#high fade to bald

[traditionalbarberedman]

[traditionalbarberedman]

good flattop, compliments his face and improves his looks.

[crwct]

Spring is here

[traditionalbarberedman]

A young man with a good haircut. He's got plenty of pomade holding the bumper straight up from his forehead

[javo9991]

[traditionalbarberedman]

all time favorite.

[todaysrat]

Take him and his bald head or don't take him at all.

Julien Bailey I see you saying he has a high taper fade... you're on the list buddy...

[bob-artist]

I was looking through my past October inking challenges, and I completely memory-holed what I did in 2023 post-surgery. 😆

Anyway, I didn't get to 31, but here's my Birds with Iconic Hairstyles.

Shoebill with Beyoncé’s high ponytail

Bittern with Farrah Fawcett waves

Blue-footed booby with the Rachel

Cassowary with hi-top fade

Emu with faux hawk

Ostrich with Britney Spears pigtails

Budgie with Snookie poof

Amazon parrot with 1960’s flip

Blue and gold macaw with George Clooney gentleman’s cut

Cape vulture with Marilyn Monroe waves

Immature Cooper’s hawk with Bieber swoosh

Bald eagle with 1980s crimped hair

Australian white ibis with Lance Bass frosted tips

Gull with 1980s mullet

Canada goose with Karen cut

Goldfinch with 1920s Eton crop

Cardinal with 1990s heartthrob hair

Mourning dove with man bun

[ccrites]

chokehold

listen, I've had this idea in my wips for a while (since the begnining of the year actually) and the fat reader worms have been wiggling in third gear with all the awesome stuff early ( @391780 ) has been putting out lately. So have 6.4k words of Soap being an absolute pussy eating freak but you know you love him

(also on ao3 if you prefer the formatting there, or if you want to drop a kudo)

.

The second the doors swing back closed behind you, you start feeling the scratchy feeling of doubt at the back of your throat.

It was predictable, really.

A small gym in a small town, heads turn when the hinges creak, not because they’re staring at you specifically, but because it’s a reflex.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to keep the scratchy feeling from turning sour in your mouth. Or make you throw up from embarrassment.

Perhaps your New Year’s resolution should’ve been to start on a home gym type of situation. Buy yourself some girly weights, a mat, and some sort of stepping device, and do those easy exercises every slim, pretty, high-ponytailed YouTube instructor seemed to preconize people out of shape do. Like a hamster on a wheel inside their cage. A rat chasing its own tail, maybe.

No, you promised yourself no more fake promises. Perhaps the money spent on the gym membership (stupid fucking New Year’s promotion) would motivate you to use it, lest it’s just money down the drain. 

You wore the stretchiest, thickest pair of black leggings you owned, hoping no one would see the terrible shape of your underwear through it. On the opposite spectrum of things, you knew the largest hoodie you owned would smother you and make you boil with sweat, so you chose the next best thing: the widest black t-shirt you owned. It was definitely not black enough, the dye faded into a dark gray from use over the years, but it was the only thing that camouflaged your body enough from the others’ sight. God forbid they imagine what your body actually looks like underneath.

The heads pretty quickly turned back around as you started walking towards the empty treadmills. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but the combined weight of at least a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes would’ve been enough to make you turn on your heels and back to your car, fuck the membership price.

At the very least, you could convince yourself that walking in place (no better than a hamster on its wheel but oh well) would be enough to get you started. Baby steps, and all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize the treadmill fucking sucks. Why would anyone suggest looking at a parking lot while suffering instead of the pretty scenery of a park or forest (while also suffering, but still).

The timer you’d set for the warm-up (ten minutes, just like the pretty blonde coach suggested!) crawls by way too slowly for your taste. You’d be all but whooping with joy when it beeps if you weren’t so out of breath and conscious of a gaze on you.

You’d seen him as soon as you walked in.

Between figures of balding men trying to get rid of their beer gut with abs, two thin women whispering to themselves in a corner while trying to look inconspicuous, and a few other, completely average-looking men and women, there he stands, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as he deadlifts an impressive amount of black plates.

He immediately looks straight ahead, correcting his stance, as if there were anything to be corrected, in your unathletic opinion. The muscles in his arms bulge even through the thin, grey hoodie, and the ones in his legs coil tight as the weight is lifted off the ground in a slow, controlled motion. Not even a grunt escapes his lips, at least no one you could hear from where you stood, completely mesmerized.

There was always something almost unappealing about overly muscled men. Their wife’s not feedin’ ‘em enough, your granny would grumble when passing by the rows of magazines at the checkout of the supermarket. 

Yet this man.

Yeah, he was muscled. But in a way, he looked… almost normal. Like he was built for strength, not necessarily vanity. Each bend of his legs, each twist of his arms…

You’d swoon if you hadn’t lowered your standards so low he’d trip on them. Accepted it a long time ago. Fats belong with fats, thins with thins, and if there’s a thin with a fat, either one’s getting fattened up, or the other’s getting dumped. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, and one you’d rather not be a part of.

