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reiderwriter · 5 months

Note

I have a hotch request and if you don’t write it I completely understand☺️

So you’re dating hotch for a couple months and you’ve only went over to his house like 5-6 times(so that’s how many times you’ve hung out with jack) anyway, you go to use the washroom or something before you leave to go home and jack asks his dad if you’re his gf and if you’ll be having a sleepover with them (as you’ve never actually stayed there before) and his heart becomes all warm n fluffy

A/N: Hi! I don't usually write for Hotch, but I decided to give it a crack because this fits pretty well for @imagining-in-the-margins KidFic challenge! It was a fun challenge to write, so thanks for the prompt! I changed it up slightly, but I hope you still enjoy it!

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, step-family dynamics, etc.

10 months of casual dinners, midnight strolls, and stolen kisses, and you still weren't ready to accept that you were in love with your boss.

Aaron Hotchner was a complicated man, and loving him wasn't as simple as your heart wanted it to be. You worked together but rejected any favouritism he may have shown you. You slept together, but you never stayed in his bed. You kissed him, but you never told him you loved him, even though you were sure you did.

You just weren't sure you were ready to be a stepmother.

As a child of divorce, you'd been graced with two step-parents growing up, and while neither were story book evil, they weren't exactly the most welcoming either. You'd bounced between your mother and father's houses, trailing duffle bags, afraid to take up too much space for fear of ruining your parents’ newfound and direly earned happiness.

Jack had the misfortune of being both a child of divorce and having lost his mother entirely too young and entirely too suddenly.

When you'd joined the BAU, off the back of Haley Hotchner’s death, Aaron had been a man in mourning, a man scarred by circumstance and regret. But he'd been brave, and he'd been loving, and he'd worked so hard to give his son a good life.

Five years later, and it seemed obvious now that you had at least respected the man from the very beginning, if not pined for him quite openly.

There was that final hurdle left to cross, though, and you weren't sure if you'd ever be ready to do so.

A phone call startled you out of your worries as you sat on your couch, dissociating after a long and hard won case. The shrill ring startled you into action as you frantically searched for wherever it was this time that you left your phone.

“Hello, yes, I'm here, hi,” you said, finally finding the phone abandoned under some couch pillows.

“Y/N, it's Aaron.”

“I know, Aaron. Caller ID, welcome to the 21st century,” You couldn't help smiling into the receiver, so smitten with the man your face was just doing whatever it liked.

“Right. Look, I wouldn't usually overstep like this, but Jessica and I have to go upto Roy's retirement house, he's not dealing too well with the new environments, and all of Jack's regular babysitters are enjoying the spring weather. I'd ask his friends' moms for an impromptu playmate but-”

“But you'd rather he be with someone you trust? Aaron, it's fine, I'll come over and watch Jack for a few hours.”

He sighed into the receiver, and after a few more niceties, you ended the call, still grinning like an idiot.

You were still grinning like an idiot when your earlier anxiety came back and hit you straight in the chest. You'd met Jack before, but you'd not so subtly avoided any kid based conversations and meet-ups for the last 10 months.

You had no idea how to entertain a nine year old boy, but you decided quickly that you couldn't half ass it.

The drive to Hotch's house was almost embarrassingly familiar to you now, having been there so often in the past few months. Jack enjoyed regular sleepovers with his aunt and schoolmates so you could enjoy regular sleepovers with his father, a fact that you had to remind yourself to keep private as you knocked on the door.

“It's open,” Aaron called from inside, and you hesitantly opened the door and stepped in, bag of last-minute toy purchases stuffed under your arm.

From the door, you could see Aaron in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water as he washed lunch dishes and pots, sticking his head out to smile at you.

“Aaron Hotchner, domestic goddess. Who’d have thought?”

“I'd ask you to keep this to yourself at work.”

“Of course,” you said, stepping a fraction closer to him. “Anything to keep the mystery alive.”

He leaned in for a quick kiss, and you reciprocated, letting it linger a second as you smiled into his touch.

Drying his hands on a towel near him, Aaron called across the apartment for Jack.

“What's up, Dad?” He asked, peeking out of his bedroom door.

“This is Y/N. She works with me and Uncle Rossi. She's going to take care of you for a while while me and Aunt Jessica and I visit your Grandpa. Come say hi.”

Creeping out of his room slowly, Jack came to stand just in front of his father's legs as Aaron put his hands on his shoulders, proudly showing off his mini doppelganger.

“Hi, I'm Jack.”

“Nice to meet you Jack, my name is Y/N.” You stuck out your hand, and he shook it. You noticed how small his hands were, but how strong his grip was. He was confident, but he was still just a small kid, and you were even more motivated not to mess this up.

“What's in your bag?” He asked, flicking his eyes down to it every few seconds, as if he was itching to stick his nose right into it.

“Jack, manners, please.”

“It's okay, Hotch. I brought some toys. Your dad mentioned that Santa's gave you a Nintendo at Christmas, and I thought I'd show you a few of my favourite games.”

His face lit up as he quickly stepped closer to you, hands on the bag as he waited for you to offer it up, now openly ogling the bags contents, knowing it was for him.

“You didn't have to bring anything, Y/N.”

“I wanted to make a good first impression.”

After being dragged to the nearest sofa and sitting through a five minute walk through of all the house rules, urgency exits and remote locations, you were left alone with Jack Hotchner, remotes in hand ready to play Mario Kart.

“Okay, now all that's left to do is choose the course you want to race on. Which one do you want to play on?”

Jack had chosen to use Bowser as his character and chosen Toadette for you quite cutely, and you'd quickly finished cart selection, too.

“We should go through them in order, so we complete them all,” he said after a moment of deliberation.

You giggled at how seriously he was taking it. And then the first race in the Mushroom Cup started, and you were seriously impressed by how quickly he'd picked up this game. Either kids were just better at video games in general, or you had a prodigy on your hands.

His serious face was a carbon copy of Hotch when he was hunched over paperwork, and he gave you the same quietly disapproving frown every time your character momentarily overtook his. It was adorable seeing the two reflected in one another.

By the shell cup, you were nearly exhausted, despite having spent the entire time glued to the couch.

“What do you think about taking a snack break?” You asked, looking over Aaron Jack, who had turned himself upside down on the couch somewhere in the last three matches and was still beating you.

“Okay. I'll show you where Dad hides the good snacks,” he said, quickly rolling off the couch as if his bones were liquid.

You, on the other hand, cracked as you stood, the irony not lost on you as you hobbled your way to the kitchen.

Opening the cupboard under the sink, Jack routed around for a few seconds before returning with a small box of Reeses Pieces, which you gradually accepted alongside a glass of apple juice.

“You're a good kid, Jack,” you said, ruffling his hair as he playfully swatted your hand away.

“Yeah, that's what my dad always says.”

“Your dad is a very smart man.”

He nodded and then went back to quietly eating his candy, somewhat lost in thought.

You weren't sure if you were supposed to ask him what he was thinking about, or avoid the topic and dive straight back into video games, so you just ate your candy, too, standing together in the kitchen, Mario Kart music playing in the background.

“Do you like my dad?” He suddenly asked, swallowing down one more bite of apple juice. You'd forgotten that kids were the bluntness people on the planet, not yet having learned the necessity of delicately creeping closer to the actual topic of discussions like adults.

Jack had landed a sucker punch right to your guy, and you were suddenly choking on Reese's Pieces.

“Umm,” you said, catching your breath again and hoping your embarrassment wasn't plain as day on your face. “Yes, I respect your father a lot, Jack.”

“But do you like him?” He said again, eyes wide and expectant as he looked up at you.

“My dad can be a little scary sometimes. I heard some of my friends' moms saying so at Mitchell C's birthday party last week. They said he's scary, but he's so sad and lonely.”

Your heart sank in your chest as you watched Jack worry about his dad, worry if Aaron Hotchner was lonely or sad.

“Jack, your dad isn't lonely or sad. He has you, and Aunt Jessica, and-”

“And you, right? Because you like my dad?”

“R-Right. He has me, too.”

“Great. Let's keep playing. The Banana Cup is next.”

As suddenly as it had started, your serious talk with Jack was over and he bounced his way back to the sofa, clicking go on the next race, as you ran to quickly take your place again, too.

Five hours later, and you were being shaken softly awake, controller still in your hands as you blinked your eyes open. Somehow, it had gotten dark, and both you and Jack had simultaneously fallen asleep on the couch.

Now Hotch hovered over you, carrying the sleeping boy in his arms as he woke you up. He mouthed ‘coffee?’ and you nodded quickly, sitting up further and grabbing the nearest remote to turn off the Nintendo.

With Jack situated in bed quickly, you made your way to the kitchen. Aaron joined you after making sure Jack was still asleep, walking up behind you and wrapping two arms around your middle, leaning his head against your shoulder and exhaling. Despite the shiver down your spine, you leaned further into him, enjoying the feeling of him in your sleepy state.

“How was it?” He asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. You were almost sure that he was conducting this conversation from behind as a means of convincing himself not to read into your every movement and expression.

“It was great. He's a great kid, you know?”

“So I've been told.”

“He's worried about you, too. He said the moms at his school think you're scary and lonely. Which in suburban house mom translates to romantic hero, though I don't think he realizes that.”

You felt the grumble of a laugh behind you, the sound low and comforting as you let your eyes flutter closed again, content in his arms.

“Jack…misses his mom. Rebecca is great, but he likes talking to the moms at school. Maybe a little too much, I don't know.”

“You miss her, too.” It was a statement, not a fact.

“I do,” he said sadly, holding you tighter. “Is that a problem?”

“No. No, god no. Aaron, I-” your voice broke, and you hesitated slightly, clearing your voice. You squirmed in his grip until he released you enough to face him.

Doing so may have been a mistake, though, as you locked eyes with him and so desperately wanted to kiss him, to claim his mouth with yours, and let him lift you onto his kitchen counters.

You squeezed your nails into the palm of your hands to ground yourself and took a steadying breath.

