, the dresses, the jewelry; you, alone on a strange planet with the symbols of their crimes, of their betrayals, of their poisoned love. It's what they would have wanted. 

It is a death march from the hangar into the covered acceptance hall – banners of Hawks climb high towards the ragged cliffs, whipping and cerulean in the afternoon light. And ahead, stoic and proud, the members of House Atreides await you.

Your hands brush against the dark velvet – a texture you have not felt in years. It is odd, you notice, to catch the light of your skin not wrapped completely in black fabric; It has been many years, too, since you found yourself in green. 

It is with a prickled glance that you slow your pace behind Duncan Idaho – the man turns and glances at you when you begin to ascend towards the House members, but you can't bear the look of unfamiliarity that flickers over him when he looks at you now. Your chin remains high, your eyes over the line of cliff climbing towards the sky. 

Duncan, after these years, still looks the same – perhaps less tall, but that has more to do with your growth than his own; You, however, are not the same girl he last saw on Sabberon. Your hackles raised, your talons flexed within your palms: A coiling beast of hatred backed into a corner.

There is a coastline far beyond the hangar – and it calls to you quietly; a vast thing, cerulean, cold, and deep. You’d been otherwise occupied when the ship entered atmo to Caladan this afternoon; the sea remains something only within your mind, a figment whispering of golden lips and curling tides in the corners of your dreams. 

An urge strikes you as you begin to ascend the stone stairs towards the welcoming party; and subtly, you crane your neck outwards to catch a glimpse of that sea – a crashing call in the distance, the circle of gulls cutting through the clouded rainfall. But there is no ocean within sight; only jagged cliffs which rocket hundreds of feet above or drop off sharp below. 

Duncan stops just before you; Your spine straightens once more, vision concealed in hues of pine and evergreen as you take in the retinue standing before you. 

Duke Leto Atreides at the center; a man with peppered age, a tall pride and commanding stare – beside him, a woman in a gown of the same deep cerulean – Lady Jessica.

A flood of knowing penetrates you the moment your eyes find hers; through the veil she stares at you, before flicking her sight beyond you, to the Reverend Mother who’d travelled with your retinue as per High Court orders. A voice curls in the back of your mind, stalling your heartbeat for a slow moment.  Hello, sister.

Your lips purse as you look to the right, stood tall next to Lady Jessica; a boy intense in stare and proud in ceremonial uniform, eyes already awaiting your gaze with a sharp curiosity. Paul Atreides.

The son to whom you're now destined.

Even from your obstructed vision, there is no hiding such sharply beautiful features – a sculpted visage kissed with a smattering of freckles from the Caladan sun, pale from the weather; a curve of pouted lips, full, furrowed brows – curled dark locks and eyes wide and just as penetrating as his mother's. A properly handsome heir, you allow your heart's skip; But Maker, you realize as he solemnly watches your veil shift in the breeze, those eyes are so green. 

And most peculiar – within them, there is no hunger; nor hatred, no inkling of emotion besides a giveaway twitch of curiosity in the dragging gaze over your shrouded form. Some ancient stirring in your chest, a hibernated anger, a desire to bare teeth towards such an unassuming and altruistic stare – though you do no such thing, remaining balanced upon your feet and tense with the coiled hibernation of an awaiting serpent. 

There are eyes upon you with each movement of breath from your chest, and it stirs your fear in a way you’ve not felt in a long time.

It was easy to go unseen with the Harkonnens; by nature of arrogance and brashness, they paid no mind to the girl hiding around the shadows, slinking through the halls with a dark stare but blood that still bleeds green. The Atreides are no fools, and you are not one to think so; where Harkonnen honor lacks, Atreides honor flows in abundance. Though still, any such action that might come from a place of intrinsic value sets your teeth to edge. 

The Great Houses of the Landsraad have charged you to leave your nest of shadows, and you have done so. You have been shipped to a new world, a new chain to which you will forever be shackled.

You have learned to find the betrayal of emotion that lingers within the stare of men like Feyd-Rautha and Vladimir Harkonnen – the hunger, the greed, the danger; you have learned to sharpen your edges with the blade of their power, and you know now what your place in this galaxy must be. 

And yet, Paul Atreides: His stare betrays no emotion but duty; a foreign thing to you in these times, though as you scrutinize the twitch of his brow or the brush of eyelashes against cheek, you find yourself struck wary and off-balance. 

He does not have that wolfish hunger in his stare that you’ve come to know – in truth, if not for the boyish pout of his pink lips and his freshly-shaven jaw, you might have dared mistake him for his father; A Duke. 

You might have remained in your study of your betrothed if not for the echoing voice of Duke Leto speaking your name. A snap of your gaze towards the man in front of you as he nods warmly, “Welcome.”

It is an effort to bow in return to him, wincing through your stiffened muscles as your headpiece chimes with your movements. 

“We are honored to welcome you to Caladan.” It is an exceedingly polite, humane tone with which he addresses you; you, a stranger who has been delivered from the protection (which itself might even be a laughable term) of their sworn enemy. 

Though despite the sincerity, you find yourself struck with a stinging embarrassment: There is no honor to your presence, not anymore. 

It gives you a moment to gather your expression, however hidden behind the veil it may be – perhaps they can't quite make out your face, but Lady Jessica watches closely. She sees.

You take a sharp breath, swallowing away the lump of emotion in your throat. 

“Thank you, Duke Leto.” It is steel which grinds the melodically polite veneer of your voice; and without a hesitation you turn to greet the Lady of the House.

“Lady Jessica, it is a pleasure.” 

In response you are offered a smile as warm as the Duke’s voice; there is a flicker of understanding which floats along the line of blue in her irises, and it compels you to continue, “Thank you for welcoming me to your home,” You finish, hoping the steely reflection within your voice does not bleed unto the other ears. 

The rain falls quietly overhead, sliding over the high-drawn ceiling of the open acceptance hall. “We understand that these are trying times,” Lady Jessica begins; your legs feel weakened in a moment of shortened breath, though she finishes in a quiet nod. “We are relieved to have you on Caladan.” 

The spin of worldchange has caught up with you at the reminder of such trying times – a day and a half’s travel between systems behind you, and yet the deaths of your family meet you still with a fresh sickness of shock each time you close your eyes. Your headdress chimes lightly when you bow your head once more in appreciation of her words. 

The welcome feels rather intimate, in this moment – a retinue of four strong flanks behind you: Duncan Idaho, the Reverend Mother, and two Atreides soldiers; and before you stands the Duke and Lady, their Heir, and a party of five men in Atreides uniforms. Your eyes sweep them efficiently – no weapons; a surprising show of trust, knowing who indeed you have just been delivered from the clutches of. 

Perhaps they'd thought they'd be taking in some injured little dove; a cooing thing, wings clipped and battered by the ferocious boy who'd gifted her with a knife plunged between her ribs on her eighteenth nameday. A bitter thought. 

The scar that lies just below your breast on your right side is not a reminder, but instead fate carved into flesh – it does not ache; it hums with the echoes of pain grown to purpose.

It echoes of the months spent thrown into a pit under the glaring black sun; Not the arena that rang in the end of your family, no – this pit is smaller, with one large seat for the na-Baron himself; one not with a crowd of vicious jeering but with drugged concubines and slaves clutching blades to service his na-Baroness. 

A place to watch his pets play. 

Your eyes glance to the curved wounds scabbed over your hands – little half moons, skies of pain, etched into the palms of your hands. Destruction: the only thing you and Feyd-Rautha may have ever had in common. 

Unfortunately, you endured; a hard lesson, to live with Harkonnens, to be one of them – and with a clip of fear, you worry you may never be able to unlearn. 

It has been long enough for a bout of thunder to rumble up in the heavens above; you turn to the young man who stands next to Lady Jessica.

Your betrothed watches you in a peculiar tilt of head – subtle, but analytical; a gaze so green you have to look away, nodding slightly as you speak once more. “My Lord,” your heart thuds in your chest uncomfortably, wondering if he, too, will be as displeased as Feyd so often was when you spoke to him; though Paul does not so much as move as he inhales softly, eyes coasting over your jaded silhouette.  

“My Lady.” He returns the formality with a voice much softer than expected; your heart is struck with a cool unease, distrust tightening its clutches around your throat.

A silent moment hangs thick between you; it is only then that you see the tense coil of Paul’s shoulders – surely a mirror of your own. Defiance, your mind tells you. Though Duncan Idaho’s voice cuts through your observations quickly. “We have much to discuss.” 

Cutting to the chase, as always; you are relieved for the attention to fall off your presence as you let out a short exhale. “Yes–” though the Duke lifts a brow, eyes caught on the lump of gauze which wraps around Duncan’s bicep, concealed by his uniform. “–Idaho, Do you need to see treatment?” He questions the Swordsman. 

As Duncan laughs, your shoulders tense; and before you can consider some quieter death, he begins to speak. “No. Harkonnen blades are sharp – but so are Lady Bourbon's nails.”

It is immediate, the prickling of eyes which befall you from all sides, and a heated stare from your betrothed that you steadfastly ignore for the sake of glaring at Duncan. There is a smirk growing on his lips as the Swordsman addresses you. “You fight differently than I remember, Little Bourbon.” 

An old nickname, unearthed from the catacombs of the life you once lived in the wintered palace of Sabberon; a nickname so cherished in your youth and so foreign now that it knocks the air from your chest. Resentment curls within you at the warmth upon his tongue. 

The shame floods you just as fast as the pride does, and in the aftermath, you stand just as rigid as before, hands clenched into the velvet of your skirt, seething under your veil. 

There is no hiding the shock upon the Atreides' countenances; before them stands some monster, some savagery wrapped up in a gown and a pretty smile hidden beneath a veil. 

It had been a habit – rabid hounds don't tuck tail when cornered, do they?