You walk with shaky legs to the water dispenser, then get ready to grab the second to lightest weights to try some bicep curls.

You try to remember the positioning from the videos. Rotate in… or out? Should the wrists be like this? You go through ten repetitions on each side, before you think that you should’ve gone for the abs straight away. God knows there’s fat to burn there, and that the flab under your arms can wait.

You turn back from the rack and walk straight into a wall.

No, a chest.

Fuck.

“Sorry there, miss,” says a deep voice. You detect some sort of accent, unable to quite place it right away.

Your eyes run up, instinctively stopping for a second at chest level (holy heavens that’s a Chest with a capital C if you’ve ever seen one) before finally meeting that same pair of eyes you met a few minutes ago, through the mirror.

Double fuck.

“S-sorry, it’s me, wasn’t watching,” you stammer out, gesturing to the weights in a panicked way. “Just, y’know, switching exercises,” you sputter with a nervous laugh, like it was a completely normal thing to switch exercises after one rep.

He chuckles, and you really need to start planning your escape, because holy shit the way his pectorals rise and fall as his chest puffs up is getting a bit too much for your poor little humiliated self to handle, but he doesn’t let you as he speaks in a soft tone.

“I’m getting arms aren’t really your thing, eh?” he asks, not unkindly. Gosh, did it have to be a Scottish accent?

You can’t meet his eyes, they’re too blue, too piercing for your liking. “To be fair I don’t know what’s my thing yet, I’m just starting out, y’know?” you shift your weight on your legs, conscious of the size difference, and not in the way you wanted to be. Your neck is very warm all of a sudden.

He laughs again, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and you almost want the floor to open up and swallow you whole, but the words that come out of his mouth are completely unexpected.

“Figured! A girl with thighs like yours, I’m sure you can deadlift more than me with just a lil’ training. I’m Johnny, by the way,” he adds in passing, as if offering his name is the least of his concerns. “You ever got someone to train you?”

You’re entirely unsure if you’re dreaming or not. Did this Scottish hunk of muscle really just offer to be your personal trainer?

“Never - uh… lifted anything, I guess. Just when moving, my couch and bed and all, but I had a friend help me.” You definitely feel like you’re oversharing and you’re struggling to ignore the weight of the gaze of the two thin women, burning through you as they whisper among themselves, when you realize you hadn't answered the second part. “Oh and, uh– no. I’ve never… trained. Been trained. It’s my first time in a gym since- a while. I don’t want to bother you.”

You finally look up at him, and you’re unable to read his expression. There’s a sort of curiosity, a fascination, that blends fast into a wide-eyed joy that’s so open, so sincere that it makes your head spin as he gently but firmly grabs your wrist and pulls you where his bar stands on the thick mat, ignoring your sputtering protests. “Not a bother at all, lass!” He lets go of you as he bends down and effortlessly racks the barbell, starting to remove plates as he continues. “We can start by measuring your max lift, then the one where you can easily do three reps, then we’ll hike it up till failure, so I can calculate your starting training weight!” he rambles on excitedly. You nervously shift on your feet, conscious of more curious gazes on you, but then he’s back in your bubble, pulling your attention towards him like a magnet.

His smile is like a blazing sun, and you don’t have the heart to tell him to prepare for disappointment.

He’s infinitely patient as he shows you how to place your feet, and the angle of your hips (oh, how you feel your knee weaken at the feel of his light tough through the leggings, nothing short of electrifying, despite being perfectly friendly), the hold on the bar. It’s all a blur till you find yourself bent over in front of him, looking in the mirror at your position and trying not to feel conscious of the way he’s placed behind you. Or let your mind wander in inappropriate places.

“Whenever yer ready, hen.”

You brace yourself, close your eyes for a brief second, wondering how the hell you’d landed on this planet, then breathe in, open your eyes-

The weight is in your hands. Not on the floor. You’re holding it.

You almost drop it when he cheers behind you, warm palms rubbing down from your shoulders to your elbows and back up. “Easy! I told you you’d be a natural! ‘S all in the legs and you’ve got awesome legs, bonnie! Let’s add twenty more.”

It’s a blur of racking and de-racking and lifting once and setting back, and redoing it again and again. You’re out of breath, sweating like a sinner in church, but you’re smiling along with him, finding yourself giving him double high fives, and doing small, excited jumps.

“Next one’s exactly my weight, if y’can lift that, I’ll be losing my bloody mind! D’you realize how well yer doin’ for a first-timer?” He says as he bends next to you, adjusting the bar for the next set of weights. With a wipe of his forearm over his forehead, he crouches slightly down, placing his head right above your shoulder and looking your reflection in the mirror straight in the eyes with a conspiratory grin. “Swear to God, if ye can lift it off the ground, I’m buying you the most expensive drink at the bar next door!” he says, grin blending into a blinding smile, too genuine for your own good.