Which was when Jack decided to make a reappearance.

“Dad?” He said groggily, wiping the sleep from his eyes as you had only moments earlier.

You quickly broke apart as Aaron smiled disappointedly, almost as if he were expecting the interruption.

“Hey, bud. Did you sleep well?”

Jack nodded, tilting his head a little as though still disorientated.

“Did I fall asleep on the couch?”

“Sure did. Both of you, actually.”

Jack looked at you then and smiled sweetly up at his dad.

“So Miss Y/N is staying tonight?” He asked, suddenly a little excited and expectant.

“Well, Miss Y/N has her own house, so we can't just expect her to-”

“Yeah, I'm staying,” you blurted out, cutting off Hotch mid-sentence. He raised an eyebrow at you, but you ignored him and smiled down at Jack.

“And if you head back to bed now, I'll make some pancakes for you in the morning,” you whispered conspiratorially with the boy, who raced back to his room.

Before shutting the door fully, he stopped by his dad and tugged him down to whisper level, saying something before yelling goodnight and taking himself back off to his room.

“What? What was that?” You pouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Aaron.

“You first,” he laughed back, leaning on the nearby counter.

“I promised him pancakes in the morning. What did he say?”

“Oh, nothing,” he said, pulling you closer to him again. “He just said you had an interesting conversation earlier.”

“Was it the one where he asked me if Mario speaks English, Italian or Japanese, because I couldn't answer that question for sure.”

“He said,” he leaned down to your ear to whisper the next words. “That you told him you like me. And he thinks you meant like-like.”

You flushed hot and avoided eye contact. A childish part of you wanted to deny it, to scoff and run away, like you were on the playground and not in a dimly lit kitchen at midnight. But you couldn't.

“I do. But I'd probably say love and not like-like, seeing as though I'm not nine.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered, noses touching as he descended to capture your lips once more.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x female reader #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fluff #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fandom

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happy74827 · 5 months

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The Demon With A Heart

[Crowley x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: When Crowley saves your life, you can't help but think it was a little more than self-interest.

WC: 1858

Category: 99.9% Sexual Tension (lmfao), 0.01% Fluff + Angst? {TW: Mentions of Demons (obvi), Murder}

Crowley is too iconic not to have fics. I said what I said.

『••✎••』

You didn’t know how to react. It was as if your tongue was taken away, and you couldn’t talk, no matter how much you wanted to thank the man.

No, the demon.

You stood there with wide eyes, staring at the King of Hell, Crowley. He looked the same as before: a clean suit, a snarky comment, and a look of disgust on his face. But, instead of being on the opposite side, he was wiping the blood off of the angel blade he used to kill the angel that jumped you.

He just saved you—The King of Hell.

The very man who told Sam and Dean countless times that he doesn't do anything for free and doesn’t help people without getting something out of it. Yet, here he was, standing in front of you, not asking for a single thing.

The thought was a bit unsettling.

"Purely out of self-interest, darling," He says, breaking the silence and putting the stolen blade into his jacket. "Call it a favor that I plan to collect in the future."

He was about to leave, but you couldn’t let him go. Not without a thank you, at least. You didn't want him to think you didn’t appreciate what he did.

"Crowley."

The man turns back around, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you."

The corner of his mouth turned upward, forming a small smirk. He didn’t say anything but rather kept his eyes on you for a second longer. He then disappeared, leaving you in the dark.

And it did leave you in the dark. For days, weeks, months. He never came for that favor, and he never brought up what happened. In fact, he barely talked to you at all. It was always towards the Winchesters.

You began to believe it was nothing but a dream. That Crowley somehow didn't save you. The angel was a fake, and this was all some sick joke. It felt like gaslighting.

But you knew what happened was real. You remembered the blood splatter and the dead corpse. The way his face contorted when he pierced the angel's heart.

It was all too real.

So, why was he ignoring you? Why did he pretend that it never happened? Was he going to hold it over your head? Or was it just the fact that the King of Hell did something nice for a human?

Was it because he… cared?

One night, you got your answer. It was a quiet night filled with books, tea, and soft music. At least, it was before those idiotic brothers decided to tear down the bunker in search of some book.

You couldn’t remember the exact reason they needed it, but you were too tired to argue. So, you stayed in your room and tried to fall asleep.

That is until the lights went out and the emergency lights kicked on. Okay, now you were annoyed. You got up, slipped on your shoes and a coat, and walked out of your room.

"Alright, what did you two-"

You paused mid-sentence, eyes falling onto the figure in the library. The man was facing the opposite way, but you knew exactly who it was. The familiar black suit and hair gave it away.

"Crowley…"

"Hello, Darling,” he replied, turning around and smiling at you. It was almost unnerving. He didn’t have a malicious aura or even an evil one. Just... a smile.

You looked behind him and noticed… well, nothing. You were expecting the Winchesters to be with him, and yet, it was just him.

"Where are the boys?"

"Moose and Squirrel? Ah, they're off somewhere, doing... well, you know. Something heroic, I suppose. Figured I’d stick around… enjoy the scenery."

That’s when you looked up and understood what he meant. He was stuck, quite literally. Those devil traps they put everywhere finally did something good.

You half-expected him to bring up that 'favor' he was talking about or maybe even just demand to get out of there, but he did neither. Instead, he looked at the ground and sighed.

At the moment, the King of Hell looked just like a caged puppy, sad and alone. If he wasn’t such a… demon, you might have even felt bad for him.

But, you left him in there, strolling along to the kitchen to find some kind of light. You were not giving up your two hours of reading due to power loss.

As you shuffled through the cabinets, looking for any form of match or lighter, the lights flickered back on.

So that’s where the Winchesters were.

You shrugged and turned back to your room but stopped at the entrance to the library. Crowley was still there, but this time, his face was twisted. He was clearly pissed.

"Why did you do it?" The burning question you wanted answered for months finally came out. Crowley stopped his little fit and turned towards you, a confused expression on his face.

He looked like he had no idea what you were talking about.

"I do a lot of things, Chipmunk. You'll have to be more specific."

You walked towards him, resting down the candles and book on a nearby table. You didn’t know why, but the need to confront him was growing.

"Save me all those months ago."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

You were getting closer, now only a few feet from him. Crowley, however, didn’t back away. Instead, he watched as you moved, his expression unchanging.

"That angel could’ve killed me, yet you came out of nowhere and stabbed him. I know you don't do anything out of kindness, so why did you do it? What do I offer that no one else does?"

Crowley stayed silent for a while, not giving any indication of answering your questions.

You thought it was just a lost cause until his expression changed. It was subtle, but you caught it. The corner of his mouth turned down, and his eyes widened, then narrowed.

He almost looked ashamed.

"It's just like I said. Self-interest." He spat out, his voice sounding like venom. You almost took a step back. It still sounded like the same old Crowley, but his tone was different.

You decided to call his bluff.

"I don't believe you."

Crowley raised an eyebrow, a smirk coming across his face. He was amused by the sudden attitude, but it didn’t last long.

"And what makes you say that?"

"I saw the way you looked at me after you saved me. Hesitancy, almost. Like you were unsure. As if..."

The King of Hell stared at you, waiting for the last part of your statement. He was eager but not for the answer. No, he knew what you were going to say.

He was just waiting to hear it come out of your mouth.

"You care."

Those words hung in the air, both of you processing it. Crowley continued to stare at you, the smirk disappearing, leaving his face neutral. He had a blank expression.

A silence grew, the atmosphere turning awkward. It wasn't until the demon let out a loud sigh and looked to the side that it was broken.

"You’re really pulling on the heartstrings, Chipmunk,” he muttered, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "If I had one, I'd say it was aching."

"Do you?"

You knew what you were implying. Crowley was the King of Hell, the ruler of the damned. He was the furthest thing from human, yet he could walk among them and, sometimes, be mistaken for one.

Was it possible for him to be human or even have emotions?

Crowley looked at you and frowned, clearly not liking the topic. But he didn't deny it. It was a strange sight—the King of Hell, frowning and silent.

It was almost adorable.

"I'm not asking for anything. I just… want an honest answer."

"Well, I am a demon, love,” He stated, his tone changing to a more playful one. “Honesty isn’t quite in the job description."

"Crowley."

You were starting to get impatient, and it showed. Your voice was firm, and your posture was tense. You wanted an answer, and you were determined to get it.

The demon in question let out another sigh and looked at the ceiling as if praying for a quick escape.

"You're a pain, you know that? It's exhausting." He grumbled, rolling his eyes. "But, I suppose, since you asked nicely..."

The man looked at you, his lips pursed. He was still hesitating, which only made you more curious.

"Yes, I care. About you. Happy?"

You blinked a few times, processing the information. Did the King of Hell, the person known for not giving a shit, just admit he cares?

"I-" You started, not knowing what to say. It was a surprise but not an unwelcome one. Crowley wasn't exactly a bad guy, well, a demon.

"Do you actually mean that?"

"Now that…" Crowley started, his voice low and deep. He leaned towards you, making you back up, but the wall soon prevented you from going any further.

He was inches away, his breath hitting your face. You could see his eyes staring into yours—a pretty brown, like a mocha latte.

"…Is the kind of question that will get you in trouble, love."

You weren’t sure what he was planning, but you didn't care. The way his eyes were looking at you, the smirk on his face, the closeness...

He was probably expecting you to back away, but he was wrong. You were an avid reader, obsessive even. This scene wasn't new, nor was it shocking.

The only shocking part was the fact that you were the one in it. And, well, the fact that you didn’t mind it.

"Unlike you,” you whispered, a small smirk on your face. "I don’t care."

Your response made him pause for a moment, squinting his eyes and giving you a confused look. It only lasted a few seconds, though. Soon, he understood, and a chuckle escaped his lips.

"Touché"

You truly believed you were about to lose your chance with the man upstairs, but loud footsteps interrupted you.

"Crowley, you slimy son of a bitch! If you’re not here, we are going to-"

Dean stopped talking as he rounded the corner, seeing you and Crowley close. His expression was shocked, almost comical.