Nonetheless, you smile tight behind the veil, trying not to think of the life you've just left – of what cold life lies ahead. 

When you respond, your voice is frigid. “It has been a long time, Duncan.” You muse; Paul’s piercing gaze of green penetrates the veil, but you ignore him. 

“Threats demand evolution.” 

The rain is gone into mist by the next day.

It rolls in fog along the moors outside, taunting an echo of tides far below the castle – in the morning room, forks scrape over blue-plated China. A grandfather clock lives in the corner; the seconds pass in quiet, insistent ticks. 

A cleared throat, a swallow of water – air blown across a plane of steeped tea. 

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

To your relief, your arrival last evening held no such time for small talk – you were whisked away by the service staff to make sure your quarters were comfortable; in the minutes you’d been given to yourself, you’d found the clothing of a former life – dresses, tops and trousers of yourself, your sisters and your mother; the dressings salvaged from the Castle on Sabberon in the week leading up to the trial at Harko Arena. 

All washed thrice of soot and rubble, hanging in wait of your touch within the wardrobes in the room. A sickening feeling had haunted you the moment you’d slipped your mother’s old ceremonial ferronnière and hair chain; the reflection of your stare in the mirror resembling too close the sharp gaze of her own. And that feeling had lingered in the shadows of your room still as you shut away the diadem of gold and emerald, the gowns, the old trousers your sister would wear to ritual; your eyes, burning along the skyline in the distance as you locked the wardrobe with trembling fingers. 

Late in the evening, you'd attended a meeting in a small conference hall. 

There, sat across from Paul, Masters of War and Swords and Strategy, a Mentat, and Lady Jessica, the Duke had asked you questions, ensuring you were not harmed – and perhaps more importantly, trying to ensure there was no malicious intent to your presence. It was in your sleepy haze you first detected the twitching motions of Lady Jessica's hands, the flicking gazes of the others as your voice carried to them. A war language, you’d realized quite quick. They think I am lying. 

You'd only been there for ten minutes before you were escorted by a handmaid back to your chambers, where you sat without rest through the night. 

Truthfully, you're breaking fast this morning with Lady Jessica and Lord Paul out of courtesy; You were up far before the sun had teased the horizon this morning, staring emotionless at the ghost who stood in the corner of your new chambers. 

He is not a new visitor; in the hazy world between waking and dreaming, you’re well used to the ghost – how he smirks by the foot of your mattress, whispering with sharp teeth, with sweet memories, with promises of blood and pain. You’d grown used to his presence, and you’d remained upright for most of the night – until something moved in the corner of your vision, and you screamed. 

That had woken one of the servants.

She came in with her head tilted down, holding a pitcher of water; you asked her to stay.

Her name is Hestia; close enough in age if not younger, as she must be merely twenty – the silence was hesitant but not wholly unpleasant as she’d sat, wary but willing as you shared the pot of tea brought for you. 

It wasn't until she'd brought you breakfast a few minutes later that you realized the staff must have been informed of your ancestral customs before your arrival – she said nothing as you ate silently, staring out towards the coast of rocky cliffs and rolling moors you could just barely make out from your chamber windows. She’d helped silently to smooth your hair under your veil as you’d drawn it in preparation to leave the room; and with a beat of hesitance, you’d almost admitted to her you did not wish to wear it. 

Now, you sit quite similarly; hands perched in your lap, tea in front of you untouched as the food on your plate. 

Your future husband sits across the table from you – with a motion sluggish and ruminating, he pushes the omelet around on his fork. You find the boyishly restless knee from Paul, one which  shakes the table just slightly, jilting your glass full of water. 

A polite and quiet conversation follows; some throw off observation of the weather this coming week, how you seem to have brought the sunshine – a comment that makes both you and your betrothed share a sharp glance; heat following the sudden shared connection. 

Efforts to bring you into such discussions are met with your polite, quiet words – and after a short time, a woman enters and whispers something to the Lady at the end of the table. Nodding, Lady Jessica takes her leave with a pointed look at Paul, suggesting he might escort you around the castle to settle you in.

Some cold dread licks its way up your spine, though you force yourself to nod – to adapt. “–If you have time, my Lord, I'd appreciate it.” 

He seems equally pricked by his mother’s suggestion, though he hides it quite well – a quiet, chivalrous demeanor suits his striking features, and you find your distrust mounting in some self-preserving effort. 

Lady Jessica’s leave brings a gust of air through the morning room, and soon you’re met with the scent of forest; a warm soap, sharp with the efforts of Caladan’s bright ocean salt and wooded hills to the west that lingers upon his skin. Your face flushes in the heat of the sudden morning rays, exposed by a gap in the clouds. 

It's silent for a few moments as only the two of you remain; Your food untouched, his half-eaten. 

The wall behind Paul boasts an intricate geometric wall of wood and empty-space; a fascinating architectural choice which complements the beauty of Caladan’s moors – you find yourself intent on tracing each line laid before you, ignoring the glossy glint of Paul’s hair in foresight. In the silence of youthful discomfort, the quiet feels inescapable – until it isn’t. 

“Are you one of them?”

His eyes trace you when you return to his visage. Them?

In a slow realization, it occurs to you that Paul might assume you are just as bald and sickly as each Harkonnen; that perhaps their soil, so poisoned, might have penetrated the evergreen veins that carry your life to each part of you – might have wilted the very things that make you so uniquely yourself. 

You shake your head, thankful for the lack of chains upon the crown of your head today; you are not a Harkonnen, and you never will be. 

Perhaps that would have been the preferred choice of words, but instead from your lips fall a curt sentence: “I have hair.” 

In the morning light, you glance at the skin of your arm; The skin that boasts arm hair, none of the sickly pale skin that knew of no clean air nor healthy sunlight – your skin, glowing with real melanin and health.

It is a brash choice to speak with such frivolity; You'd not dare speak so freely on Geidi Prime – stars, you'd never have spoken this freely at home on Sabberon, either – but there is no home anymore. 

And if you've learned one thing in your years since coming of age, it's that the Great and Noble Houses of the Landsraad are crawling with perjurers, fabricators; Paul is likely the same. 

If the Atreides boy must be wed to you, you cannot help that; They can dress you, insist on your traditional customs – but you will not go down easy. No matter how cold the home, you can be colder – you are more than the bones which hold you up; crueller than the demons that kept you in their ghostly grip for four years. 

Though at your words, Paul’s cheeks flush a peculiar pink – and his lip twitches in a momentary lapse of stoicism. A lost battle, it seems, as you are rewarded with a small, boyish grin flickering over his visage. “No,” he starts again, eyes penetrating your own somehow, even beneath the layers of green that wrap around you. His breath comes in a short exhale, “Not Harkonnen,” His elaboration grows quiet as he continues, “I meant…Bene Gesserit.”  

Your stomach chills. 

His eyes seem to know the words which whisper around your mind, and a faint sense of memory gnaws at the cage within your head. After only half a moment’s hesitation, you shake your head. “No, my Lord.”

It must be what he expected – he does not so much as blink; though a flicker of knowledge passes over his face and he closes off, eyes flashing. 

You are – despite your resolve – coaxed by his expression to continue, “I suppose I was…” Your hand tugs the sleeve of your gown. 

“–Or, I was supposed to be.” 

Your tone, unemotional; Paul bites back the suspicion that climbs up his throat. He’s no fool; he saw the glances between his mother and you, however short – in those breaths, the buzzing of his mother’s whispers behind shut doors, her eyes quaking and steadfast in the same. 

And, of course, the lapping memories of dreams upon a beach of consciousness; a face beneath a shroud, a whisper from golden lips, a pathway dimly lit and forked into the foggy horizon. 

He stands when you rise from your seat.

The dress you wear is unlike any he’s seen outside of your culture’s books; a waterfall of emerald that pools and flows – some frozen-limbed weeping willow, kissing the face of a thawing lake. He offers an arm to you, and you loop yourself to him with only a breath of hesitation. 

Your voice comes again from those lips so hidden behind the veil of pine. “I was supposed to be a lot of things.” 

Your voice is undeniably beautiful; strong, cold, unwilling. Polite, yes – but calculating, aggressive. Coiled in a nest, watching, waiting to strike. 

She tells the truth. 

His mother had signaled during the council the night before a dissection of your honesty; Yet trust is a fragile thing, and as much as he places faith in Duncan and his father, the thought lingers of distrust. 

He saw the claw marks you'd left upon Duncan; a man you've known since you were a young girl. By decree, Paul is now bound to you in marriage; but he has spent endless hours unraveling the Harkonnens — their cunning, their strategy, their thirst for power – and yet, according to Duncan, the Baron and his brutish nephew simply let you go, unscathed and unpursued. 

It gnaws at him, such inexplicable mercy from a house that knows no such thing.

Paul’s wariness does not bleed through his posture, as indeed it does not with you: You walk with your chest out, back as straight as a soldier’s; your words are cordial, indifferent. 

Halls pass as he murmurs a light overview of the castle’s history, introducing you to Houseworkers as you stop to greet them; he is rather surprised by your indifferent charm that seems to enrapture the workers and scare them all the same; he wonders, then, what this life will be like, when you become the Duchess and he Duke. 

A revolt in his heart; one childish and quelled by duty and understanding – and by his father’s words, burnt sharp into his mind. 

Duty often requires us to navigate paths we may not have chosen for ourselves, Paul. You may not always like her, but you will treat her with the respect and care befitting of a future wife. 

Love may come to you in other ways. But you will marry her, you will respect her, and when the time comes, together you will sire an heir.

Outside the walls, it is quiet – the wind is calmed, the tide drawn by the looming moon in the morning sky; you and Paul share no more than one unintentional glance broken up by wind-warmed cheeks and a softly cleared throat. 