He’s just friendly, just friendly, just friendly, you say to yourself like a mantra as you position yourself. He stands again to his full height behind you, hands ready under the bar, a safenet.

Deep breath in– hold it…

Slowly but surely, you lift the weight off the floor, your ears ringing from the effort. You see his lips move as he cheers you on, but the blood pumping in your eardrums makes it impossible to hear him. Suddenly, the weight is back on the ground and your feet are off the floor as you’re lifted in a tight embrace and spun around like you weigh nothing.

You yelp and flail but he’s holding you tight, face pressed smack-dab in the middle of your chest, between your tits, rumbling praises about your prowess while you’re trying to figure out whether this can be something that your brain is capable of summoning as a dream.

“Put me down, Johnny, oh my God, put me down!”

He thankfully complies but not before squeezing your ass tighter, and suddenly nothing feels real anymore.

“Jesus, I knew ye were perfect,” he says, pulling back reluctantly to rerack the bar and put back the weights. “I cannot wait to properly start training ye’ tomorrow, but for now, I have a promise ta’ keep, and, uh, let’s just say I wouldn’t mind using those strong thighs as earmuffs with this freezin’ weather. On the way back from the bar, what d’ya say?” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows with a crooked smile that lets you know he’s joking around. (Is he?)

You laugh with him and for a second, you forget what you were here for.

+++

The way to the bar is short. It was just a block away (Good for business, he jokes), but the conversation with Johnny made time really fly by. 

He seems genuinely glad when you tell him you’d decided to head to the gym not just as a New Year’s resolution, but trying to simply become a better you. There’s no condescendence, no talking down, no (God forbid) pity, just an overall nice interaction the whole time. He tells you about being on leave as a soldier (Medical leave, he specifies, a fucked up knee can work in a gym, but it’s a different story out in the field), you tell him about your studies and how that led into a “big girl” job that left you no time for yourself.

“But I’ve always been a big girl,” you feel the need to justify. “Just… gotten bigger as I stopped finding time to move. The desk and the laptop are pretty stationary,” you joke, still trying to make sense of why a man like him (broad, and tall, and strong, and… gosh, just perfect-looking) would even deign to accept being seen with you.

(It’s not a date, you dumbass)

“I happen to like big girls,” is what you don’t expect him to say.

Wait, what?

His blue eyes glue you to your seat, and you respond dumbly. “What?”

“I mean, why do you think I’d offer to train you?” he continues, placing his hand, big and warm over your thigh. It’s squished as you sit, wide and flattened in your seat, yet his hand covers a good amount, almost covering the whole width.

Your brain is short-circuiting but you have to answer something.

“Out of– uh… out of niceness?” you stammer out, feeling your insecurities climb back out of the hole they’d been sleeping in all this time, making you shrink even more, trying to cover yourself as if he didn’t see right through you with that piercing gaze. “To feel good seeing you be the reason I lose weight?”

He chuckles, squeezing your thigh as his head hangs down, almost as if to hide the smile that spreads on his lips.

“Strength training doesn’t work like that, bonnie.” He looks back up, and his eyes are blue, and wide, and so pretty, that you can’t find anything to argue back. “Ye’ think building glutes underneath that fat arse does anything but make it bigger?” He shifts, inching closer as he licks his lips and drops his voice lower. “Ye’ think growing your quads will make this,” he gives an even firmer squeeze, wiggling the fat back and forth, and you tense under his grip, but he’s got you pinned down, “any less wide and soft?”

He presses closer, and the booth has no escape room, you’re practically squeezed into the corner as he pushes his body against yours, bending to whisper lowly in the crook of your neck.

“I did not joke when I said I want yer pretty thighs wrapped tight around my head.”

You can’t be blamed when you don’t remember how you ended up in the back of a cab, Johnny barely taking the time to bark an address to the poor driver and throw fifty quid on the front seat before kissing you absolutely senseless, shamelessly groping your tits with a hand and wrapping the other around your thigh, squeezing you close.

You should probably think more about going home with basically a stranger, no matter how hot, but when he presses his entire palm against your cunt, cupping it over the quickly dampening pair of leggings that didn’t seem so thick anymore, you can’t think at all. He swallows your quiet moans, and hums contently against your lips, taking each gasp for air as an invitation to slither his tongue into your mouth. God, you’d forgotten what a good makeout session was like, and you can’t even find it in you to be embarrassed when you see the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, instantly looking away when you see him staring. 

Johnny doesn’t seem to mind either, and when he notices you looking in the front again and again, he crowds you against the door behind the driver with a huff, half-climbing over you until his knee is pressed against your core, and the only thing in your field of vision is him.