"The hell is going on here?"

You and Crowley both turned to look at Dean, a look of annoyance on the King of Hell's face. Sam came around the corner as well, sharing the same look of confusion.

Crowley gave you one last glance, a bit of disappointment in his eyes, before taking a step back. His attention moved on to the two hunters, his usual smile returning.

And despite the annoyance in the air and the confusion, the only thing that came across your mind was another question that you were sure would take control of your sleep schedule once again.

"Hello, boys," He purred, his arms moving to his side. He was back to his old self, not showing a single sign of what happened moments ago.

Had the beauty thawed the beast?

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eilinelsghost · 17 days

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(Medium) Hot Take: "Did the Oath actually condemn Fëanor & his sons to the Everlasting Darkness" is the wrong question because it has a clear textual answer: which is "no."

Did it have the power to do so? That's another question entirely and a fun one to debate.

But did it? Absolutely not.

Because each of the sons of Fëanor (and Fëanor himself) fulfilled their Oath. Nowhere in the various drafts of the Oath is there a version where they call down the Everlasting Darkness if they fail to retrieve a Silmaril. What they actually swear is:

an oath of enmity for ever against any that should hold the Silmarils The Book of Lost Tales, Part One

shall no law nor love nor league of Gods, no might nor mercy, not moveless fate, defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance of the sons of Fëanor, whoso seize or steal or finding keep the fair enchanted globes of crystal whose glory dies not, the Silmarils. The Lays of Beleriand, The Flight of the Noldoli

no law, nor love, nor league of hell, no might of Gods, no binding spell, shall him defend from hatred fell of Fëanor's sons, whoso take or steal or finding keep a Silmaril. The Lays of Beleriand, The Lay of Leithian: Canto IV

neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril. This swear we all: death we will deal him ere Day's ending, woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. Morgoth's Ring; Fifth section of the Annals of Aman

they swore an oath [...] calling the Everlasting Dark upon them if they kept it not; [...] vowing to pursue with vengeance and hatred to the ends of the World Vala, Demon, Elf or Man as yet unborn, or any creature, great or small, good or evil, that time should bring forth unto the end of days, whoso should hold or take or keep a Silmaril from their possession. The Silmarillion; Of the Flight of the Noldor

Every version of the Oath that includes the Everlasting Darkness calls it down upon them only if they do not pursue the perceived thief with vengeance and hatred. The only variance from this is in the version from the Annals of Aman where one could conceivably link the Everlasting Darkness with a failure to kill whosoever took a Silmaril. But this version is replaced by the consistent form shown in all other iterations (the same form that is included in the published Silmarillion) and consequently doesn't hold much weight for the argument.

Fëanor and each of his sons (save Maglor who survives the First Age with a Silmaril in his possession) met their ends in pursuit of this exact clause - pursuing those who hold a Silmaril with vengeance and hatred - and consequently dying in fulfilment of their Oath. Which is to say that even if we do hold that the Oath had the power to damn them to the Everlasting Darkness (which it very well may have!), it would not, could not, and did not do so because the terms were met.

And even setting the specific wording of the Oath, the text tells us exactly what happens to one who dies in pursuit of the Oath while still not regaining a single Silmaril: "...[Fëanor's] likeness has never again appeared in Arda, neither has his spirit left the halls of Mandos" (The Silmarillion, Of the Return of the Noldor).

So yes, the Oath might have had the power to send them into the Everlasting Darkness, but it did not have the grounds to do so. And so it did not.

#feanor #sons of feanor #the oath of feanor #meta #the silmarillion #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #curufin #caranthir #amrod #amras

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the-cat-and-the-birdie · 10 months

Text

Hey Writers of ATSV, STOP letting White Men off the hook and expecting me to clap.

The fact that Miguel is repeated dehumanized and called an animal even prior to him snapping but George Stacy's scenes are written completely sympathetic towards him -

It doesn't sit right with me. Look at this:

They call Miguel an animal in the opening scenes.

At this point, he's not a threat to anyone but Vulture. In this scene, Miguel is doing exactly what he's supposed to do as Spider-man.

He gets called an animal.

Two pages later it's literal George Stacy holding a gun to his daughters face, and yet it's written completely, 100% sympathetic towards him AND ONLY HIM.

Which like..... Girl... Let me adjust my spectacles because I cannot be reading this right.

He's pointing a loaded gun at his daughter. Gwen is undoubtedly more scared than she's even been in her entire life.

She's confused and desperate, one of our main characters is going through a traumatic event.

The script though? It only cares about George and how he was 'betrayed by his little girl'

As if Gwen isn't her own person.

As if Gwen didn't just save dozens of lives. In a situation where the police could do nothing.

Had Gwen not been there, the police would not have been able to handle Vulture. The threat is subdued - yet he still persists.

It doesn't matter that she just saved multiple lives. It doesn't matter that she's not a threat - or that she's his literal daughter.

What matters is how hard this is for the adult white man with the lethal weapon in his hands.

The scene SHOULD be written from Gwen's point of view. SHE'S the victim.

But no, the white male cop is going through it due to his own emotional incompetency so let's focus on that while calling Miguel an evil animal.

In ATSV both George AND Peter - the two white men in the movie - let Gwen down. They either put her in danger or do nothing as they watch.

George points a gun at her. Peter watches Miguel as he physically assaults Gwen and puts her in the machine, exiling her into homelessness.

Then, he gets to go home to his wife and kids, not even mention to MJ that Gwen and Miles were both assaulted and are now missing. And instead he whines about how he's 'not good at this mentor stuff'.

In ATSV the White Male characters repeatedly fail the people around them with no consequences at all - even from a lot of the audience.

And yeah - Peter Parker is completely neglectful.

To the point it's not okay whatsoever.

I've seen MULTIPLE people say that 'Peter is justified in not helping Gwen during the Go-Home scene. Because Miguel was obviously violent and he's probably scared of him plus he was holding MayDay.'

Which is an excuse that ignores the fact that it's pitiful that GWEN a teenage girl facing homelessness - who is likely weaker than both Peter and Miguel - is more willing to stand up to Miguel than PETER PARKER.

It ignores the fact Miguel would NOT attack a fucking baby. He's a FATHER.

But it's easier to assume the Latino man is a raging, angry, baby killer than to admit the white man is committing neglect.

It baffles me that people will really defend Peter saying 'he was scared - he didn't know what Miguel would do-'

Neither did Gwen. But she still did it.

Because she's a GOOD GUY. Because it mattered to her. Because the people she cared about were getting hurt.

She stood up to Miguel in the face of literal danger and homelessness.

Peter had nothing to lose. He make a joke and shut up when he was told.

Once again: If Gwen and Hobie hadn't come for Peter, we have NO IDEA how long he would've stayed with Miguel. We are given NO INDICATION prior to Gwen's arrival that Peter is actively going to change sides. Or is even really considering it in that moment.

Even in the script Peter shows no remorse or worry for Gwen or Miles at all.

It's as if they don't cross his mind. As if he doesn't care he led Miguel directly to Miles because he forgot he had on a tracking watch. As if what he just witnessed didn't disturb him, as if he isn't worried that Gwen is literally homeless.

All he cares about is him, and his image as mentor.

Like sir, I do not give a DAMN. I might not even give a fuck, if you will.

Shut the fuck up about that mentorship shit 😭😭😭😭 You tryna mentor niggas that's MISSING.

He's like that deadbeat dad that brought you a bike a decade ago at 6 and he still bringing it up asking you why you don't call him 'dad'. Like just because you taught Miles to swing over a year ago doesn't mean you're his mentor mfer. Miles would've learned to swing anyway cause it's literally instinctual and every person bitten eventually learns it by themselves so really Peter wtf 😐

People will scream 'But there's nothing he could do!! Miguel is too scary!!'

One: Peter is one of if not the Spider-person with the most experience. If we assume he was bitten at 18 and he's say 45 now, that's still over 25 years of experience. If he was bitten in high school, that's even more experience.

He has biological powers Miguel doesn't, plus he has years of experience over Miguel - who canonically got his powers as an adult. If anyone in that room can beat Miguel - it's him.

If you're telling me that Peter B. Parker is not only scared of Miguel but he's scared to the point he will not even attempt to question him, even though three people younger than him will - Gwen, Hobie, and Miles - that's pitiful. That's a sad excuse for a Spider-man.

Also He's Spider-Man. The whole point of Spider-man is he fights even if he isn't sure he can win.

Two: At the very least, he can show that he's genuinely concerned for the kids he wants to mentor so bad. But he doesn't even do that. Even bringing them up or saying their names doesn't cross his mind.

But once again, the white male character emotionally neglecting those around him - especially the children who depend on him - and both he are George are either shown as innocent, unwilling to act, or the script is outright sympathetic towards them.

It's easy to call the Latino man an animal but writing a scene in which a white cop is rightfully portrayed as selfish is too hard.

It's easy to call the Latino man a monster but writing Peter Parker as a heroic figure is too hard.

The racism is not just towards Miguel. It's also in the blatant favoritism the white male characters are given.

Both George and Peter actively endanger those around them and at no point do they do something on their own accord that helps anybody but themselves.

Gwen has to go to her father - by force. Gwen has to go to Peter - using Hobie's hard work.

What we NOT GONNA DO is give the white man praise when it's literally the black guy who did all the work.

Fuck - Hobie mentored Gwen TEN TIMES MORE than Peter ever did Miles. Hobie put a roof over Gwen's head and came to get her when no other person would.

Writers, stop trying to make me sympathetic towards the white men who actively hurt the people around them when there's good mentors like Hobie and good parents like Rio and Jeff.

I ain't with the shits'. If anyone is an animal in this script, it's the man who pointed a gun at his daughter.