It is not until he escorts you along a path that winds down out of your sights that he notices your change in demeanor. Beside him, you take a deep breath, footsteps faltering as you slow – a blink of concern until he follows the direction of your veil towards a clump of moss sprawled across the earth. Curiously, Paul slows to a stop beside you.

For a moment, you stare down at the dirt and fallen tree limbs, the grassy field and rocks; though as if an invisible string pulls you upwards, you snap your head, voice sheepish behind your veil. “Apologies, my Lord.” You start to turn, “I've read of plants like this, but never seen them before in person.” 

It is an odd moment in which Paul comes to understand: He knows what Giedi Prime is like, and your homeworld, from what he's read in the books on Sabberon, is mostly Glaciers, forests, and high altitudes. 

The notion of you finding interest in Caladan’s flora and fauna is as bizarre as it is endearing – and so instead of moving along, Paul bends to grasp a bit of moss from a fallen trunk. 

Your veiled visage tracks him as he returns to his full height; The earthy dirt spreads between his nimble fingers, green and soft against his skin. You watch him silently, curiously.

“It absorbs up to twenty times its dry weight in water,” He explains in an echo of an old ecological lesson, pushing the spongy material with the nail of his thumb. “Banks of it grow just around the brackish tidepools below the castle.”

Your interest, piqued, causes your head to crane slightly from your small height – he can tell, even without seeing any part of your face, that you are fascinated; it brings him a moment of pride. 

At his gesture towards the coastline just peeking below, you follow in a slow move of interest, breath coming soft from hidden lips. He watches the side of your silhouette flutter in the breeze. “Am I allowed to see?” You ask stiffly, arms hanging at your sides.

An odd request – one which penetrates any semblance of protectiveness for his homeworld and instead strikes alarm in his chest. What such monsters do you come from that you must ask such foolish questions? 

He lets the moss fall back to the stump, brows furrowing. “You are to be Lady Atreides one day.” His voice does not reveal any hint of his resistance to this fact, and for this, he is grateful. “You do not have to ask permission to see your own land.” He finishes, cheeks warm with the insistence of the seabreeze and the alarm which still thuds through his heart. 

You have grown quiet – in the rushing blow of wind, you are still as an evergreen. 

The wind from the sea whips in misty breaths even this high; inky tresses swirl around his vision and are swept away by his own hand – there are no words from you for several very long breaths, in which you clear your throat. 

“I…do not feel well.” Your voice is sudden, thick with some hint of insistence – though your spine does not bend, it does not yield; a small breath as your head cranes up. Paul sees a glint of eyes through the ripple of green. “Please, if you would excuse me.”

It is not below Paul to entertain your fib – for your sake, sure; but rather for the growing weight of bitterness that festers in his chest each time he thinks of what is to come. Paul escorts you to your chambers in a tense silence that echoes only the footfalls and the swishing of velveted fabric. 

You slip into your chambers with a polite and half-whispered thanks to his looming frame. Paul watches the fabric of your dress curl around the corner as the door shuts. 

Upon his return to his own quarters, Paul catches Hestia; a girl known long before she began working for the House. He requests she bring you some bread and cheese, and send Dr. Yueh to check on you once more.

An insistent tapping grates in his mind as he stalks the corridor towards his rooms; a clock from halls away, ticking away the seconds – hands clench, flex; an itching shiver down his spine as he turns corner towards his chambers. A flicker of green around the corner just across the hall sends his stomach to tense, stilling in a moment of suspicion; hackles raised, Paul blinks away paranoia as a Houseworker trims a houseplant. A hand swipes over his visage, massaging his eyes. 

Threats demand evolution. 

The memory of your voice pierces his thoughts – and without a second thought, he turns heel and makes towards the training room, fingers itching for a blade. 

follow @sandpoet for notifications & updates.

[jiubilant]

“Get up,” whispers Camilla Valeria, patting the face of the stranger in her bed. “Get up! My brother’s back early from Delphine’s.”

In a few days, the woman sprawled in Camilla’s strewn sheets will be renamed by a thunderclap. Dragons will dread her. Skalds will sing of her first battle-feats. Now she twists her face, assailed by hurried hands and the light lancing in from the window, and makes a muzzy noise.

“Here,” says Camilla. “Here, your shirt, your breeks, your rock—”

The voice that will kindle fires is hoarse with sleep. “Dragonstone.”

“—your belt, your boots—”

The woman in the bed, with groggy amusement, lifts her chin. “And?”

Camilla blinks down at her. Then, with a swift, sweet shopgirl’s smile, she drops a kiss on the other woman’s lips.

“I think you’re right,” she says, breathless. “I’ll marry Faendal. Then I won’t have to put up with Sven’s mother.” She grins down at her companion. “Unless you have a farm you haven’t told me about?”

The woman who will be called Dragonborn smiles with some effort.

“No,” she says, and stretches like a dancer. Her bruises burn. “I don’t have anything."

* * *

She has the rock—the Dragonstone, she corrects herself, following the Jarl’s plodding packhorse down the switchbacks of the Hvit. She has, too, the hundred aches and scrapes suffered in Helgen—she tries not to think of the screams, the charred-meat smell, the severed heads rolling from the upended basket—and last night in the barrow of the wight. The thing had probably been interred with the rock in its frail arms. But the ages had crumbled armor to rust and bones to dust; she’d lifted the Dragonstone from the sunken cavity of its chest, choking every Khefrish prayer she knew for quieting the dead. When she ran out of invocations, she made up soothing words that meant nothing in any tongue.

Drem, she’d murmured to the corpse, prying its withered hands from the stone. Her own hands shook. In the flicker of her torch, the scratches on the walls had seemed to burn. Praan, midaargolz, vodahmaan faazselaas—

The horse tugs its lead with an impatient huff. She staggers after it through the scratchy scrub, the sap-sticky branches, the patches of shade and light. Sun dapples the beast’s flanks. The river flashes as it polishes its stones. The leaves shriveling in the foreign trees blaze in all the colors of fire.

The burning standards, she thinks, the sun hot as fever on her neck. The horse-thief with his face in the dirt, his breath a wet, punctured noise. The severed heads rolling from the upended basket.

Then she grins, forcibly, like the dragon-skull mounted on hooks behind the Jarl’s throne. She draws the parcel wrapped in oilskin from the horse’s twitching back, soothing it with the praises she’d overheard in the Jarl’s stable; she doubts the wizard will let her look at her prize later. She thinks hard of the coinpurse in wait for her, the leg of mutton at the table of the Jarl, the smiling woman who fills the cups. The folds of waxy cloth fall open.

She blinks. She is, she realizes after a moment, holding the rock wrong-side up. The obverse side stares back at her, chiseled with scratches that mean nothing in any tongue.

The wind sticks, whispering, to the sweat at the back of her neck. Something in her stirs with a rattle of scales.

“Here lie our fallen lords,” she murmurs—aloud, halting, as though one of her old tutors scowls over her shoulder still. The words flower in the back of her throat like fire. “Until might of al du in—”

The trees shiver. The horse shakes its head and stamps. A head with suns for eyes tilts somewhere, listening.

[rose24207]

Can you do a Fred Weasley x slytherin reader where the reader is asked to tutor the twins? thankss

Get a room

Summary: A disciplined Slytherin is tasked with tutoring the Weasley twins, but between Fred’s chaotic charm, George’s relentless teasing, and their combined knack for trouble, resisting their antics—and Fred’s growing affection—proves impossible.

Genre: fluff

TW: None!

A/N: thanks for the request!! English is not my first language. I hope you enjoy it though! Requests are open and welcome!

Masterlist

The library was quiet, save for the scratch of quills and the rustle of parchment. You sat at the far corner, glaring at Fred and George as they whispered animatedly over a textbook.

You never expected to spend your evenings tutoring Weasleys, much less those Weasleys. As a top Slytherin student, you prided yourself on discipline and control—two words that didn’t seem to exist in Fred and George Weasley’s vocabulary.

But when Professor McGonagall singled you out to help the twins with Transfiguration (under the guise of "encouraging inter-house cooperation"), you didn’t feel like you could refuse.

“You’re supposed to be practicing,” you hissed, pointing to the goblet on the table that Fred was meant to be turning into a mouse.

“We are,” Fred said innocently, holding up his wand.

George snorted. “He’s practicing how to charm you instead.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fred, the goblet. Now.”

Fred raised his wand, muttering the incantation under his breath. There was a pop, and suddenly the goblet had sprouted legs—except they were bird legs, and it was sprinting down the table like its life depended on it.

George doubled over laughing as you groaned, chasing the goblet before it launched itself off the edge.

“You’ve got to admit,” Fred said, biting back a grin, “that’s pretty impressive for me.”

“Oh, it’s impressive, all right,” you deadpanned, holding up the still-squawking goblet. “But it’s not a mouse.”

Fred leaned back in his chair, his grin widening. “Maybe I need more hands-on guidance. You know, sit next to me, guide my wand...”

You flushed, shoving the goblet back onto the table. “Maybe you need to focus.”

“I am focusing,” he said, his eyes locked on you instead of the goblet.

George made a gagging noise. “Merlin, get a room, you two. And maybe turn me into a mouse so I can scurry away from this nonsense.”

Fred gave you a wink, and you couldn’t help but laugh, despite yourself.

Thank you for reading!

[kiwiandorange]

Isn't it weird that Rhysand claims to wear a "mask", but we don't know when it started? He's been attending inter-territory meetings since he was a prince (he met Tamlin at one of those meetings), and it's not like he just showed up at one of those meetings all gloomy and yelling "haha fear me, you scum, I'm the bad guy now huahuahua 😈😈”.

Tamlin was young at the war, a kid, I think, and Rhysand was about 38 and fought, I think he was at at least one or two meetings before that (war preparation meetings, mostly). So when exactly did he start wearing this mask to protect the cute little city? He didn't grow up in it, he grew up in the Illyria, he went there when he was 8. How could he love a city he didn't even live in?