“Johnny,” you try to say, but it’s getting hard to think, with the way you’re being squeezed in a corner, this hunk of a man of pure muscle pressing against you like a weighted blanket, kissing you like you were a drop of water in the desert and he was a parched man drinking you for his salvation. You feel his excitement pressed against your thigh, and it gives you enough lucidity to try again. “Johnny,” you gasp out again, “aren’t we going a little fast?”

He laughs instead, choosing to focus on the side of your mouth, pressing fervent little kisses down your neck before starting to suckle the delicate skin over where your clavicle is. “I can go as slow as you’d like, bun.” He takes the spot an inch next to the previous one into his mouth and sucks again, this time more forcefully, marking you, and oh God you’re going to have to conceal it before work tomorrow, unless you can find a turtleneck to wear–

The cab driver clears his throat, and you notice that the car is stopped in front of a small apartment complex. Johnny says a cordial thanks as he pulls you out of the car and throws another twenty on the backseat, before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and taking all of the thinking out of the equation as he walks you to the entry.

His flat is pretty well furnished, all things considered, but he doesn’t give you enough time to observe the deco as he presses you against the door and slides his hand under your leggings.

“Got me starin’ at that ass the second you walked in, best fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in months, d’ye realize that, bonnie?” he breathes out against your ear as his entire palm cups your sex, and you can only whine as you press your forehead into the crook of his neck. “And by how wet this pussy is, I think you liked starin’ at me, too.”

“You are–” you say, but he curls his middle finger in, spreading your lips and spreading the wetness to your clit, making you choke on your words, “-very nice to stare at.”

“Yeah?” you hear the grin in his voice.

“Mmhm,” you nod, as he keeps the back and forth of his finger, never dipping in too far, just keeping you hungry for more.

“Then how’d ye like to stare down at me as I taste this wet cunt of yours?” he purrs in your ear as he stops moving completely, letting the words process.

Brain.exe has stopped functioning. 

Had you ever had a boyfriend willing to speak filth like that to you when you were down to do the deed, maybe you would’ve gotten enough practice to know what to answer something sensible and intelligible to that, but as it stands, all you can muster is a very dumb-sounding “Huh?” as you stare back at him.

And that, apparently, is the funniest thing in the world to him, because he dips his head down and laughs, almost like a boyish giggle. Not only does that not stop him from kneeling in front of you, but it also somehow gives him more confidence to keep talking like that.

“How about you look down into my eyes as I eat out your pretty little pussy and make you come around my tongue, how’s that sound?” His baby blues bear no trace of maliciousness, no trace of a joke, as his fingers hook around the waistband and trace it around your stomach. You have to make a very conscious effort not to suck it in immediately in preparation for the letdown, but he doesn’t pull them down yet, only moving his hand alongside the edge. Your silence as you try to process what is happening only seems to spur him on instead. “In fact, how about you close your eyes, I close mine, and you hold my head close as I devour you, would you let me do that, pretty girl?”

“I’m not-” you can’t think of any way to properly let him down, not when he looks up with such pleading eyes, so the words stumble out gracelessly. “I’m sweaty, you don’t wanna–”

But he interrupts as he pulls your leg closer by gripping your thigh and squishing it against his cheek “But I do.” He inhales deeply, and your own breath shakes at the sight of how blissed out he already looks. “God, I want it. Let me have this.”

A voice somewhere inside yells at you that this has to be some sort of weird fetish, and that he most certainly won’t be having the same aura of desperation around him tomorrow, when post-coital rationale shows up and he sees your body past the veil of lust, but for now, you think that getting some with Johnny cannot be that bad compared to any one of your past encounters. Might as well enjoy it when you still can.

You wrap your hand around the one he still has around your waistband, and see his face positively light up as you softly caress his cheek.

In the end, you’re the one that pleads.

“Johnny, please.”

Your pants are off you and your leg is over his shoulder before you realize what is happening.

The feel of his warm tongue against your slit makes any thought, any doubt, any fear positively vanish, and the content sigh that he lets out as he licks at you is the same sigh as finally removing a bra at the end of a long day, it’s the sigh of laying down carelessly onto a soft bed after standing up for hours, it’s the sigh of the first bite of the best meal a man has after starving for weeks.

It should be awkward the way his arm wraps around your thigh and sinks into the softness of your stomach, using it to pin you up as he uses his other hand to spread you out enough for him to work his jaw the same way he did when he was making out with you in the car… Yet it’s not. It’s natural, the way his hand squeezes you as he licks, and sucks, and kisses around your pussy, unhurried yet passionate, languidly but firmly, pressing his tongue in, licking around your lips, and maddeningly avoiding the place you wanted him to touch most.

“Johnny,” you moan as he grazes his teeth around your sensitive nub in response. You almost buck out of his hold, but he’s firmly keeping you in place. “Please, don’t tease.”

He hums in response and dives back in, eyes fluttering closed as he ignores your whines. Every time his tongue or lips graze your clit, he works his mouth the opposite way, holding your thigh harder and pressing his palm up as he counters your hip movements with a clever swipe of the tongue. It’s absolutely maddening. “Johnny, please!”