I guess assaulting and mentally scaring children is only okay if you do it with a firearm? Or if you make this face while doing it 🥺*

(*coupon not available for the melinated)

I changed my mind i don't forgive Peter or George. Miguel who has a whole ass arc of life and death and loss gets called an animal while the white cop with six minutes of screentime gets shown as father of the year while holding a loaded gun to a child girl you must be kidding me

Maybe Gwen would be in a better mood if we let her kick their asses idk 🤷🏾

#no proofread #I'm just yelling #spiderman #atsv #spider man #marvel #across the spiderverse #hobie brown #gwen stacy #miles morales #miguel o hara #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #ghost spider #spiderwoman #peter b parker #atsv analysis #George Stacy #Peter Parker

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lady-griffin · 2 years

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Small Parallel I love with Knives Out and Glass Onion

Neither Harlan Thrombey nor Andi Brand are good people. They’re not. They’re also not evil people to be clear, but again, they’re not really good people.

By the kind of people his family and especially his children are, we get a sense of who Harlan is or largely was in his life, especially with the comment that there is so much of him in Ransom.

Andi was also clearly more than okay with both Birdie and Duke as not just acquaintances but close friends; as well as what other nonsense came out of Miles before “Klear,” and she was his business partner and friend.

She wasn’t some moral beacon of wholesomeness.

Her standard of good was –

Let’s not put this very dangerous and unstable thing that hasn’t even come close to being properly tested out into the world, especially not under our company’s name; because we are not some daring startup company anymore, we’re an established conglomerate and this could easily sink us.

That’s not exactly a high bar of morality.

And that’s okay.

Really it is.

I like how neither movie truly idolizes Harlan or Andi to the point they are made out to be truly good people, BUT yet, we still see why Marta and Helen clearly loved and cared about these two and why their deaths matter.

Marta and Helen are our truly good souls for these movies.

The two main groups of people - The Thrombeys and The Disruptors - are all various shades of the same kind of bad person for each movie.

The Thrombeys are all willing to live off Harlan’s hard work and they all believe they are entitled to his fortune because it’s their family right. It’s theirs. And once you peel back the layers of liberal or conservative, they’re all the same, because they’re all a bit more than willing to defend what they think is theirs, with knives out and teeth bared.

The Disruptors are somehow even more reliant on Miles than the Thrombeys were on Harlan (which is saying something); and they will cling onto him until they see his boat is doomed to sink. They literally know he killed two people; two of their so-called “friends” and they’re not willing to do anything. At least, not until Miles is truly fucked.

They all care more about their own survival and ambitions than doing the right thing. And once more, when you peel back the layers of liberal or conservative, we once again see they’re all the same, they’re all more than willing to lie for a lie and stab a “friend” in the back.

But Harlan and Andi are our mixed bags of morality.

This is clear enough with the two types of people they are associated with.

The Thrombey Family and Marta.

The Disruptors and Helen.

They’re kind of like an optical illusion, it really depends on how you look at them and what you see when it comes to their own morality.

However, they do have two traits that I think redeem them for the audience, or at the very least make them more admirable to us.

They are genuinely self-made people.

Harlan was a brilliant murder mystery writer. He was. And he did build this publishing/franchise empire of his.

Andi was a brilliant mind who dabbled in many different things, but her real talent (as I saw it) was being able to spot a certain something-something in people. She saw the doers in the world, even when they weren’t quite there yet, she saw their potential to be the kind of person who others would notice and remember.

They were also both willing to stand by their values and once they made a decision, they would not be bullied into changing it.

Harlan decided to cut off his family and was sticking by that.

Andi decided to walk away from Miles and was sticking by that.

And I don’t know, I just like that little bit of extra moral complexity these two characters bring to these movies.

Oh, and Benoit Blanc is a good person, but he definitely isn’t governed by what the law or society says is good. He’s an eccentric who’s here for a good time, a fun and challenging mystery, and is more than willing to help out the good souls in the world when he gets the opportunity.

#Knives Out #Glass Onion #Glass Onion Spoilers #harlan thrombey #Andi Brand #Marta Cabrera #Helen Brand #Benoit Blanc #Rian Johnson

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apas-95 · 2 months

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I’m an anarchocommunist that thinks a lot of other anarchists are stupid. For example, I don’t think that most people will just make insulin or do garbage collection/processing out of the kindness of their heart, and I also don’t think if it was genuinely done out of the kindness of their hearts that it’d work great. My idea is that for the “getting people to do the shitty jobs” question, the people that do those jobs should be compensated better in some way. Maybe a larger/nicer house, I’m not sure on the details. But other anarchists will say “all labor is equal”, and while I’d like to agree in the “work is hard” sense, I think things for the obvious common good, like teacher or garbage man or doctor deserve some sort of reward over other jobs. And for the efficiency of the labor, I think *specifically for labor* there needs to be some sort of organization, and we can use what’s worked before. We don’t need to have bathtub insulin if there’s a factory right there, and if there’s no connection from the insulin factory to doctors/pharmacists and truck drivers then it won’t work either. Really, my main problem with Marxism/Leninism or Stalinism or Maoism or any combination of those is that there are specific people with far too much power over others. I’m ok with light power in the way of “man you gotta drive the firetruck to the burning building even though you hate the dude that lives there”, but I’m not ok with the idea of a supreme leader or representatives in a political sense due to as I’ve amounts of power obviously corrupting people.

Really I’m sending this to you to get your criticism of my ideas- I think you’re pretty smart, and even if I disagree with you on some issues, I think I agree with you on others. I also want to say that not all anarchists are… like that.

So, years ago, before I started reading any Marxist theory, this is about where I was at politically. If you think about any of the practicalities, you come up to points where, very clearly, the maxim of 'no authority at all' conflicts with being able to do anything. If you're seriously considering how society could be better organised, if this is something you actually intend on bringing about, then you make some amount of concession to reality - as you did with the firetruck example!

Now, myself, I went on like this for a good while, coming up with methods of truly democratic organisation that wouldn't be susceptible to the types of totalitarianism I'd heard about, ending up very similar to your position. I was interested, however, in how these 'failed experiments' that I'd learned devolved into bureaucracy started out, and I started reading up on the history, and realised, with some discontent, that what I'd developed, once I'd made all the concessions for reality that would be necessary if this system were to be the actual one real human beings lives depended on, was essentially identical to the Soviet system.

From there, I read up on Marxist theory, still basically wary that this had all, at some point, been taken over by an evil dictator, but able to see that the earliest stages, at least, had been exactly what I was imagining, but put into practice. Reading the theory, reading how their experience experimenting with different forms of organisation, and the failures of some types, had led them to discover what did and didn't work, and adjust accordingly, made me suddenly appreciate why certain things were done certain ways. The harsh experiences of civil war had revealed certain dynamics and mechanics in the way society and production worked, which translates into political theories that bore out results I wouldn't have expected (and neither had the communists who had discovered them through practice!).

Eventually, with some chagrin and a significant deal of excitement, I realised that much of what I'd passively absorbed about socialism, many of the common-sense maxims that I'd been taught by capitalist society about the nature of power and so on, were very much artifacts of a decades-long war against these communists and the system they'd built, carried out by exactly the corporations and empires I had thought myself opposed to.

I won't critique any individual point of yours, but I will enjoin you to try out some Marxist theory - Dialectical and Historical Materialism, or Socialism, Utopian and Scientific, or Principles of Communism, or even the Communist Manifesto, and to read between the lines of whatever capitalist source you read on socialism, to notice every [citation needed] and wonder what actually happened such that someone felt the need to make something up.

#when it comes to marxist theory I don't understand it fully on first read at all.#often I'll go on to read something else and come back to it with that new text in mind - and come to a much better understanding of both #so if you do take my advice I'd ask you to bear with the text even if it seems impenetrable or transparent

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valtharr · 5 months

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In the last few days, I've now had two run-ins with people on this site regarding the idea of a TTRPG's mechanics and rules impacting the roleplay aspect of said game. And from what I can tell, these people - and people like them - have the whole concept backwards.

I think people who only ever played D&D and games like it, people who never played a Powered by the Apocalypse or Forged in the Dark system, or any other system with narratively-minded mechanics, are under one false impression:

Mechanics exist to restrict.

Seeing how these people argue, what exactly they say, how they reason why "mechanics shouldn't get in the way of roleplaying," that seems to be their core idea: Rules and mechanics are necessary evils that exist solely to "balance" the game by restricting the things both players and GMs can do. The only reasons why someone would want to use mechanics in their RPG is to keep it from devolving into

"I shot you, you're dead!" "No, I'm wearing bulletproof armor!" "I didn't shoot bullets, I shot a laser!" "Well, the armor's also laserproof!" "Nuh-uh, my lasers are so hot that they melt any armor!" "My armor's a material that can't melt!" And so on. Because we have rules, the players can't just say "we beat this challenge", and neither can the GM say "you haven't beaten this challenge." Because the rules are clear, the rules are obvious, the rules tell you what you can and can't do, and that's it.

So obviously, when the idea of mechanics directly interacting with the roleplay - generally seen as the most free and creative part of a TTRPG - seems at best counterintuitive, at worst absolutely wrong. Hearing this idea, people might be inclined to think of a player saying "I'm gonna do X", just for the evil, restrictive mechanics to come in and say "no, you can't just do X! you first have to roll a Do X check! But you also did Y earlier, so you have to roll the Did Y Penalty Die, and if that one comes up higher than your Do X die, you have to look at this table and roll for your Doing X If You Previously Did Y Penalty! But, if you roll double on that roll..."

But like... that's not how it works. Roleplay-oriented mechanics don't exist to restrict people from roleplaying, they're there to encourage people to roleplay!

Let's go with a really good example for this: The flashback mechanic from Blades in the Dark (and games based on Blades in the Dark).

In BitD, you can declare a flashback to an earlier point in time. Could be five minutes ago, could be fifty years ago, doesn't matter. You declare a flashback, you describe the scene, you take some stress (the equivalent of damage) and now you have some kind of edge in the present, justified by what happened in the flashback. For example, in the Steeplechase campaign of the Adventure Zone podcast, there was a scene where the PCs confronted a character who ended up making a scandalous confession. One of the players declared a flashback, establishing that, just before they walked in, his character had pressed the record button on a portable recording device hidden in his inner coat pocket. Boom, now they have a recording of the confession.