He also didn't have much contact with his father, in ACOSF in Cassian's pov we read that Rhysand's mother made RARE visits to her husband, and they were partners. Rhysand didn't see his father until the war approached, when he went to the camp and saw his son almost surpass him in power. Rhysand was raised in a camp full of Illyrians, where the author wants me to believe that before they were much worse than they are now (I don't think anything has changed, no matter what Feyre believes that Rhysand has changed). So, hey, is it really a mask?

I know he had a "complete education", probably with tutors, but I don't think tutors without the supervision of the high lord would say something like "pretend to be a son of a bitch to protect Velaris", because there's no way people from outside the city can go to teach there in the Illyrian mountains, you know? The city was secret. It doesn't make sense. Has he been pretending since forever? Why don't the Illyrians seem to doubt his evil, if he was raised there? If he stayed there even after the war? His mother and sister went to visit him there, I have reason to believe that he lived in Illyria until his father died precisely because the high lord was afraid of being dethroned by Rhsyand, and being kept surrounded by people who hate him would prevent allies and therefore, a rebellion.

So again, what reason does Rhsyand have to pretend to be evil and protect a city he didn't even have access to until he became high lord (he lived there until he was 8, doesn't count, okay? He spent at least over a century with Illyrians)? Is it really a fake? Let's think about it... sarah, sarah, you better give me a decent plot if you want me to actually like your literary abusive god.

🇧🇷Não é estranho que Rhysand alegue usar uma "máscara", mas não saibamos quando isso começou? Ele comparece a reuniões entre territórios desde que era príncipe (conheceu Tamlin nessas reuniões), e não é como se ele simplesmente tivesse surgido em uma dessas reuniões todo trevoso como se gritasse "haha me temam, seus lixos, eu sou o vilão agora huahuahua 😈😈”.

Tamlin era jovem na guerra, uma criança, acho, e Rhsyand tinha uns 38 anos e lutou, acho que ele estava em pelo menos uma ou duas reuniões antes disso (reuniões de preparação de guerra, principalmente). Então, quando exatamente ele passou a usar essa máscara para proteger a cidade bonitinha? Ele não cresceu nela, ele cresceu no acompanhamento, foi pra lá com 8 anos. Como ele poderia amar uma cidade que ele sequer morava?

Ele também não tinha tanto contato com o pai, em ACOSF no pov de Cassian lemos que a mãe de Rhysand fazia RARAS visitas ao marido, e eles eram parceiros. Rhysand não viu o pai até a aproximação da guerra, quando ele foi ao acampamento e viu o filho quase lhe ultrapassar em poder. Rhysand foi criado em um acampamento cheio de illyrianos, onde a autora quer que eu acredite que antes eles eram bem piores do que são agora (eu acho que não mudou nada, não importa o que Feyre acredite que Rhsyand mudou). Então, ei, é realmente uma máscara?

Eu sei que ele teve uma “educação completa”, provavelmente com tutores, mas eu não acho que tutores sem a supervisão do alto senhor iriam dizer algo como "finge ser filho da puta pra proteger Velaris", porque não tem como pessoas de fora da cidade irem dar aula lá nas montanhas illyrianas, sabe? A cidade era secreta. Não faz sentido. Ele esteve fingindo desde sempre? Porque os illyrianos não parecem duvidar da maldade dele, se ele foi criado lá? Se ele continuou lá mesmo após a guerra? A mãe e a irmã dele foram visitar ele lá, tenho motivos para acreditar que ele viveu em illyria até o pai morrer justamente porque o alto senhor tinha medo de ser destronado pelo Rhsyand, e ser mantido rodeado de gente que odeia ele impediria aliados e portanto, uma rebelião.

Então, de novo, que motivos Rhsyand tem para fingir ser mal e proteger uma cidade que ele sequer teve acesso até virar alto senhor (ele viveu lá até os 8 anos, não conta, ok? Ele passou pelo menos mais de um século com illyrianos)? é realmente uma farsa? Vamos pensar sobre isso... sarah, sarah, é melhor me dar uma trama decente se quiser que eu realmente goste do seu deus abusador literário.

[respectthepetty]

Happy Birthday, Kanghan!

I may be easy, but I'm not cheap, so I always like seeing how wealth is displayed in these BLs.

Max got Kanghan a limited film camera imported from the United States.

but . . . Kanghan isn't into photography.

Nawa got him a Liverpool jersey, No. 8, from the 2005 UEFA Champions League, but I'm going out on a limb and assuming Liverpool is not Kanghan's favorite team (Messi is Inter Miami now, so forget those European team, and come on over to the United States side of life, sir).

Pimfah painted him a portrait

Which he liked the most.

I think Kanghan likes Pimfah, so obviously he would like her gift, but . . . *put a pin in it*

Kanghan's dad got him the motorcycle, but he picked the model for Kanghan instead of letting Kanghan decide.

Sailom sang Kanghan "Happy Birthday" and grabbed a cake from Kanghan's fridge for him.

Kanghan isn't even aware of what is in his own fridge, so he was surprised that Sailom had asked the staff for it, but he was genuinely thankful for it.

Because it isn't just about liking the person (IF Kanghan does, in fact, like Pimfah), but about the effort. *take that pin out from earlier*

When Kanghan's friends ask what Sailom got him

Sailom answers that he wasn't aware it was Kanghan's birthday (even though they spent the entire day together *put another pin in it*)

And this could be a subtitle choice, but it's interesting that Sailom says he didn't "prepare" anything rather than he didn't "buy" anything.

We know Sailom doesn't have McDonald's money, but Pimfah didn't purchase anything and Kanghan liked her gift the most because it took effort.

AND IT WAS SURPRISING!

But why not skip tutoring, so he could celebrate his birthday with his friends? Why spend all day with Sailom, yet not tell him that it was his birthday? *take the second pin out*

Because he wanted to spend his birthday with Sailom without making it about him. And this possibly started the night before.

The boys didn't leave the school until after 10 pm; then, Kanghan detoured to the restaurant "just cause", so it had to be late when they left there.

A few people have written that Kanghan isn't lonely. He has a grandmother who loves him. He has friends who want to hang out with him. So why did he want to spend the night going into his birthday with Sailom?

Then proceed to spend all night with him the next day?

Because he enjoys spending time with Sailom, sure.

But it's because the time he spends with Sailom is full of surprises.

Every interaction he has with Sailom surprises him. Kanghan, who is bored with his life and money, finds Sailom unpredictable, for good reason.

Sailom brings up a lot of feelings™ in Kanghan because Kanghan never knows what to expect, so Kanghan is acting out in less predictable ways as well.

Because he doesn't know how to describe what is happening, but he knows the feelings™ Sailom evokes in him are real.

And that's what Kanghan is really craving - something real.

He has his kingdom of cardboard and trash.

He could buy anything he wants, so he wants nothing.

His two best friends get him gifts that he doesn't even care about. His father makes decisions for him, so he doesn't have to think. But Sailom gives him something different, something new, something real, and something worth the effort - Sailom gives Kanghan himself.

Sailom has nothing else to give Kanghan but himself. The cake comes from Kanghan's own fridge. The guitar for the song is borrowed. But Sailom gives Kanghan his attention, which is all Kanghan really wants.

So Happy Birthday, Kanghan!

I hope you enjoy your present!

[raelle-writing]

Jin lying and police corruption

This is cross-posted from my co-run fan account on Twitter, @.DFF_Fanatics. Co-credit for this thread goes to @kerrikins the co-admin of Fanatics.

I think we inter fans should keep in mind that we don't have all the cultural context. People are mad that Jin didn't tell the police about Non's disappearance, but they forget that police corruption is very real - both within the narrative of DFF itself, as well in Thai culture in general.

It's shown a couple of times throughout episode 8 that the police can't be trusted. Once, when Phee's dad is threatened for sticking his nose into things and told to close the case, and basically says there's nothing he can do against that...

And again, when we see that Tee's uncle has a high-ranking policeman in his pocket.

The police are investigating Non's disappearance, yes. But the people pulling the strings of those investigations don't want him to be found. The mafia were the ones who made Non and Keng disappear, and there are businessmen behind that who are in on the money laundering. If Jin had spoken up about what happened in the forest, he likely would've disappeared as well - or been killed.

Not to mention it would've been just his word against the others. Fluke wouldn't have backed Jin up, and Por went so far as to delete footage to erase evidence. They would've immediately turned on him. They would've said it was all his idea, that he drugged Non and sold him off. They would've sold Jin up the creek to keep themselves safe.

Also from Jin's point of view - he just watched his friends drug Non, then take him away and then Non vanished. He knows he has no one he can trust, no one he can turn too. And he also knows that Tee's family is in the mix, that Tee is the one behind the money laundering they all got caught up into. I don't blame him for being scared.

We've seen what these people will do to those who get in their way. Not only to Non, but also to Keng. If they didn't hesitate to make a famous tutor disappear, then why would they hesitate to make another high schooler disappear? Jin would've been next if he'd said anything, and likely he knew that.

Did Jin do what's right? No. But arguably there was no right choice in this scenario. It was lie to the police because he didn't know who he could trust, or risk that he would be the next to disappear. And given that he's 17 years old, has no evidence, no one to back him up, and doesn't know who he can trust AND he knows that the mafia are involved? Yeah. I understand why he bent to the pressure and lied to the police.

You can see on his face that he hates himself for it, for taking that side. But considering the alternatives, I don't blame him in the slightest for not trusting the police, or his friends.

Police corruption isn't just a problem in DFF, it's been addressed in other Thai BLs such as Manner of Death or Not Me. My co-admin and I also gathered some tweets from Thai DFF-watchers that talk about this, because you can tell that it's a very real issue in Thai society.