He chuckles as he pulls back, an obscene string of spit lengthening as he pulls back, only breaking when he runs his tongue against his reddened, swollen lips. “Thought ye’ wanted me ta’ go slow, bun.” His eyes sparkle with challenge, but you can also discern a veil of unhidden desperation, of waiting for you to give the go-ahead for him to let loose.

“I’m fine with faster–” you start, but the words dissolve into a barely restrained moan as he hikes your leg up more, getting you closer to him, and immediately singling onto your neglected clit.

His forehead rests onto your belly now, and if you had more than two functioning neurons you’d wonder how he is that he’s breathing, but his hums and moans let you know that he’s perfectly content burrowing his nose in your pussy, nudging at your clit with the tip of it as he licks you with all the dedication you’ve never been shown from a man of his caliber.

He builds it up, and soothes it down, knowing exactly when to put more pressure, or when to teasingly swirl his tongue around your entrance, or to lave broad strokes of his tongue, so much so that the knee that’s not hooked over his shoulder almost gives out on a particularly forceful suck of your clit.

“Easy there,” he groans almost petulantly, as if you’re interrupting him. “Can’t have you fallin’ over when I’m not done wit’ ye.”

“My legs are gonna give out,” you say honestly, trying to catch your breath and avoid having the perfect man at your feet steal it again. “You’re a bit too good at this.” He grins up at you, “Am I?” and you want to give you a playful swat, but instead decide on carding your fingers through his now disheveled mohawk. “Guess the mess on my face speaks for itself… Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

You throw a glance around the apartment, assessing your options. “Couch is closer.” His smile is blinding. “I like how ye’ think.”

It’s now the second time he surprises you by scooping your legs from under you and picking you up like he couldn’t wait any longer and that carrying you bridal-style was the only way he could think of moving you. You yelp out a protest but he swallows it with another hungry kiss, shamelessly smearing your own wetness over your cheek as he walks you both to the couch.

You sink into the cushions where he places you gently without so much as a grunt of effort, and oh God, there they are, the standards are rising.

You reach over to pull him closer as he straightens up, but he only gives you a peck on the lips in return, like he hadn’t been kissing you sloppily the entire time.

“Come back,” you whine, hoping you can get it done before he comes back to his senses, like they all do, but he just smiles and kneels between your feet, hands pressing your thighs apart. The squelch of your lips parting should be embarrassing were he not looking up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes full of adoration, like a child staring up at the full moon on full display on a clear night’s skies. Maybe you are his moon, his goddess, judging by the lust-clouded look directed at you.

“I did say I was gonna make you come on my face,” he says lowly, the gravel in his voice making you squirm as he places a trail of kisses up your thigh. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

With that, he dives in again, using his forearms to pin your legs open on the couch and his fingers to tease around where his tongue can’t reach. You mewl when you feel his tongue at your entrance, circling it around it briefly before delving in as deep as he could, his right hand stroking your clit rhythmically. The fact that he’s so good at somehow playing all your buttons like a maestro directing an orchestra has you thinking that he must be some sort of womanizer, some freak who does this kind of thing every night, but then his lips wrap around your nub and he gives a firm, long suck, and any restriction that you could’ve conjured up simply vanishes. Your thighs want to close around his head, but you can’t move under the iron grip he has on you.

You fist his hair more forcefully than necessary, and he looks up, wet eyelashes framing his beautiful eyes as he hums in response.

“Please,” you moan, and he hums affirmatively again, closing his eyes to focus on licking and suckling harder. He heard you, he simply doesn’t seem to care. “Johnny.”

“What,” he asks, voice muffled and why is this so hot? 

“I need… I need,” you whine, unable to string the words together, and desperately trying to buck your hips under him, for lack of strength to actually close your thighs how you want to.

That seems to get his attention, and he chuckles, before pulling back with a gentle kiss on your mound. “Guess you’ll have to keep tryin’, pet,” he sussurs, a condescending pat on your thighs before he dives in slower than before.

Oh, the absolute asshole. Now he wants you to work for it?

You think that doing the opposite, relaxing your thighs open and letting him go to town however he wanted would help, but he seems hell-bent on riling you up every once in a while, getting you closer and closer with each lave of his tongue over your poor, overstimulated clit, but never enough to actually push you over the edge.

After what seems like an eternity, and almost, almost starting to think that this was a mistake, halfway ready to let him do this thing before your hip starts to cramp up, you feel a finger nudge at your entrance.

“Fucking finally–” you start, ready to curse him out, but he’s faster than you can think in your blissed-out state, and he slides a second finger alongside the first one, immediately zeroing in on that spot that makes you go cross-eyed and buck under his hold.