How many times have you done something like this in a D&D game? How many times did your DM let you do this? I think for most players, that number is pretty low. And for two reasons:

The first, admittedly, has to do with restrictions. If you could just declare that your character actually stole the key to the door you're in front of in an off-screen moment earlier, that would be pretty bonkers. Insanely powerful. But, because BitD has specific mechanics built around flashbacks, there are restrictions to it, so it's a viable option without being overpowered.

But secondly, I think the far more prevalent reason as to why players in games without bespoke flashback mechanics don't utilize flashbacks is because they simply don't even think of them as an option. And that's another thing mechanics can do: Tell players what they (or their characters) can do!

Like, it's generally accepted that the players only control what their characters do, and the GM has power over everything else. That's a base assumption, so most players would never think of establishing facts about the larger world, the NPCs, etc. But there are games that have explicit mechanics for that!

Let's take Fabula Ultima as another example: In that game, you can get "Fabula Points" through certain means. They can then spend those points to do a variety of things. What's literally the first thing on the list of things Fabula Points let you do? "Alter the Story - Alter an existing element or add a new element." I've heard people use this to decide that one of the enemies their group was just about to fight was actually their character's relative, which allowed them to resolve the situation peacefully. I again ask: In your average D&D session, how likely is it that a player would just say "that guy is my cousin"? And if they did, how likely is it that the GM accepts that? But thanks to the Fabula Point mechanic making this an explicit option, thanks to rules explicitly saying "players are allowed to do this", it opens up so many possibilities for story developments that simply would not happen if the GM was the only one allowed to do these things.

And it's only possible because the mechanics say it is. Just how your wizard casting fireball is only possible because the mechanics say it is.

#ttrpg #ttrpgs #tabletop rpg #tabletop rpgs #blades in the dark #forged in the dark #bitd #fitd #fabula ultima

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luveline · 8 months

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what about Steve finding out he’s gonna be a dad for the first time??? or him doting on you while you’re pregnant 🥹

You’re asleep when Steve’s starts kissing you. “Love you,” he’s saying between presses of his lips, the words bouncing off of the side of your nose.

You blink, eyelashes sticky with sleep. Your back aches and couch springs groan as you try to stretch, Steve’s arms locked around you to hold you in place. “What time is it?” you ask. Your voice barely comes out. You try again, “How long have I been sleeping?”

You tip your face back. He’s laid down beside you, smiling, his hair crushed by the cushion under his cheek. You brush it out of his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding happy and affectionate at once. “I’ve been home for an hour. We napped.”

You can tell. You feel distinctly relaxed.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Nauseous.”

“Oh no,” he murmurs, pulling you against his chest. His hand slides down to your stomach. “What’s she doing to you?”

For a moment, he talks so gently, with so much love, you assume he’s talking to the baby. But then you realise he’s talking to you, and you melt like soft taffy under a hot sun. “Nothing, really.”

“No?” he asks, hand on the topmost curve of your bump.

“I think I didn’t like lunch. My taste buds are changing or something.”

“I can make you something. I’m an excellent chef.”

“Maybe…” You curl into him as much as you can in the limited space. “In a minute.”

“In a minute,” he repeats, half teasing, half something warmer. He’s turned on his side to give you and your bump enough room, an arm curled underneath you surely dead and the other still resting gently on your stomach. The air between you is warm, almost damp, too hot from napping together but neither of you willing to move away yet.

You get lost in thought. The nice shape of his smile is distracting, especially still lax with the after effect of a good sleep.

“What was your day like?” he asks eventually.

“Just quiet.” You close your eyes and let them sting, tears collecting under your eyelids that you blink away. “I think the baby is making me really tired.”

“Well, you’re making a baby. It’s hard,” he says. “Much easier to begin with.”

You smile rather than laugh, too tired. “Way too easy. How was,” —you yawn wide, eyes watering yet again— “your day?”

“A little less tiring than yours, obviously.”

You rub your nose into his polo shirt. “Every shift is another pair of socks.”

“This one’s worth more than that. A box of diapers for sure. And a couple of days of groceries, I guess.” He kisses your nose messily. “Got your vitamins on the way home.”

“Thank you… Actually, my day was agitating. I have this itch between my shoulders I can’t reach.”

“Yeah?” he’s immediately interested.

“Yeah, would you– yeah, to your– little more…” You drift off as his hand sneaks under your shirt and his nails find the awful evil itch that’s irking you. He knows exactly where to go from the slightest hitch on your breath, and he isn’t cute about it. He likely leaves scratch marks behind. It’s exactly what you needed. “Thank you so much.”

He rubs the scratches with the side of his thumb to cover the pain until it’s faded. “You’re welcome, honey. I’m your guy. Itches, rashes, headaches, weird moles. I’m always gonna be your guy.”

“Until the baby comes along ‘n then you're their guy.”

“I guess so. I think you kind of…” You’re both so tired your conversation comes out slowly, but it comes. “…make that promise when you decide to have one. I’ll be her guy, but that’s not– I’m always gonna be here for you. I’m still gonna be your guy. You’ll have to share me, that’s all.” His nose crinkles with his smile. “I’m not gonna give you half, though. I’ll just have to double my efforts.”

“Really?” you ask. You hadn’t realised you were worried until he mentioned it.

“Duh, babe. Not gonna punish you for something I did to you.”

“This isn’t a punishment.”

His fingers spread over your shoulder, skin on skin. “For sure not. I’m not talking about the baby, I mean me. The way I am. I’m not gonna choose her over you, I’m going to take care of you both.”

His polo is easy to collect and squeeze in your hand as you tip into his chest. “You’ll have to choose her sometimes.”

“So you admit it’s a her?”

“I admit nothing, H.”

“I’m on your side forever,” he promises, noses inclined together, your bump pressed to his abdomen. He’s hugging you like there’s nowhere else in the world to be. “I’m always gonna look after you.” He scratches your skin in emphasis, much kinder and longer strokes of his hand. “Always.”

#steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington scenario #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader

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ganondoodle · 2 months

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got this reblog on one of my posts were i talked about being anxious about the future of the zelda series after totk and-

i even went back and unblocked them just to check my own post and check twice what they meant exactly- but i still dont know how they got to these conclusions

i never said i 'want a good uwu ganondorf' (bc that would mean hes aligned with hyrule bc thats how goodness works!!!!11!1!!!), i also dont think of any of the zeldas as 'whores' (seriously, where did that come from?? neither me nor the addition of someone agreeing with me said anything like that??? did they think bc the addition called tloz misogynistic means we think zelda is a whore????? huh???)

its also funny how they say they want zelda to stay a simple fairytale rather than have 'people like me' bc .. one point i talked about in the og post was how the evil arab thing VS good white people media likes to do so much is so normalized here that its simply seen as a simple harmless fairytale trope instead of a big underlying issue in general media and the writers might not even realize it (which is worse) bc the most 'generic' appeal is to people who dont think of it as a problem in the first place, because it is so normalized

(huh, i wonder about what kind of person that part was about .. hmmmm)

(ALSO funny they mention princess hilda as nuanced villain ... like ... wow they are so nuanced about purple haired people!!- like guess why we want a nuanced/less badly/less flat written ganondorf and what he, in particular, has not in common with other villains! its not his hair color! .... or was that point supposed to mean .. look we have one female character that is a villain, its not misogynistic! idk honestly)

(and the classic, "you just call it this/dont like it bc its not what you wanted !!!!!!!2!"1!112!!")

also funny how its 'never gonna be progressive enough' like asking for the franchise to maybe put a little more thought and nuance into their white divine right vs evil desert man simulator instead of making it worse is already asking too much

(i dont know what the last point has to do with anything??)

(also yes totk is racist, like most if not all of the franchise and a alot of other media as well, shocker- you can still like it though, i and plenty of other people are still fans of it, we just wish they did a little more with their stuff and maybe not make the racism problem WORSE)

(also yes the hyrule monarchy is also evil :))) )

(and also not so secretly so either :)) )

#ganondoodles talks #zelda #ganondoodles rants #ganondorf #wanted to search my blog for the post at first and tumblr showed me two posts and their reblogs #i have so many more posts in this tag #the fuck #.....im sorry to all the zelink shippers with a brain but i cant say im surprised that they were one #i could go through every point in their addition but tbh its not worth any more of my time really #needed to say something though bc .....#yeah no wonder nintendy dont have to put any work into their story if thats how some people react to mild criticism of it lol #who are you fighting for little man?#defending the big corporation from mild criticism from people that want the media they produce to be better??#....... in the end i kinda did go into every point #or what point i thought they were trying to make which ... was rather unclear to me #anyway #wild to come across people like that here #only had one other i can remember but they went straight to insults lol #(was there ever a divine prophecy that said only gan can be king??? how was urbosa or riju on the throne then??-#(wait was that meant as “see? the gerudo have the divine right thing too!! samey as hyrule so they not bad!!”#i am genuinely so confused

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houserautha · 5 months

Text

These Destined Ends

Part 8

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: oral sex f receiving, the Reverend Mother is a bitch, you get your period, incest, mentions of child abuse and pedophilia, depictions of violence and gore, cannibalism (the harpies), he chases you, strangling, dubious consent, p in v, no foreplay, fingering, inappropriate use of a ring, rough sex, no protection, creampie

A/N: Nothing like a visit from your evil grandmother to snap you out of your dick trance. And a nice…jaunt…through the woods to put you right back into it

“You should stay.”

Feyd gazes up at you from between your thighs, mouth glistening and slick. His pupils are blown, plush lips swollen from the attention he’s been giving your cunt. His fingers dig into the supple flesh of your ass.

“Is now really the time to discuss this?”