Disclaimer that it's not to say that ALL Thai fans are on Jin's side, there's some that are definitely not. I just selected a few so that you could see that DFF isn't just spinning a narrative, it's relying on real-world issues too.

Please also check out this anon I got about police corruption in their country, for further perspective...

[houserautha]

I need interactions between Feyd and her grownup daughter.

In the original story Ghanima has a concubine in addition to her brother husband (in name only, but still). I wonder what the Harkonnen Princess’s love life/sex life/married life would be and how Feyd behaves in all that

I think Feyd would have exactly one weakness — his daughter. (I’m naming her Annora because it means honor and because I can. Also, as preference, a whipping boy was used in early Europe. They were tutored alongside a prince or noble and instead of the prince being punished for his transgressions, the whipping boy would be punished in front of him)

Annora is his only daughter out of eleven sons. She can do no wrong in his eyes. As a child, she was elected a “whipping boy” to receive her punishments because Feyd could never imagine hurting her. But this only taught her to be cunning and secretive with her less desirable behaviors, which translated into an adult na-Baroness who is extremely pampered and goes to any lengths necessary to get what she wants and avoid her father’s (selective) wrath.

You see, unfortunately, Annora has fallen for her whipping boy. What should’ve made them enemies only made them closer, a childhood friendship blossoming into something more.

Her brother knows this well.

They’re forced into a marriage together, in title only, and he does his best to protect his sister’s secret. Feyd-Rautha would never allow his precious daughter to be with him, the whipping boy, someone lowly and of poor status. So Annora fields a large array of concubines to keep up the facade for her father, some in which she indulges (she is a creature of pleasure like her father) but none who satisfy her like her lover.

I think Feyd would be fine with his daughter having concubines and torrid affairs — she is married to her brother, after all, and he knows the perils of inter-family relationships. But he absolutely loses it when he accidentally discovers Annora engaged with the whipping boy, who he thought his daughter kept around for nostalgia sake. He appointed the whipping boy because he was a child from a slave couple, unimportant and certainly not good enough for Annora.

“Why do you shame me?” Feyd hisses at his daughter, pulling her away as she fumbles to lace up her dress. He leaves the whipping boy to be dealt with later.

Annora, twice as fierce as her father and just as stubborn, says, “You don’t know anything.”

“You take up with that…with that rat?” Feyd sneers. More than anything he is concerned for his daughter, for her reputation and her heart, the future life that the whipping boy would give her. If anyone would find out…

“He’s not a rat,” Annora bites back. Her hands form into fists at her side, single braid swaying as she shakes her head in disbelief. “He’s been there for me through everything. He loves me for me, not for my status or my power or my money like all the others.”

Feyd snorts. “He loves you because you have kept me from slaughtering him like a lamb.”

“You put him in my life.”

Feyd tightens his grip on her arm. “Because I could not bear to harm you. Do you understand that? I cannot stand the thought of —” his voice breaks, flushed with emotion. Feyd clamps his mouth shut in order to fend it off. When he speaks again, his face has taken on a softened expression. “He will hurt you, Annora.”

“He’s never hurt me,” Annora breathes, touched by her father’s rare display of vulnerability, however fleeting it might’ve been.

“He will.”

“He won’t.”

Feyd’s brow, looking far more wrinkled than Annora remembers it being, furrows. “Men are liars and beasts, I know this well. How can you separate him from them?”

“You must get to know him,” Annora says. Her eyes shine with regret. “Aside from how he looks when you strike him.”

Feyd does not give in to this obvious attempt at making him feel guilty. He has no qualms about harming the boy over his own daughter. He considers this. “Fine. Invite him to dinner tomorrow and we shall…talk.”

I think I’ll leave the rest up to your own discretion😜 Does it go well?? Poorly?? Tell me what you think

[the-switch-conspiracy]

[Prev]

Chapter 4: [alt tab]

Shen Qingqiu was going insane. That must be it. The world was completely out of wack, but that’s fine. It’s all… fine. So what if Ning Yingying was apparently his Head Disciple rather than Ming Fan? So what if she was three, no four, times more mature and insightful then the Ning Yingying of his memories was at this age!

ẗ̫͢͠ǫ͍̼͇̏̉͊͂o̳̣̟̊͛̾ ̦̟̖̦̋̒́͐o̊͟l͎̤̳͎͐͛͛́d̡͚͒̑,̤̍ ̦́w̡̢̠̬̼̆̐̍̂͛hÿ̡̜͗ ȉ͚͉̓š͈̖̤̬̽̂̎ ̨̻͔̂̾͛s͔̺͉̬͈̑̿̍̀̈ẖ̡͕̗̿́̀̀ĕ̛̘̟͖̓.͈͙͗͑..̦͆?̦̃

Shen Qingqiu has nothing but respect for the responsible, headstrong woman Ning Yingying eventually matured into, so seeing it far earlier… was good. Excellent, no problem whatsoever, what do you mean Ming Fan was a Qian Cao Peak disciple??! If he was going to end up anywhere else, it’d surely be on Bai Zhan out of pure stubbornness, regardless of the fact he was more inclined to spiritual cultivation!

He shakes his head in disbelief. What is with this world? Surely time travelling wouldn’t have had this much of an effect. It must be System fuckery. Or perhaps… Airplane? The System didn’t mention if Shang Qinghua remembers the future, but if he knew- or even if the System was simply prompting him- surely that would explain some of these alterations? He sighs in frustration, a new fan he’d picked out after the unfortunate demise of the other currently fluttering in front of his face.

He’d certainly startled Yingying, her eyebrows had shot up in shock at the rather, ahem, noticeable overreaction at her presence. But he’d been really quite startled himself, and with barely a micro-expression alighting his face, he’d quickly directed the conversation. How are your studies going? Well apparently, she’d just learnt a new composition for the dizi – which she seemingly now favours. Good, good, how about those of your Shidi’s and Shixiong’s? They too seem to be preferring alternate interests, one even picking up entomology when previously they were terrified of bugs!

Really, of all the information he’s been carefully extracting from Ning Yingying, there was one in particular that interests him most.

This version of Shen Qingqiu was both more hands on, and less hands on then the OG he remembered. Where as before he had a stronger presence in both the direct instructing of (despite his obvious dislike of teaching) the students and their discipline (of which he took way too much pleasure from), this time he seemed to delegate the teaching far more.

Between the Elders proficient in their specialised fields of study, the Supervisors and Hall Masters in their more general knowledge of the core cultivation practices and Qing Jing Peak sword forms, and with a few core disciples tutoring as well, Qing Jing has created a far more structured approach to the disciples education. This allows for the intake and training of more outer disciples, and inter-peak learning opportunities. Shen Qingqiu of course, supervised and planned out the curriculum. And there was a curriculum, and actual lesson plans! The discipline was also far closer to his own than the OG’s, however still harsher than he could bare.

It had taken him years to try an undo what the OG goods had set in place before him. He had been arrogant enough to believe he needed to more or less dictate the classroom. He was distrusting enough to never truly give his teachers the means to adjust or adapt their teaching strategies for the disciples who needed it. It had critically hindered the disciples ability to learn and improve, and perhaps that was the point in the end. No one could displace him if they didn’t know all he did. He was safe from all opposition in that position of power. But that came at the cost of crippling his student’s growth.

Despite his best efforts he’d struggled to implement even a fraction of what he saw before him now, for too much damage had been done. The ever turning cycle of abuse had churned out resentful masters, resentful teachers, who sought to replicate what was done unto them, unto others. All trickling back from the source. He’d made great strides however, his students were happier, had enjoyed learning under him. So he had to dispose of some trouble starters, well, you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs! You can’t undo years of abuse, without breaking a few heads! Or something to that effect. So to have the set up of his dreams just handed to him? Well of course he is sceptical! What on earth would have led Shen Qingqiu v1 to not be as spiteful this time around? He rubs at his brow, lips pursing in frustration.

He’s instructed Yingying to walk with him towards the dorms, idly listening as she chatted about her day. All while carefully surveying the differences. That pavilion was new, there wasn’t a sparring area set up there, and oh look, young ones with unfamiliar faces. It felt like someone had gone into the bamboo house and rearranged just enough to set off alarm bells. Which had also happened. At least those changes were more in line with his own decorating ideals, and harmonised with the feng shui best suited to his own internal Qi alignment. Which… was concerning in its own way. Thinking on it was just leading him in circles, a useless waste of his already straining mental fortitude.

There they were, a crowd of little sheep staring up at him with wide eyes! A chorus of sweet, high-pitched ‘Greeting Shizun’ crying out in concert, only a bare hint of flustered panic behind it. He hides the curve of his smile behind his fan, and cast his gaze over for- there! Noticeably standing apart from the crowd, head and shoulders above them in height, Luo Binghe! The youth, fresh-faced and dewy eyed, was staring at him with a… strange sort of gaze. Not fearful or hiding hidden anger, but searching, almost... confused. His focus seemed, well, he was rather intently staring him in the eyes! Which, come to think of it, has been happening quite a lot since he woke. Was there..?

do̢̻͆͞n̘͈̞̏̑̽͘͜'̧̛̝͠t̨̥͌͠

“Disciple Luo, with me.” He motions with his fan, a gentle curving arc, and turns with a nod to Ning Yingying. She mentioned she’d been in charge of leading all her shimei’s and shidi’s through the chore roster this morning, and he’d already pulled her from her task long enough- even if he hadn’t known at the time. She bows back with a beaming smile before turning back towards her peers with the harsh bark of a general.

“What are you all looking at? I can already tell half these jobs aren’t done right!” Ah, she had it well covered. Go Yingying! Binghe blinks in surprise, and jogs up to greet him.