“Thassit– there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your clit, and oh, okay, maybe you were closer than you thought, because the rhythmic curl of his fingers doesn’t need to last long before you’re off like an arrow, back arching and thighs squeezing, coming harder than you ever thought was possible. If he were any less skilled at making you completely lose the ability to think, you’d maybe notice that you’d managed to close your thighs almost completely around his head, but he wasn’t, so you don’t, twitching helplessly in the aftershocks of the most wonderful orgasm a man had ever given you.

Limbs that somehow still belong to your body hang uselessly off the side of the couch, and you struggle to catch your breath. You blink lazily, noticing him smugly wipe his face with the back of his hand, his half lidded eyes not any less blissed-out than yours. 

You didn’t believe a man like this ever existed, until now. It aches that this might not be something that would last, so you make grabby hands at him, unable to find the will to speak just yet. 

He laughs softly and gently grabs your arms, kissing from your knuckles slowly up your arm, to the crook of your neck. The patience he has is almost inhuman, as he takes the time to let you regather your senses, matching the marks he made earlier on the other side of your neck. You cup your hand around his head in response, and he smiles at you.

“Ye’ with me, bun?”

“Mmhm.”

“That slow enough fer’ ye’?” He holds himself up, an inch fron your face, and you reach up to kiss him.

“I’m gonna kill you dead,” you mutter against his lips, and he chuckles.

“Let me at least fuck you properly, first,” he whispers, and you notice that he’s long since unbuttoned his pants. You barely get a view of the massive size of him over your belly as he holds himself in his hand, large palm not enough to cover the whole length of him as he strokes himself, angled in such way that his tip rubs against your clit on each downstroke. The word “Please,” is not even halfway out of your mouth when he sinks into you in one swift motion, the rest dissolving into a long, drawn-out moan.

“Fuck-” he grunts, “so tight, cannot believe it.”

He guides one of your legs to wrap around him, keeping it flush against his body with his elbow as his palm grips your ass tightly, the other holding him against the backrest, forearm near your head as he pulls you closer for a sloppy kiss as he starts rolling his hips. You moan into his mouth and he swallows them greedily, leveraging each trust of his hips with a pull with his hand, helping you move in tandem with him, readjusting when your thigh threatens to slip out of his hold. The slaps of his pelvis to yours should sound obscene, his hard muscles hitting against your soft, jiggly skin, but his groans into your mouth are like music to your ears, the fact that he’s vocal about it has you almost reaching your peak again in no time, but he seems to sense it, and slows down immediately.

You try to kiss him harder, but he makes a small noise of protest, muttering something that sounds vaguely like “no, let me, let me just–” and you want to ask what he wants to do, to help him, but he instead reaches down both hands to grab your hips and pull you off the backrest. You yelp as your ass suddenly hangs in the air, his cock speared inside you the only secure point as he pulls you halfway off the couch, but he directs you firmly, “Here, around me,” helping you wrap your legs tightly as he starts thrusting again, harder than before.

“Oh, God, oh God,” you flail around, but each thrust in pushes your back into the cushions, and he reaches behind his back to hold your feet in his hand as he presses his palm near your head for support, spewing more filth as he does.

“That’s it, hold me tight, squeeze my cock like ye’ almost squeezed mah heid off earlier, huh, bonnie? Show me what those thighs can do, fuck-”

Your whole body is jiggling with each thrust, and you don’t have it in you to even feel self-conscious with the way each time he fills you, the tip of his cock nudges against the spongey spot inside, making you mewl in tempo with his relentless rhythm.

“Johnny, Johnny,” you moan, and he bends over to kiss you again, swallowing his name like communion while you chant it like a prayer.

“Don’t give up now, bonnie, keep squeezin’, fuck, I can feel ye’, yer so close.”

You try to get some leverage with your upper body, trying to push yourself up the cushions, but his cock suddenly slips out of you as your thighs almost give out, and an apology is already halfway out your mouth when he kneels back down and burrows between your legs, tongue first with a rushed “Need ta’ taste us, fuck, both of us, together-”

One hand wraps around your hip and over your pelvis, reaching up to knead desperately at your stomach, to pull you closer or push you away, you can’t tell, the other pulling your lips apart to settle his entire lower face against your pussy firmly– before letting go as he starts humming.

Your thighs are free to squeeze around his ears, and he nods encouragingly as he keeps licking, and then you hear it: the sounds of wet stroking. You don’t see him fisting his cock, but you hear it, fast and desperate. As your hand tangles in his hair to pull him closer, and another hum– no, another moan vibrates through your core, it’s the last thing you hear before you’re absolutely gone, gasping out a curse as you tense up in his hold, trembling as you come.

It’s even more intense than the first one, and as you buck out of his hold, he stands up shakily, his hand moving faster and faster around his cock, the angry red of his tip at the same level as your face. You gesture for him to sit down, trying to signal to him that you want to reciprocate despite the post-orgasmic haze and exhaustion, but he shakes his head, and, seconds later, you feel warm wetness land on your belly and slowly trickle down as he moans your name when he comes.