You consider. This seemed like as good of a time as any, especially since you had him essentially trapped: you kneeling over him, knees bracketing his head, holding onto the headboard while Feyd laid beneath you, hands keeping you from squirming too far away from his eager mouth.

“I thought it might bolster my argument,” you finally admit.

Feyd hums in response, using a finger to spread your wetness. You shudder involuntarily.

Feyd.

When had you started calling him that? Probably sometime in the course of the last few days, in which neither of you seldom left the bed. No matter how many times he had touched you, each one led you to the brink of ecstasy.

“I do have a hard time refusing you when you’re like this,” Feyd rasps, inserting a single digit inside you. “But I’m afraid I have no choice.”

You wiggle your hips, hoping to both coax him into staying and incite him to move his deft fingers. “Please.”

Spending the last few days is exactly what you’re arguing about — Feyd is insistent that that he must return to his duties as na-Baron. Other duties, it turns out, then securing an heir.

“I said no,” he tells you briskly.

A whine builds in your throat.

Three months ago, you would’ve been appalled at this. Hell, a few days ago, you would’ve been appalled at this. But that was before Feyd had spent nearly every second of every day lavishing you with his tongue and his mouth, fingers alighting on your skin and cock keeping you full with his seed. Without him inside you, you would feel despicably empty.

“Be a good wife and I will come back and reward you for your patience.”

“How will you do that?”

And he shows you: lapping at your cunt until you can hardly bear to kneel anymore, then taking you from behind. His hips snap mercilessly against your ass as he tells you all of the ways he’ll pleasure you when he returns. It’s really not fair — especially when he fucks you so thoroughly that you barely have any protest left in you by the time he slips out the door.

Later in the day when you’re moping, sufficiently disgusted with yourself, a servant appears to summon you from your dick-induced misery. They stand hesitantly in your doorway.

“na-Baroness.”

“Hm?” You aim for casual indifference, hoping the servant can’t smell the evidence of your rampant fucking. You had turned away any of the cleaning servants, halfway clutching onto the hope that Feyd would come back. He didn’t.

Asshole.

“You have a visitor, come to congratulate you on your wedding.”

“Oh?” You can’t think of anyone who wasn’t already in attendance that would want to meet with you. “Who is this visitor?”

“She claimed that you would know her.”

You narrow your eyes. “You believed her?”

“She-She refused to tell me her name.” The servant sheepishly shifts their weight. “The next thing I knew, I was here, na-Baroness.”

Ah, The Voice, no doubt.

There could only be one person who would want to see you and be strong enough to inflict such a power. The reality of the situation sobers you. “Tell her that I will be right with her.”

Quickly you dress, your thoughts turning from the prowess of your husband to more pressing matters. Disappointment stabs at you when you realize that your suspicions were right — Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam perches elegantly on a chaise in the room where you typically receive guests.

She’s swathed in gauzy black fabric, the only indication of her gaze being the slightest trembling of her decorative chains as she turns to appraise you. Rather critically, if you were to guess.

“Lady Y/N. Or should I say na-Baroness Y/N?”

“That is my title now,” you reply coolly, “you should know, considering that you were the one to ensure it happened.”

“I did not come here to trade barbs with our tongues.”

“Shame,” you say.

The Reverend Mother says haughtily, “I came here to congratulate you. And remind you of your responsibility. I trust that Jessica delivered the fertility necklace?”

“She did,” you grind out.

“It is paramount that you conceive a child with Feyd-Rautha as soon as possible.”

“How do you know that I haven’t already?”

“I know you haven’t,” she hisses, “otherwise I would smell it on you. Your blood will come soon.”

This creates a knot of anguish in you that you try not to examine too closely.

The Reverend Mother continues, “You have failed. We cannot dally, child, when it comes to the matter of the Kwisatz Haderach.”

“It’s not for lack of trying. He’s been fucking me regularly to ensure a heir,” you snarl at her, hoping to blindside her with your crassness just as she did with news of your upcoming blood. “Maybe you should’ve gotten a Bene Gesserit witch to do your bidding.”

The Reverend Mother scoffs. “Jessica failed to educate you in our ways just as you’ve failed to conceive. I would’ve chosen anyone else if it wasn’t for ten thousand years of careful breeding. But, alas, it seems you are my only option.”

“Right,” you retort.

“Now we must do whatever it takes to ensure that the Kwisatz Haderach is conceived,” says the Reverend Mother. Her tone takes on that of self-importance. “I will conduct a visit every month until then.”

You twirl your finger in a celebratory manner.

“You mock me, but you are just fortunate enough to be here. The mother to the Kwisatz Haderach — no greater title could be bestowed upon an individual. You will bear the fruit of our tedious labor, the one destined to shape the future of our world. And you do not even appreciate this blessing.”

“Oh yes, a blessing upon my unborn child that will inevitably seat him as your puppet.” Your hand flickers to your belly, above your empty womb as if you can protect the life that has yet to take root there. “What kind of mother am I to impose that?”

The Reverend Mother stands. “An obedient one.”

You storm furiously from the receiving room without saying goodbye — formalities be damned. You’re surprised she doesn’t beckon you back with The Voice. Perhaps she knows that you’ll be forced to take audience with her next month. The thought carries you through the fortress halls without any predilection of where you’re going, replaying the conversation in your mind and growing angrier by the minute.

So lost in your anger that you scarcely recognize the rasping growl of your husband’s voice, clearly attempting for a whisper but failing spectacularly.

“—those times are over,” you catch him saying.

You peer into a room, the Baron’s own personal quarters. You’d been here only once before, when Asha gave you a tour of the grounds. How did you even get here?

“Even so, you are still my charge,” the Baron replies. “I am your keeper.”

Folding yourself into a corner adjacent to the Baron’s quarters, you watch your husband stalk back and forth like a caged predator. “I am a grown man, Uncle, you have no more use for me as you once did.”

“Even still, I remember the day you would come crawling at my every order —”

“I told you. Those days are over. They have been for quite some time.”

You can’t see the Baron as well as Feyd, just sense his enormous presence, a storm cloud encroaching a sunny day. “Perhaps it is the matters with your new wife that make me long for the days of the past.”

There’s a sickening intimacy in his words.

“Don’t speak of her,” Feyd snaps, but you get the impression that this admittance has rattled him.

“I have given you everything,” the Baron continues, nonplussed, “your title, your fame, even this wife that you’re so quick to defend. In return I ask just for you to —”

“No. Never again.”

The Baron’s softness hardens, crystallizes. “I know that it’s you who chases away my boys. And yet you won’t even offer your own services to me.”

“I chase them away to keep them from your clutches,” Feyd fires back, incensed. “Not from jealousy as you so selfishly presume.”

“What am I to do then, nephew?”

Feyd stops his pacing. “Rot. I ought to just drown you in that tub.”

“I know you don’t mean that. Come here.”

Feyd hesitates. Your pulse hammers uncertainly, if the implications of this conversation are —

You watch your husband — your proud, inviolable husband — slowly make his way to the side of the Baron’s tub. You risk moving from your hiding spot to see him kneel beside it, his features neutral and dark gaze lowered. The Baron raises a fat arm, black liquid sluicing from it, and cups the side of Feyd’s face.

“My darling nephew. You will always be my favorite.”

Feyd stills as the Baron nears him, presses a chaste kiss to Feyd’s lips — the lips that only hours ago had been between your legs, on your breasts. As far as you can tell Feyd does not reciprocate the gesture, but willingly allows it to happen anyway. Your stomach twists.

You can’t watch this anymore.

You turn and flee back from where you came, sickened and confused and utterly perplexed.

The next morning, there’s blood on the sheets. You tear them off in frustration, more so that the Reverend Mother’s prediction was correct than the fact of its presence. Feyd never returned as he promised, and you spent the night tossing and turning, your nightmares torn between images of your doomed child and the Baron in his tub, reaching out with thick fingers to drown you.

That being said, you’re exhausted. You draw a bath for yourself and have just sunken into the warmth depths when you hear a commotion in the other room. Feyd steps in the bathroom.

His gaze goes to you, roaming over your naked figure before landing on your face. “What happened?”

“I got my blood.” You dip lower into the tub, submerging yourself. “I don’t want to talk about it. What happened to you?”

He traipses inside. “What do you mean?”

“You were supposed to come back last night,” you say. You don’t want to seem sadden by his absence, however, so you busy yourself with lathering soap on your arms and legs.

“I’m here now.” He perches on the side of the tub.

It’s eerily similar to the scene you saw yesterday. You involuntarily shy away from him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” His voice pitches with disbelief.

“I-I need to talk to you,” you tell him.

Feyd’s smooth brow furrows. “If this is about your blood, it doesn’t —”

“I saw you. Yesterday. With the Baron.”

You expect him to flinch, to recoil. But there’s not even the slightest change in his expression. You swear you see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but it disappears so fast that you’re not even sure you saw it. “You don’t know what you saw.”

“Explain what I did then.”

“I cannot.”

“The Baron —”

“I took care of it,” Feyd says.

His tone suggests that the conversation is over. You drag a hand through the water, swirling with soapy residue. “He hurt you.”

“He didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do.”

“You were a child.”

“I haven’t been a child for a very long time,” Feyd says quietly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

You finally meet his gaze. He’s watching you carefully, studying you like you’re something he’s never seen before. Your heart aches for him. While it’s impossible to imagine him so young, you know that at one point he was just a boy. Thin limbs and missing teeth. Dimples on his hands.

You touch his hands how they are now, scarred and calloused, fingers slightly bent from repeated breaks. He lets you.

“You’re starting to wrinkle.”

He snatches your hand, gazing in wonderment at your palms. You can’t help but laugh, though it’s pained, his admission fresh on your mind. “That’s what happens if I’m in water too long. Don’t look at me like that — do you not wrinkle?”

“Harkonnens don’t spend copious amounts of time in water.”

“Then what happens?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? I don’t believe you.”

Feyd’s lips twitch. Before you know it, he’s removing his clothes and dropping into the bath behind you. He has to contort his long limbs but manages to settle in, pulling you back against him.