“Greeting Shizun, has this disciple done something?” To catch your attention or ire was heavily implied. Shen Qingqiu huffs, sending a sideways glance to the boy.

“This master merely wishes to check in on Disciple Luo. How has Luo Binghe been doing with his studies hmm? Has he been getting along with his martial siblings?” With everything that has been different so far, surely this too had changed. For one he was working and living around his martial siblings, so it was likely there truly hadn’t been abuse… surely there would be more trepidation in his demeanour if there was. His Binghe had been trembling like a hyperactive lapdog those first few years!

“Shizun, this disciple has been learning well.” He replies demurely. His eyes are cloaked in the shadows of his long eyelashes, sweeping his cheeks with each slow blink. “This one has no issues with his peers.” He once more hit Shen Qingqiu with that indecipherable look, head tilting like a snake looking at a mouse! Binghe you’re only-

h̦̬̖͖̄̅̾̑̏͟e̹̗̼͋̾̄'̭͖̠̞̆̐̽̍ṡ̭ ̹̦͑̓sup͇͉̈́p̗̺͚̀̈́̈́́͜o̥͆́͢s̪̣̤̄͗̊́͢é̏͢ͅd̥͍͉̃͋͞ ̗̲̃̍ṫ̰ọ̦͖̿̄̀ ̩̿̑͢b̖͖͍͓̃̔̉͘e̤̳̔̈́ ̩͋1̮͖͚͇̈́̽́̊4̧̮͉͖͛̒̎̃

- 17 years of age at this point. Shen Qingqiu tilts his head back with an inaudible sigh. A young man indeed, almost an adult, but still shedding the last flushes of youth. So, how do you manage a gaze that predatory?! His face suddenly lights up, as if he’s had some unthinkable realisation, his lips twitching into a glowing smile, black eyes sparkling like stars in the night, “Is that pleasing to Shizun?” His voice has deepened just a bit, low and silky in inflection.

…? Abort!

“I’m pleased that Binghe seems to be excelling in his cultivation and studies. It’s the joy of any teacher to see their student learn and grow.” He defers, feeling like he’d only barely managed to avoid a trap. Binghe, you have better targets to use that voice on otherthanthis old master! Luo Binghe’s smile grows even wider. Showing pearly white teeth. He once again tilts his head in a way that would be quite cute, if it wasn’t paired with an ever more unsettling light growing in his eyes.

“It’s the joy of this disciple also, to bring Shizun such joy.” He finally averts those eyes, his smile once more falling to ‘coy’, “It’s good to see you, Shizun. To talk to you. I almost thought-” He pauses, before shaking his head with a rueful grin, “Ah this one is being quite forward. I merely mean that Shizun seems so separate from mortal affairs, it’s like a dream that you’ve deigned to talk to this lowly one.” He bows, a shockingly poor attempt at ‘meekness’ settling over him in an uncomfortable skin.

This boy… If this is the way these disciples react, no wonder the original goods spent no time with them! He feels his eyes narrow and his brows furrow. He wasn’t unlike his Binghe, but he was also nothing like him at all! What happened to sweet fluffy sheep? His pure white lotus?! This boy was a wolf! It really was… quite different here. A pang in his chest, his heart aches.

“Disciple Luo should take more care with his words. They could be misinterpreted by someone less forgiving than this one.” Binghe nods frantically, his eyes wide and deceptively innocent.

“This disciple is thankful for the guidance.” An awkward silence begins. He… didn’t know this youth. He was a different person from the one he’d guided and cared for. And hurt. For all that had-

ȇ͜n̟̝̬̊̐͌d̦̐ed̢̨̹̉̿͘,͚̗͖͔́̅͠͝ ͚̖̓̀͘̚͟͢ȁ̡̫͠n̳̓d̩̱͐͡ ̜͘b̹̼̍̎̾͟e̲̤̓͜͞͡g̘̾ư̧̧̥̞̈̚͞n͙̿͛͜.̡̳͌̕ ̥̺̺͊͆́Ō̤̯͖̿̇ű̜͎̜̦͑̉͞r̻̅̀ͅ ̪̥̖̈́̍̈͗ͅs̼͓̟̋͒͌̄͟ṱ̙̔͡ō͉r̦͑ŷ̘,͚̹͂̈́̿͢ ̼̹̯̖̎͛̑͐t̗͠ṓ̼͖̳̇̚͢͝ͅg̻͓͚͇̅̀͐͌e̛̥̳͚̔̐t̜̚͟͝h̯͎̖̅̅̀er.̡̽.͉̓.͓͋ ͈͛m͓̙̊̽y͚̹̞̩̾̂̀͞ ̖̞̺̫̇͆̂͂̕͢h̲͘ủ͙̫̰̒̕s̛̘̞̝̫̰̃̇̈͝b̩͉̘͒́͂a̛͉͚̠̕͘nd̡̨̢̰̊͆̑͝.̙̙͇̟̰̆̆̽͡͡

He clutches at his skull, hissing through his teeth. These headaches will need to be checked. His chest ached strangely.

“Shizun?! Are you okay? Should this one fetch Peak Lord Mu-” He waves Binghe off with a hand, this old man is just fine thanks!

“This master is fine, merely still recovering.” Binghe’s face clouds over, once more sending him that searching look, before he finally nods.

“If Shizun is sure, and this one is not needed, he’ll rejoin the rest of his peers.” Shen Qingqiu finds himself nodding, a little shocked at his disciple’s sudden capitulation- something his Binghe would furiously cry out against- and watches as this Binghe bows before turning to leave.

~0~

Since joining Qing Jing Peak, Binghe has known three things to be true. One; though it will be hard, succeeding on Qing Jing will guarantee success in every facet of his life. Two; he was destined to be on Qing Jing Peak here and now, that fact could not be disputed. Three; there was something wrong with Shen Qingqiu.

The first one was obvious, Qing Jing Peak was run to the most strict of standards, everything taught was hand picked to ensure its disciples success in any of their future prospects – should it be immortality or otherwise. No one who left went jobless, their careers always flourish, and those who dedicated their lives to cultivation? A shockingly high amount of them gain reknown.

The second was less obvious… some would say insane. But before he’d climbed the steps to begin his destiny, before he ever stood on Qing Jing soil, he had known who Shen Qingqiu was. He has had dreams of this place, and the peerlessly beautiful immortal who governed it, for as long as he could remember. Dreams of what could only be another life, of a cruel master turned endlessly kind. Of failure, and success, of conquest and love. Of marrying the beautiful, kind, perfect person who hurt him so sweetly and loved him so fiercely. Of blood, of bone, of ash raining from the sky. Of him dying. He would do anything to bring this vision to life, except for his cruel final fate.

Shen Qingqiu his Shizun, was not Shen Qingqiu his husband. But Shen Qingqiu his Shizun was not even the cold cruel Shizun of his early dreams. Shen Qingqiu his Shizun was barely even a person. The second he laid eyes on him he knew, the cold genteel mask was not that of a jade-like immortal. It wasn’t hiding depths of emotion beyond his view. It was all this man was, strangely hollow.It was all in his eyes, the lack of anything resembling person-hood, almost dead inside. If he didn’t know better, he’d assume Shen Qingqiu was an empty shell being puppeteered by someone.

But then the peak was abuzz with the rumour, ‘Peak Lord Shen has Qi Deviated!’ and his hope grew. In the endless dream everything changed with a Qi Deviation, so why wouldn’t it change here too? For three weeks he waited as the gossip spread further, ‘High fever, he’s not waking! They’re doing all they can! He might not make it.’ It scared him, the uncertainty. Would he live? Would he change? Does it even matter in the end? Then another Qi Deviation. This one worst than the first. This one they were sure he wouldn’t wake from. But he did. He woke. Within hours the Sect Leader was chased off Qing Jing, and he was walking around like nothing had happened at all. But something had. He had changed, like a shapeshifter finally crawled into his corpse and brought it to life, and everyone can see it.

It was his eyes that gave him away. They held light, they were alive. They burned, and it was divine. For the longest time there was something wrong with Shen Qingqiu. Now, finally, there was something right. He just needed to make sure he stayed this way, and that no one succeeded in removing the divine spirit made flesh that was his new Shizun.

...But he might have come on a little strong… Don’t worry Husband, your future wife is here!

[First] [Ao3] [Next]

[brandwhorestarscream]

Love how in the concubine AU Optimus inherits Little Damus of Tarn who was the next in line to be Sentinel's concubine. Poor Optimus freaked out cause that is a whole aft child. Megatron looked at him and decided he had aquired a son.

It was one of the only bright spots in Megatron's estimation of the Prime's character in the earliest days. The new prime squeeked at the sight b of the child dressed up as a courtisan ahns immediately ordered the sparkling be given age aproperate atire. The queesy shocked and indignant horror in his EM feild couldn't be faked.

Eeehee me too!

For anyone not in the know: the previous Primal Concubine of Tarn got sick and passed away suddenly during Sentinel's reign. The selected replacement was wee little newborn Damus, meant to be raised strictly within the palace and cultivated to the Prime's exact tastes. Of course, when Sentinel died, all of his concubines were sent to convents and the temples to spend the rest of their lives, but Damus was a special exception. The Prime never deflowered him, and technically he was only ever engaged to the previous ruler, not yet considered his legal conjunx endura. It left Damus in a weird position, and--possibly due to some inter-court or inter-family pressure--after a lengthy debate, was instated as Optimus Prime's concubine instead. He's still a child, only about 8 years old, not even old enough for his body to have begun puberty and juvenile devlopment.

Optimus, understandably, is horrified. He feels nauseous the first time he beholds Damus in his traditonal formal attire: not slutty, exactly, but designed to accentuate all the right places on an adult and all the wrong places on a sparkling. The first time anyone hears Optimus Prime raise his voice is when he's demanding Damus's staff change his attire immediately, and to not ever ever ever and he means never dress that youngling that way in his presence ever again!