You feel like you still have to give something back, and, when he slumps down next to you with a content sigh, you climb over to place a delicate kiss on the tip of his cock, letting out a huff of laughter when it twitches under your touch.

“Ye’ absolute menace,” he whispers fondly as he pulls you up and tips his body to the side to lie down, using his legs to push you up halfway over him, trapping you between his body and the cushions, yet protectively shielding you from falling over. You place another kiss on his stomach, and you see his abs tense under your touch as your warm breath moves his hairs as you hover for a second, before deciding to shift up and use his pectorals as a cushion. He hums softly as his arm wraps around under yours, reaching to pull the plaid off the back of the couch and settle it around you both. Ticklish, eh? That’s a piece of information best stored for later.

You’re still breathless, absolutely done for. God, best decision of your life, going to the gym. “Now what?” you can’t help but ask. It’s the same fear that always creeps up, the fear that he got to try out a fantasy, and now that he was done with it, he had no need to want to continue anything possibly serious. Not that eating a girl out on a first date, if you could even call it a date, was a sign of a one-night stand, you can’t help but feel awkward and insecure now that it’s all done, despite the comforting cuddle.

He chuckles in response, that same chuckle from earlier in the day, a What a silly question chuckle. Like he’d read into your thoughts and insecurities and found them absolutely laughable.

“Same time at the gym, tomorrow? I want you to squeeze my head off next time.”

“Next time, huh?”

He pulls your leg over his pelvis, trapping his still half-mast cock between his belly and the crook of your knee, hand firmly wrapped to shift you up, almost completely on top of him. When both of you are comfortable and you start feeling the tendrils of sleep pull you deeper, he gives a last, playful squeeze to your ass.

“Next time.”

[quandledlngle69]

"FINE, KEEP MAKING CONVERSATION...I GUESS."

☆ CONTENT: Your a troubled student, kicked out of your prestigious private school for beating one of your bully's. Your settled into your horrible local high school where your fighting almost everyday, yet when your reputation pokes at a certain persons bubble, he takes interest in you. ☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: Trouble maker reader, reader gets bullied in the first half, mentions of snapping, fighting, beating, hair pulling, reader being nonchalant, Shidou being interested in reader, reader having a sick mother, reader is female, reader is implied to have braids, mentions of past discrimiation and racism, classism, implying that Shidou and the reader are both black, Shidou also being a problem student and fighting. ☆ PAIRING: Trouble!Maker!Reader x Trouble!MakerShidou ☆ W.C. 1.8K

It starts with insults, and it ends with fists.

That's the way of thinking you subconsciously drilled into your head from middle school. You realised quickly that having good grades or being kind just wasn’t enough to smoothly get through the once prestigious private school you attended. 

Bullying was something you absorbed, that swirled like a disgusting parasite around you. Maybe it was something about you not having the latest phone, the newest shoes–or it was a micro aggressive comment about the deep colour of your skin or your hair being the opposite of pin straight. You didn’t ever talk back or defend yourself, hoping the less reactions given, the less satisfaction would be gained and a next sorry target would be found. Unfortunately, that never happened.

You remember the day you finally snapped.

It was a regular tuesday, and although the past few months had been nothing but dread, you felt eerily calm, like you subconsciously knew what was going to happen and had already accepted it. It was sunny for such a day in march, and you appreciated the breeze, considering it was rare to be interrupted during your lunch breaks.

Today was not one of those days.

It was the same group most of the time, a handful of girls and two boys. A cycle usually occurred, it was first grabbing your attention, then insults, maybe some physical contact, knocking some stuff out of your hands, more insults, and repeat. 

You didn’t wait until the insult part.

When your mind decides to black out on you while beating on someone, one finds it quite hard to remember all the details. It was the sound of your backpack dropping to the ground at first, then the slightly panicked tone of insults, questioning what you were doing, and then your first impact of knuckles to flesh. You're sure you and the girl both tripped on each other's feet at some point, scrapping your knees, you both hit the ground accidentally tackling her. You remember how the strands of her blonde hair that had found its way to wrap itself around your fingers felt–coarse. Ears ringing, you ignored her high pitched banshee shrieks of pain while you pulled on the strands, hard. You felt them snap at the scalp. You could feel how with each collision of your closed fist to the soft tissues of her face, her sobbing grew more and more heavy. It took the two boys of the group to pry you off her. 

Later you sat in the principal's office, the extra chair for one of your guardians empty. It always was when you got in trouble. You knew it would add stress on your already ill mother. The surface skin of your knuckles were raw and the scratches on your knee began to sting as the adrenaline faded away, the soothing cream the nurse had applied weak against the pain.

A broken nose, one chipped tooth, two black eyes, and a few tension caused bald spots. 

You were told–no, screamed at by the beaten girl's mother, that you were lucky the police weren’t called, and the only consequence you were getting was that you would be expelled. 