You tilt your head back to rest against his chest.

“I’m sorry —”

“I told you not to be.”

You close your eyes, throat working. “Not-Not about that. That I’m not pregnant.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

He picks up your hand, runs his thumb over your wrinkled palm and the pads of your fingers. “No.”

Somewhat hesitantly, you tell him about your visit with the Reverend Mother. He listens, but with your back flush to his chest you can’t gauge his reaction.

“She said she’s going to conduct monthly visits,” you add sourly.

A rumble sounds in his chest. “Do you want this?”

“No, I don’t want it,” you retort. “If I had my way I would never see her again.”

“Then consider it done.”

You turn halfway, bracing yourself on the edge of the tub so you can face him. “You can’t just do that.”

“Do what?”

“The Reverend Mother always gets her way,” you tell him. “She won’t listen to you. And it’s not worth concurring her wrath.”

“Then we’ll have to ensure she won’t need to visit for a second time.”

You blow out a stream of air. “I wish it were that simple. Even if I do get pregnant, they’re going to be hovering over us until our last breath.”

Feyd doesn’t answer.

All you can hear is the sound of his heartbeat in your ear. It’s slower than yours. Due to the thickness of his blood, his heart doesn’t have to work as hard to get it through his body. At least, that’s how he explained it. You were still learning about each other.

You examine his hand. It’s as smooth as before.

“Strange,” you mutter.

He counters, “You’re the one that wrinkles.”

Later, when you’ve toweled dry, Feyd approaches you from behind. He cuts a menacing figure in the mirror, a charcoal sketch of blacks and whites. Pale skin, dark eyes. A phantom that presses his lips into the curve of your shoulder.

“I want to show you something.”

You frown. “What?”

“Come away with me. Tomorrow.”

“I will if you say where we’re going,” you reply. You spin around and he traps you against the vanity, hands at your waist.

“Just tell me you’ll go.”

You pause, although mentally you’ve already agreed. You’re desperate to leave the fortress. “Are you going to ask nicely?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

Feyd nudges open the panels of your robe, revealing a triangle of skin. “Very well. The girls will be disappointed.”

“What girls?” You close your robe.

“My concubines,” he says with a ghost of a smile. He knows exactly how to flay you, how to press his finger into the wound to make it hurt. “They will be going.”

“Then so will I.”

“I thought you wanted me to ask nicely.” His smooth brow raises.

“And I thought you were done with them.”

He skims his hands over your sides. “You have no need to be jealous, wife. They are nothing to me.” Feyd grins secretively. “This trip will satisfy a different hunger of theirs.”

“Dare I ask?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

The thopter crouches ominously in the distance. You trail after Feyd in disbelief. “You know how to pilot that?”

“Don’t you?”

You scowl. “No. I don’t like heights.”

Yesterday, after Feyd delivered his previous promise of rewarding your patience, he explained that you would be traveling to the far side of Giedi Prime. He wouldn’t give you many more details than that, but you were too curious to care. Anyways, as much as you loathed to admit it, and no matter how much you denied it, you were jealous of his concubines. If you were forced to marry him, then he should be forced to endure you solely without the benefit of other women.

Fortunately, they would be traveling separately from you, in what Feyd swore would be a relatively short ride. He helps you onto the thopter then climbs in after you.

The machine shudders as the insect-like wings snap to life. You grip the armrests of your co-pilot’s seat as Feyd guides the thopter into the air and away from the fortress, piloting it with the refined way he does all other things, with little worry or fear of failure. You wish you could exercise such confidence — especially now, as the thopter clears the smog scarfing the planet, and can you really tell how far up you are.

“Tell me something,” you say, eyes closed. “I need a distraction.”

Even though you can’t see him, you can only too clearly picture him grinning at you. “Anything?”

“Anything,” you grit out.

Feyd is quiet for quite some time. When he finally speaks, his rasping lilt obtains a softness that you’re unfamiliar with. “The Baron still…requests…the company of young boys. I do my best to intervene but I don’t always succeed.”

You peel open one eye. “It’s his disgusting problem. You can’t blame yourself.”

“But when I do,” he forges ahead, almost as if you never said anything, “I like to make sure that they won’t need to worry about him again. And that their captors will never see the light of day again.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“Or something,” he says vaguely.

Feyd goes on to say that, with their military schools segregated into males and females, it’s only too easy for captors to select boys that will please the Baron. The longer he talks, the tighter his grip on the controls are, until you fear that he might snap them in half and plunge you back down to the earth.

“You didn’t have to do anything about it,” you say finally, quietly. “But you do.”

Feyd’s dark eyes glint. “The Baron needs to die.”

“Why haven’t you done anything?” It seems wrong to casually inquire why he hasn’t killed his uncle — his abuser — but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Feyd shrugs. “I’m afraid that the baronship will be stripped from me if I kill him. And I can’t allow Rabban to take over.” He glances at you. “By the way, I didn’t know you were so close to my brother.”

“I’m not,” you grumble.

“Then why did he want to dance with you?”

“He wanted to warn me. There seems to be something happening that I could’ve prevented had I—” you trail off.

Were you really going to tell him? You didn’t know how he would react. The only reason you hadn’t said anything yet was because you didn’t want to anger him for no reason. You had no proof Rabban was actually planning anything but fodder to try and convince you to side with him.

Feyd must sense your unease. “Had you what?”

“He wanted me for himself.”

You swear you feel the thopter jolt slightly as Feyd works to regain his control. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I didn’t think it meant anything,” you explain. “I thought he was just…jealous. Do you know what he’s talking about?”

“No.” Feyd’s jaw clenches.

“So then maybe it’s nothing,” you say flippantly, though you’re no longer convinced.

“He can’t just corner you and —”

“I handled it,” you interrupt.

Feyd glances at you. “He doesn’t need to concern himself with you. You are mine.”

You might’ve rolled your eyes if he hadn’t chosen that moment to start your descent. You reclaim your grip on the armrests and don’t bother opening your eyes again until you feel the thopter safely grounded.

“I’ll speak with him,” Feyd tells you. Dust settles as the thopter’s wings fold in.

You frown. “You don’t have to. I don’t want him thinking that I need you to fight my battles.”

“I don’t want him thinking that he can just manipulate you.”

“Who said he was succeeding?”

Feyd smiles slightly. “No one.”

You both step from the thopter. The first thing you notice is the lack of factories. A band of barren land encircles you and, a few hundred yards away, the start of a forest. You squint at the trees — you hadn’t seen that many in one place since your time on Caladan. It’s a comforting sight, despite the eerie sight of the neon green leaves rustling in the stiff breeze. The black sun has begun to sink below the horizon, returning color to the land, but only in small amounts.

“Come, wife.” Feyd strides for the treeline.

“Where are we going?”

Your question is answered, however, when you spot the second thopter. Your muscles tense as you recognize the forms of his concubines, three women, standing against the machine along with four other huddled forms.

As you near, the shapes of the huddled forms come into detail — four men, hooded like the prisoners from your wedding, covered in grime. The concubines each hold one man, the fourth bleeding profusely from a wound; his entire right arm is gone. You feel bile rise in your throat.

“Did you start without me?” Feyd asks his concubines sharply, eyes flicking to the fourth man.

“No,” one of the concubines says, “he did that himself.”

“Y/N, these are the men who facilitate my uncle’s…bad habits.” Feyd steps up to the first one. The man trembles.

He removes his hood and then retrieves a dagger from his belt, pressing the blade into the man’s throat but only enough to draw a thin line of blood. In response, the concubines shift in anticipation. He’s bleeding them so that they’re easy to track.

You watch, wide eyed, as he repeats the process with the other men. You can hardly find any pity for them, these horrible, horrible men, but the ratcheting tension in the air sets you on edge. Your mouth feels dry.

“And now they will know what it’s like to be hunted.” Feyd steps back to admire his work. Then, speaking to the concubines, “These men shall make fine meals for you.”

Your stomach drops. A meal? Did that mean —

The concubine closest to you flicks the fork of her tongue over her black teeth.

Feyd grabs the chin of one of the men. His voice is sickly sweet, almost a purr. “It will be dark soon. You better run fast.”

The concubines release the men. The four of them linger, uncertain, afraid, before the tallest of the concubines lunge for them — the men scurry away, glancing periodically over their shoulders as they run for the treeline. The concubine giggles.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long,” Feyd says. “I know you must be hungry. But not for much longer.”

The women flock to him, kissing his neck, the stretch of skin exposed by his armor. But he holds his hand out to you, and you take it.

“Feyd —” you begin.

“This is what I wanted you to see,” he says. “I told you that I took care of it. My uncle will never touch another child again.”

You swallow. Your gaze sweeps outward, to the forest, where the men have already disappeared. There’s a trail of black blood on the ground from the man with only one arm. How would he survive in the wilderness?

“You didn’t tell me that they…” you glance at the concubines.

Feyd smirks. “They crave flesh. It only seems fitting that I can satisfy them while fulfilling justification of my own.” He tilts his head back, marveling at the darkening sky. “Plus, I so enjoy the thrill of the hunt.”

You don’t know how to reply, so you don’t. Just observe as the concubines grow more anxious until, finally, Feyd gives them the signal. It’s so dark that you can scarcely see, but the dome of their smooth heads glint in the remaining light, and a shiver dances up your spine as the forest swallows them completely.

“They deserve it,” Feyd says to you.

You turn to him. “I know it.”

“Then why do you look bewildered?”

“I didn’t know that Harkonnens enjoyed…flesh,” you admit, repeating his words from before.

“Not all of us do.”

“Do you?”

Feyd’s grin does something to you — runs a finger of desire up your thighs and to your core. He cups the side of your face. “I have my needs, just as everyone else. Why? Are you hungry, wife?”

“No, I’m not,” you answer, nose wrinkling.

“Hm. I am.” Feyd brings his mouth to yours but doesn’t touch it, his lower lip grazing your top. “I want to devour you. I want to feel your heart pulsing, taste it in your blood. I want to consume you.”