He tries to look into having Damus released, but finds there's nowhere for him to go. His relatives won't accept him back if he's ejected from the harem--they have no need nor love for a failure like that. And what's more, Damus doesn't want to leave. He has no memory of anything beyond the palace. He's spent every single day of his life since birth in here. For better or worse, this is his home, and Optimus isn't cruel enough to force him out. The poor, poor kid, it just breaks his spark.

On the other side of things, Megatron accidentallies himself into being little Damus's idol. Damus has never been treated like a child before: everyone has always looked at him as a noble concubine or as their boss. Not even his wetnurse as a sparkling treated him as anything less than an authority figure. The first time he gets even a crumb of parental-adjacent attention, he latches on like an affectionate leech. This came in the form of Megatron interrupting a calligraphy lesson: Damus's teacher had had him sititng at the desk for several megacycles, since just after breakfast and late into the afternoon. It's been hours since his midday meal should have been served, but hunger is an excellent motivator. He keeps making the same mistake with his writing, messing up a very particular stroke on a character that changed it from respectfully formal to aggressively familiar. His teacher has been shouting at him, scolding him for not doing it and for crying. "This is the least you should be able to do as a Primal Concubine, Damus! You say you're hungry? Then do it right. You're doing this to yourself! Do it correctly and we may conclude!"

He's tryibg his best! But the hunger pains make it hard to concentrate, and the way they're shouting at him makes him nervous! He's shaking subtly, trying again and again with tears brimming in his optics. This is overwhelming! It's just too much!

Then, Megatron to the rescue: he happened to be passing by the study where they were working, and within about 10 seconds he's seen more than enough. Snaps at the tutor to stop yelling at the poor youngling, them steos between him and the desk where Damus is. The tiny orange sparkling blinks up at him, optics wide and watery. He looks very surprised when Megatron asks if he really hasn't eaten since breakfast, and even moreso when the much older concubine gently grabs his hand. "Come, your lessons are over for today. Let's get something to tide you over until dinner."

And that was that. Damus obediently follows along behind him, watching him with sparkly, amazed optics. No one's ever stood up to his mean, tyrannical instructor before! He follows Megatron around like a lost puppy whenever he can going forward, often coming to his villa or asking him for games of chess. Whenever he makes headway in his studies and training, Megatron is the first to know. Whenever he gets new accessories, he runs all the way to the Kaon villa to show him. Whenever he sees Megatron while out and about, he rushes over eagerly to greet him. He's latched onto the other concubine wholly, and getting him to let go will be nigh impossible 🤭

[bloodywankers]

Trigger Warning! Yandere behaviour! Toxic Relationships! Slight NSFW! Mention of past injuries!

1.5k words | unedited | Yandere OC

(I don’t think it’s very Yandere, just toxic)

“You know papa doesn’t like it when we make a mess.” Your eldest hushed his younger sibling. A finger to his lips and brows furrowed as he instructed them to not make a ruckus.

Had it been up to you, you’d have wanted them to make a mess. Make as many messes as their little hearts desired, be as loud as they could, even if your ears bled.

But you had little say on the matter. “A wife’s duty was not to contest her husband.” Or so your husband said as he insisted a nanny and tutors would do much better at raising your children than you ever could, he ensured you were as much a stranger to them than he was.

Just there to smile and fret over them when outside the privacy of your home and watch them ushered along by their nannies the moment you were home.

Your heart broke seeing how quickly your younguest stopped in his tracks. Trying his best to pick up the pieces of the ceramic he had broken, trying his best to help his older brother clean, not yet aware of your presence.

Creak.

You cursed the wooden floor as just a shift in your weight alerted them of your gaze. Eyes wide as their little faces drowned in utter dread.

“Mama?”

You couldn’t think of what to say at that moment, the maids probably already heard the noise, they’d be here soon. So you remained silent, carefully kneeling as you picked up as many pieces as you could. Careful to throw them away, leaving as little proof of the accident as possible. Making sure you check both the boys for any injuries. While such a cleanup was futile, your husband meticulously had every last ceramic planned, it wouldn’t take much for him to notice the missing ceramic if the maids didn’t immediately inform him of it. You reckoned it was better than watching their faces filled with terror.

“Madam?” You couldn’t help but jump at the maid who interrupted you, looking up to see her indifferent, if not slightly annoyed expression.

“I apologise, the young masters ran off before I could do anything.” She said, snatching their hands right from yours. She said something about history lessons but you were far too lost in your thoughts by then to care. Your children both looking back towards you, one final time before the nanny rushed them along towards whatever their schedule had in place now. You weren’t sure what to call the look in their eyes.

/

Dinner was always the worst. Every day, without fail at 7pm sharp, you’d all be gathered around a table. Food you were allowed no part in cooking, displayed skillfully in front of you, every last detail taken into account by the cook.

And there you would sit, in front of your husband who seemed more focused on the off placement of the cutlery than anything else, instructing the butler to deal with whoever was in charge of it.

Then polite conversation would take place. Your husband would ask about your day, your children’s, their studies and what-not. Mention something about his own day as well if he was feeling talkative, just passing comments, really.

Back always arched straight and posture stiff, you mustn’t take too big a bite, chew at least 30 times, elbows shouldn’t be on the table… There, you did it again, got lost in your thoughts and drifted off to god knows where.

“You’re slouching.” It was Viktor’s voice that brought you back to reality. So smooth and enticing but you knew better than to be deceived. A quick apology as you straighten your posture again, you didn’t have it in you to look him in the eyes, not when his scrutinising gaze would be waiting for you.

The rest of the dinner was a blur, always the same, without fail.

“I want you two to in office later.” Viktor said, referring to your children. Your youngest gripping his brother's sleeve, the eldest muttering an ‘understood’ before leaving the room. It was a pitiful sight, especially when you couldn’t intervene, not when you met eyes with Viktor, faces with a look that knew exactly what you were thinking.

There was little for you to do during this time so you would read. It was a respectable hobby, one that didn’t earn you criticism from your husband and kept your thoughts at bay. But today you couldn’t help but think of what Viktor had to say to the children.

He was probably informed of the broken vase. It was quite valuable if you remembered correctly. As were most things in the house, you supposed, nothing too special. But you were sure it wasn’t the value your husband was concerned with.

He wouldn’t hit them. You knew that well, your husband wasn’t the type to do that. Not when he insisted on calling the best doctors to help your son through the healing process last time he got injured while playing. It was a common fracture any old doctor could have dealt with but the scarring is what worried him. "What difference would that leave between him and damaged goods?” You thought it to be a cruel thing to say over a measly scar.

He wouldn’t yell either, it was unbecoming. He’s never liked loud noises, whether it be his own voice or otherwise. Always leading to a wince, followed by a stern glare and warning. “I’m sure you were taught to use your indoor voice as a child, no?”

But sometimes you felt like his way of dealing with such matters was much worse. The silence felt like torture, the look in his eyes made you feel small and the calm tone of his voice would be unnerving. You weren’t sure how such young children could handle him when the thought of it had your hands shaking. The heavy rain hit against your window as you looked out the window, a final attempt to distract yourself. It had become a habit to day dream, of a life your husband wasn’t part of, one where you could take your kids to play, speak to them without the watchful gaze of the nanny, laugh along with them and… and—

“Madam!” The sudden voice led you to drop the book in your hands, barely holding in a shriek as you looked at the maid that had entered your room.

“The master asked for you.” You followed the maid into the dressing room, a night dress neatly laid across for you.

It wasn’t something you would have found yourself wearing before your marriage.

As you entered the dark room you were met with Viktor, his eyes focused on the buttons of his pyjamas. He’d do much better with the lights on but he had always insisted on keeping them closed, especially on such nights.

“You’re late.” He said, still engrossed in the final buttons of his shirt.

“I must have gotten sidetracked, I apologise.” It was better to say as little as possible, not give him any more to criticise you on.

You could feel the bed dip in the bed as he joined you.

“You were there when they broke that vase.” Unlike the day where he would barely spare you a glance, his eyes bore right into yours at night, his face so close to yours you could almost see past the emotionless wall he painstakingly kept. Almost.

“It was an accident, they’re just children.”

“You also encouraged them to cover it up.”

“Because I knew you would—!” There it was again, the expression you couldn’t quite recognize, the hand’s instinctively covering his ears—you don’t remember your voice being that unbearable. But you didn’t have much time to linger on it.

“We’ll discuss this further in the morning.” His lips had inched closer, only a hairs length away from your own. Crashing into yours before you had time to register.

Perhaps his only saving grace was how good he was in bed. However, even then, he did things with a surgical precision, leaving behind no traces of his finger that ghosted all over your body and no marks of any sort to serve as proof of what you had done.

And while you would have loved to do the same, you couldn’t help but dig your nails into his back as he thrusted inside you.

The slight ridges of scars that cut far too deep to fully heal could be felt on it. Even in the barely lit room, with only faint rays of moonlight, you could see the scars that marred his skin, everywhere from his chest to his legs. Impossible to see when he donned his usual attire. Placed strategically enough to be invisible to an outsider, only in the comfort of the night could you see what the day reduced this man to.

As he finally slowed down his pace, you could feel his weight shifting, instead leaning into you as his arms wrapped around you, one of his hands brushing the hair off your face.

By the end of it, you weren’t sure who to pity more.

Masterlist

[worms-i-think]

Silliest little guys:

HES SO MEAN aaaahdikkkhwdkj I love Vyn, how in the world does this man treat people’s mental conditions when he loves to jab at his coworkers this much

Also Artem, who is apparently Mr. hobby collector extraordinaire according to canon, worrying he will be bad at this activity because it involves being relatively creative is so funny to me. He has no confidence in creating anything that lacks a step-by-step guide. He hates things being open to interpretation.

(Good thing Lukie is so eager to help people make things. You could walk into the shop and ask what he’s gonna do to repair your antiques and he would show you and let you help if you want. I would love to see him interact with Artem more! Then again, there would also be the interesting dynamic created at the begging of the game where Luke urges Rosa to decline his offer to join the NXX. The possibility of that tension! Anyway.)

Like?? I need to sit in on one of their tutoring sessions.

Also, this past chapter that was released was super tense in terms of inter-NXX relations, so it’s fun to see them get along as well as they can, but then there’s the lingering undertone that the four of them don’t feel they can trust one another at all. I’m super excited for chapter 10 >:)

[hp-fanfic-archive]

Harry/Draco Humor Masterlist | Works With Less Than 5k Words

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last updated: 08/14/24 | links last checked: 08/14/24

*Come as You Are by peachpety [E, 3k]

If asked, Harry Potter would categorize his high school senior year as normal: football, friends, and one devastating crush on his tutor, Draco Malfoy. When presented with an opportunity to help Draco, Harry rises to the occasion. Unfortunately, so does his dick. Sparks fly and alarms blare… and the Hogwarts Owlz Gossip twitter feed blows up. Or: the one where an inconvenient erection brings them together.

*Draco's Emotional Uprising by XxTheDarkLordxX [T, 3k]

“For the love of—really Draco? Artificial leather?” The horror in his father’s tone was amusing. “You have money, use it. And what’s with the color scheme? Is that—oh Merlin it is—floral print? This is worse than I thought. You need to move back home. Clearly allowing you to venture out on your own was a mistake.” “I’m an adult,” Draco yelled, still laying on the ground, not bothering to care enough to move. He had chosen his furniture knowing it would haunt his parents. Petty spite did wonders for the soul Revenge, friendship, and a surprising romance kindle after Draco experiences a recent breakup. He just wants to discover who he is, and maybe the knowledge was there all along.

Harry Potter and the Incredibly Organized Personal Assistant by megyal [T, 2k]

Harry Potter's new assistant is snarkily organized.

Leave Sleeping Dragons Lie by DorthyAnn [T, 846]

Interhouse unity could fuck off, was the last thought that went through Harry’s mind when he went to break Malfoy's perfect nose. They had ended up in a tangled heap of rage on the floor, eventually separated by an irate Headmistress McGonagall who informed them that they had two choices, two weeks of detentions with Filch or they could hold hands for an hour. Harry was very tempted to take the detention but the look of inordinate glee on Finch's face changed his mind. Apparently, it had the same effect on Malfoy because now they were stuck, side by side in two chairs in the middle of the Great Hall, holding hands.

Meeting The Guardians by jlpierre [T, 3k]

Will Draco meeting the 'Dad's', Sirius and Remus, go down well for Harry?

Pet Names by snacc__daddy [T, 2k]

Mostly everyone has returned for their eighth year at Hogwarts and McGonagall tells Harry and Draco to stop calling each other by their last names to promote house unity. Hilarity and misconceptions ensue.

Real Texts by Affectiion [G, 2k]

Kingsley has decided all his Aurors need muggle mobile phones. Draco has finally learned how to use his, and gets a hold of Harry's number.

Ron Weasley: Accidental Matchmaker by Phoenix_Waves [T, 2k]

"There's not a sexual tension out there that the man can't accidentally detect!" George beamed. "And then ask the stupid arse question that's going to light the spark and fan the flames." Lee added matter-of-factly. A fluffy Christmas one shot featuring our favorite older Gryffindors.

Spin the Wand by WrittenSins [T, 2k]

In the spirit of inter-house unity, the eighth years have a small party. In an attempt to get Harry and Ginny back together, Hermione and Ron come up with the plan of a rigged game of Spin the Wand, but not all goes as planned.

The Proposal by dracogotgame [T, 4k]

Draco's proposal is a night to remember

The Talk by WolfstarPups90 [M, 1k]

Sirius and Remus think it's time they give Harry "The Talk" when they find he's been sneaking out at night to see someone special.

They Don't Know About Us by weasley_bee [G, 1k]

Harry and Draco are in a secret relationship. When they are both invited to Ron and Hermione's house for dinner, will they give the game away?

Welcome to the Family by Jencala [M, 2k]

Remus turned to face his husband. “Your godson is engaged to a Malfoy. He’s used to the finer things in life and I, for one, would like to make sure this dinner is not only pleasant, but that he knows we are not peasants.” Sirius barked a laugh. “So the truth is, you want to show off for the little bugger!”

*denotes personal favorites

[dhr-ao3]

[Podfic] Private Tutor

[Podfic] Private Tutor https://ift.tt/MEdv7tS by FanFixation (SequesteredAudio) When they come back for their 8th year, all students are paired with students from other houses for coursework and assignments - in the name of building inter-house unity. Professor McGonagall pairs Hermione with the youngest Death Eater in history as he tries to rehabilitate his image. Across a reluctantly burgeoning friendship, Hermione comes to learn that Draco has almost no experience with girls since the age of fifteen. In light of his desperate crush on Daphne and his defeated prospects re: making a move, she offers to help. or That time Hermione offered to give Draco Malfoy some much-needed sexual experience. Podfic of Private Tutor by allofthelights11. Words: 28, Chapters: 1/20, Language: English Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Daphne Greengrass, Original Character (Wayne) Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Draco Malfoy Additional Tags: POV Hermione Granger, POV Draco Malfoy, Loss of Virginity, Virgin Draco Malfoy, Shameless Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Exploration, Sex, Hand Jobs, Vaginal Fingering, Nipple Play, erotic tutoring, Professor Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger Teaches Things, Sexually Experienced Hermione Granger, No one is a sex god at eighteen, Realistic Learning experiences, patient hermione granger, eager draco malfoy, Draco Malfoy Learns Something, Lots of things, Draco Malfoy catches feelings, Hermione Granger catches feelings, Humor and sex, Humorous Sex, Proper Use of Hermione Granger, Fondling, Frottage, Boob honking, Erotic socks, Curvy Hermione, Hermione has large breasts, Draco likes them, like a lot, sexploration, Explicit Sexual Content, Sexual Content, Explicit Language, clit nudging, its in the middle, Spelunking, Scar Positivity, Hair-pulling, Flail inspiring, Oral Sex, Jealous Draco Malfoy, Jealous Hermione Granger, Female Ejaculation, Squirting, Multiple Orgasms, okay there is SOME plot, HEA, Vaginal Sex, Dramione endgame, Idiots in Love, Minor Daphne Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, minor hermione granger/original male character, Praise Kink, cum kink, Deflower Draco, Podfic, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Audio Format: Download via AO3 works tagged 'Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy' https://ift.tt/FQra8pJ November 17, 2024 at 09:04PM

[xjulixred45x]

Faz Billy Hargrove x Yui Komori ou Steve Harrington x Yui Komori?

uau! e apreciador de Stranger Things?? E DE YUI KOMORI?! VOCÊ FALA MINHA LÍNGUA! (quase literal, sou uruguaio😅 saudações, a propósito!)

wow! an enjoyer of Stranger Things? and of Yui Komori? you speak my language!

I definitely think that Yui could not fall in love under any circumstances with someone like Billy (maybe in a school context where she knows him either because of Max(Yui being her tutor) or even both of them going to the same classes?), more than anything because of his attitude towards the others and ESPECIALLY Max/the main group of ST.

But that doesn't mean Billy wasn't interested in someone like Yui! On the contrary, I think he might have something of a Crush in her and would try to get her attention by being his normal obnoxious self, trying to be "cool" and for her to treat him with her characteristic kindness (he's like Max Jagerman with Grace Chastity in a way, but more genuine? He wants her to notice him so bad--).

Yui may feel sorry for Billy, but she can't really return his interest. It's something one-sided.

STEVE ON THE OTHER HAND, I can definitely see them interacting differently and much friendlier, especially after Steve comes to his senses and becomes a better person. Yui is definitely someone who is easy to fall in love with, and Steve is no exception!

With the good number of jobs that Steve has throughout the seasons, he probably has the good (or bad) luck that in all his jobs he runs into Yui, and VERY rarely manages to act normal, but Yui is so patient and so SWEET that everything ends well somehow.

definitely something much more likely and nicer if they get to know each other.

___________

wow! un fanatico de Stranger Things?¿y de Yui Komori? hablas mi idioma!

definitivamente creo que Yui no podria enamorarse bajo ninguna circunstancia de alguien como Billy(talvez en un contexto escolar donde ella lo conoce ya sea por Max siendo Yui su tutora o incluso ambos llendo a las mismas clases?), más que nada por su actitud con los demas y ESPECIALMENTE a Max/el grupo principal de ST.

¡pero eso no quiere decir que Billy no se interesara en alguien como Yui! todo lo contrario, creo que el podria tener algo asi como un Crush en ella y trataria de llamar si atención mediante ser su yo normal odioso, tratando de ser "cool" y que ella lo trate con su característica amabilidad (es como Max Jagerman con Grace Chastity en cierta forma, pero mas genuino?).

Yui puede sentir pena por Billy, pero realmente no puede devolver su interes. es algo unilateral.

STEVE POR OTRO LADO, definitivamente puedo verlos interactuar de forma diferente y mucho mas amigable, especialmente después de aue Steve recapacita y se vuelve una mejor persona. Yui definitivamente es alguien del que es facil enamorarse, y Steve no es la excepción!

con la buena de trabajos que Steve tiene a lo largo de las temporadas, probablemente tiene la buena(o mala) suerte de que en todos sus trabajos se topa con Yui, y MUY pocas veces logra actuar de forma normal, pero Yui es tan paciente y tan DULCE que todo termina bien de alguna forma.

definitivamente algo mucho mas probable y lindo si se llegarán a conocer🥺