Heat pools in your belly. You raise your chin, body bowing to him as if pulled by invisible strings.

Your voice is low. “What are you suggesting?”

“Let’s play our own game,” he says, “I chase you, you keep away from me until the sun rises and avoid the others. Or not.”

“And if you catch me?” You ask, breathless.

“I will satisfy my own hunger.” The hand cupping your face brushes down your neck, your shoulder, over your breast.

“Is that supposed to be a punishment?”

“We’ll see.” A wicked delight smolders in his eyes.

Gone is the man who held you in the tub, who traced the wrinkles in your palm like he wanted to commit them to memory. And in his place is the man you know best, who terrified and enthralled you and had you questioning your sanity; every day drawing you further into his infuriating orbit.

And you ran from him.

You pump your arms as fast as they will go, legs cycling, the promise of him on your heels. This was the epitome of your game, the ultimate test, and you were determined not to fail.

You’d learned survival from your father and Gurney. And even though you had not taken to it as you should’ve, you had been taught the Bene Gesserit way of cataloguing every single movement and flash of light, every detail in perfect memory. And so you ran. And ran.

And you kept running until you stumbled upon your first body.

It was the man who had lost an arm in an attempt to escape from his imprisonment — at least, you thought. He was badly mutilated. Blood covered the ground and pervaded your senses, to the point that the combination of it and his shredded entrails made you nauseous. You were no medical expert but you were almost certain that he was missing organs.

That someone had feasted upon him.

You unwittingly absorb his torn flesh and the evidence of teeth marks. The white of his bone.

You fight down your repulsion. If you vomited, it would give Feyd and the concubines a hint at your presence, the latter who undoubtedly hunted down this man and ripped the flesh from him. So instead you turn and run in the opposite direction, hoping that you won’t meet anyone else.

The slightest of breezes has you flinching, certain that someone will descend upon you and ravish you — one way or another. The thought spurs you on, keeps you from lingering too long in one place. The ideal decision would be to stay still and wait until morning. But you know that Feyd will be as proficient of a hunter as he is a warrior, a lover, and this keeps you going.

Branches tear at your arms and legs, the pilingitam trees seemingly intent on ensnaring you and keeping you hostage. You wish you had a knife or a shield or something. You were left despairingly empty-handed and defenseless. The only weapon you had was your strength, your endurance, the cunning of your mind, which seemed insufficient in comparison to the next man you come across, who is unequivocally alive.

It’s an accident — both of you running in the dark and finally colliding in a burst of pain. You fall backwards on your ass. The man gazes at you in fear until he takes in your clothes, your hair.

“My, my, the na-Baroness,” he says, chuckling at his good fortune. “The na-Baron turned you loose, too?”

“He thought his harpies might need the help,” you sneer back, suppressing a wince as you stand to your feet.

“You don’t have their bloodlust,” the man observes. He looms closer to you. “You might not be the Baron’s typical type, but it must be awfully distracting to have you in the fortress with him. How lucky the na-Baron is.”

His voice is taunting. He’s sure that he’s got you trapped. “And how lucky am I to have found you first.”

The man launches at you. You twist to avoid him but his hand catches your side, spinning you and taking him down with you. His body lands on you, heavy and foul-smelling. Desperately you try to wriggle free from him but his actions are unpredictable. You jab aimlessly at him, hoping to find a weak spot — finally you bring your knee up into his crotch, and it’s enough for you to roll to the side and away. He glares at you.

The dark hinders your senses, but only slightly, trading blows with the man in rapid succession.

He grabs a rock from the undergrowth and raises his hand, intending to smash it down on your head, but there’s a sudden spray of hot liquid on your face. The man screams and falls to the side. You scramble away just in time to witness a blur of pale skin, a concubine with her teeth buried in his shoulder. It’s not long before his screams turn to whimpers as she bites and tears, pointed nails driving into his chest and stilling his heart.

“Thank-Thank you,” you gasp. You’re too stunned to move, unable to move your gaze from the man’s bloodied body.

“I didn’t do it to save you,” the concubine hisses.

Blood is slathered across her face and the front of her shift. Suddenly, you’re not so sure that you prefer her over the man.

“I —”

“You took him from us,” the concubine continues, taking staggering steps toward you. “No longer does he call on us in the middle of the night, mutters our names as we coax his orgasm from him. Now his lips only say your name.”

“I am his wife,” you counter, regaining the control on your racing thoughts, adrenaline subsiding. “I will secure him an heir, rule by his side. All you have to offer is your services.”

The concubine rushes you. It appears that you can’t catch a break. But this time you’re prepared for your opponent, dealing a swift jab to her jaw before she can even lay a hand on you. She reels. You take the opportunity to kick at her knee. She falls to one side. Maybe she knows how to wring pleasure from your husband but she’s forgotten that you, too, are a warrior.

You don’t want to strike her down, just as you didn’t want to kill Ze’ev. But circumstance has left you no choice. You will carve your place on Giedi Prime out of violence and bloodshed if that’s what it takes because that’s how you were taught.

You snap her neck. Her death doesn’t satisfy you, though, as Ze’ev’s did. You take a step back.

A branch breaks.

The harbinger of death melts from the shadows. “Not only have I found you, jewel, but I’ve found you with the blood of my concubine on your hands.” Feyd nudges the limp body with his foot. “They aren’t easy to train.”

“She attacked me.”

“I know.”

You grit your teeth. You’re covered in dirt and blood, both yours and not, sweat matting your hair to your skin. “You watched and you didn’t intervene?”

“No.” Feyd crosses to you. “And I didn’t need to, did I?”

“Would you have let her kill me?”

Feyd gazes upon your face, studying you closely. “Do you think I would’ve?”

“No. I don’t.”

He seizes you suddenly — grabs you by the throat and nearly lifts you off your feet. “If anyone kills you, it will be me. Do you understand? Only my hands can touch your body, steal your blood from it. Watch the light go from your eyes.”

Feyd releases his grip enough to steer you backwards, one hand bracing on the base of the tree and the other still at your throat.

“You are mine,” he growls.

Usually, a declaration of such a nature would ignite a flurry of anger within you. But coming from him, it’s nearly a love song. Possessive. Domineering. Fraught with dark devotion. His fingers on your throat a gift sweeter than any necklace of gold or silver.

Feyd pushes your pants down your thighs, then returns his hand beside your head. He captures your mouth with his. There’s no delicacy there, only fervent need, teeth scraping yours, your lips, tongue combating yours. And you kiss him just as hungrily. You lied earlier — you were hungry. You needed his touch. Needed the swipe of his tongue on your skin to subdue the darkness persistently lurking inside you, the one that he put there, the only person able to extinguish its flame.

He spreads your legs and spears you with his cock. His size, the lack of your readiness, causes frissons of pain to erupt through you and you cry out. Feyd grunts as he thrusts into you, tree bark scraping your palms as you clamor for a hold. He ruts into you with wild abandon, hips bucking, muscles tense as he foists his pleasure on your body.

You mumble your protest when he withdraws from you, just as you’ve stretched out to accommodate him. Feyd strokes himself, slick with your moisture, pre-cum gleaming on the tip of his head. He makes a fist and then presses his knuckles to your entrance, the cool metal of his ring bearing down on your clit. You yelp.

“Quiet, wife,” he rasps, “you’ll draw more unwanted attention. And I’m not done with you.”

He bites down on your lip, drawing blood. If he hopes to silence you, this does the opposite, and you moan into his mouth. Unperturbed, Feyd presses his knuckles against your entrance, the surface of his ring flattening on your clit, a wicked source of pressure — of pleasure — driving you to orgasm.

The coolness of the ring contrasts the heat flooding through you.

This time when he touches you, he twists the ring up his finger, and then, both into your cunt. It adds an extra ridge to his fingers, one that pitches your orgasm again as it slips in and out of you, each thrust of his hand causing you to jolt.

You come and your pleasure cleaves you, into what feels like nearly in half, splitting you down the middle. Feyd returns the ring to your clit until your orgasm subsides, then plucks it off. He offers it to you, pushing it into your mouth, and you eagerly suck it clean.

It tastes of metal, of your monthly blood.

Feyd hums his approval, then presses a kiss to the ring before slipping it back on.

You writhe. You need friction. You need his cock buried in you, his unrelenting pummeling.

Feyd fists the hair at the base of your skull and uses the grip on you to throw you to the ground, naked and quivering. He drops to his knees behind you. You gasp out as Feyd notches his cock at your entrance, grabs your hips to keep you firmly in place. Blood soaks your hands, your knees, the fresh smell of death enveloping you. You try to wiggle away from it but he secures you there with his cock, snapping his hips against your ass and himself snugly inside your cunt.

“Stay here,” he growls. “I want you bloody and spent, here where they can watch.”

You fight back a sob, a combination of desire and disbelief. The concubine and the man lie only a few feet from you, watching you with their glassy gaze, their blood coating your hands.

“They tried to take you from me.” Feyd’s voice is incensed, not entirely for you rather than for himself to hear. “My wife, my jewel. And now they can watch me fuck you amongst their bodies.”

Feyd increases the speed of his thrusts. You can feel him swell with his impending orgasm, fill you even further, deeper. A cry looses from you as he finally spills himself inside you, grinding into you as he finishes and his cock starts to soften. Feyd nudges open your thighs, ensures that none of his seed escapes.

He adjusts himself and leaves you to scramble to your own feet, filthy and, frankly, swimming in the fog of your post-orgasm.

Feyd examines you. “You look wonderful.”

You bark out a laugh, your throat bruised and sore, the sound scraping out of you. “Liar.”

“Of course, you always do, filled with my cum.” He turns you to him, picks a branch that’s woven into your hair. “My beautiful, full wife.”

He grabs your hand and tugs you into the surrounding darkness.

“Should-Should we wait for the others?” You ask.

“No.” Feyd glances behind you. “They won’t be pleased when they find out you killed their sister.”

Part 9

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