You should've been angry, maybe distraught at the fact you were being kicked out for defending yourself, of being kicked out of the most prestigious school in the district, especially since you were on a scholarship. But–nothing. There was a sense of indifference that surrounded you like a protective bubble, even as you were screamed at, even as you were given a formal letter of expulsion you were supposed to give to your mother, even as you were escorted off school grounds.

It almost scared you, how you really didn’t care anymore.

It had been four years since that event.

Now you were in some shitty local school that you honestly could give less of a dime about. 

It had been another cycle of detentions, fights, wounds, stings, sores, aches and a whole calypso of sorts. And they couldn’t expel you, with you having nowhere else to go.

Again, you were in after school detention for slamming a locker door shut on a girl's head. Not your fault she decided it would be a perfectly plausible idea to spit on your sneakers. 

Here you are now. It was a rundown classroom in the back of the school, like the staff was trying to hide the bad kids away to avoid staining the school's decent reputation. Not like you cared. The desks had symbols carved out with sharp objects and permanent sharpies, graffiti on the walls, floors and ceiling and a foul smell coming from somewhere you couldn’t pinpoint. You had been in there so many times to the point you had gotten comfortable enough to just nap for the hour you were stuck there. It was the usual placement of connecting your head to the desk, turning away, and ignoring the others that were usually there for the same reasons just like you. 

But you also did it to ignore the fact there was always an intense stare piercing the side of your head as soon as you put your head on the table. But you let it roll off you, after all, staring towards you was just another familiar wave of negativity. The guy was notoriously known for his fights and appearance, sure, but it's not like you truly cared who he was or the feared reputation he built for himself.

For the first time, Shidou is intrigued. He watches as your slumped form in the corner back of the detention room, not talking, not even looking at anyone. No arrogance, no puffed chest—just you, head on the desk, tapping your fingers in a rhythm against the wooden leg of the desk like you were waiting for something.

So he tests you. A few direct comments out loud, a smirk, a challenge. And when you finally look at him—dark eyes, unreadable expression—he knows you're different just from the look in your eyes.

And for the first time, Shidou may have found himself someone who might just be as reckless as him.

The clock ticks slowly, each second dragging like a slow–burning cigarette.

Shidou Ryusei slouches in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his lip still split from the fight that landed him here. He smirks at the memory—some senior had mouthed off, and Shidou, never one to back down, tracked him down and made sure a knuckle sandwich was given–something like that, anyway. You don't acknowledge his poking words, just pulling the drawstrings of your hoodie up further (an item of clothing that didn’t comply with the school rules either), shoving your hands into your pockets. From where he sits, Shidou can see the bruises along your knuckles, a fresh scrape along your cheekbone.

He knew you got into fights, but seeing the damage up close? It makes something in him spark. 

The room is silent except for the scribbling of a teacher grading papers at the front desk. Shidou drums his fingers on his desk, gaze flicking between the clock and you–who hasn’t looked up once.

“Who was it?” he finally asks, his eyes fixed on the clock, but you know he’s addressing you.

You don’t move. Don’t even react.

Shidou leans back, stretching his legs out, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. “Who’d you fight?” he tries again, smirking slightly. “Gotta be bad if they stuck you in here with me.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You talk too much.”

Your voice is quiet, but sharp enough to cut. Shidou raises a brow, interested. Most people flinch or get defensive when he pushes. You didn't.

“I’m just curious,” he says, tilting his head towards your general direction. “A girl like you throwing punches? Gotta be a juicy story. Right?”

This time, you do glance at him—just for a second. Dark eyes, unreadable, sizing him up like he’s just another fight waiting to happen. 

“No story,” you mutter bitterly. “Just a bad day.”

Shidou studies you, almost like how a tiger looks at its prey, almost like he wasn’t deterred by the bad mood radiating off you. “Yeah? Guess we both had one.” He gestures vaguely to his busted lip, almost smug. “Wasn’t really my fault, though. The guy was fucking begging for it.”

You huff, barely a laugh, more like an exhale of disbelief. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

He leans in slightly, elbows on the desk, and you're able to see the quiet–but explosive glow of his pink eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

His question hits you like a light slap to the face, managing to surprise you. For the first time, something flickers in your eyes—something he recognizes. A mix of exhaustion and defiance. 

You didn’t answer. Instead, you shifted in your seat, the metal legs groaning under your weight. Tilting your head toward him, your eyes met his, tense. “Why do you care?”

Both of your expressions mirrored each other, nonchalant, unreadable.

There was another long beat of silence as your eyes darted around his face, his blonde hair with pink tips that was definitely the reason he had a ‘delinquent’ title, you think. His nails are sloppily painted black, and you could imagine how his punches hurt like a bitch with how many rings adorned his fingers. His blazer was nowhere to be found, his jumper sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His sneakers were scruffy, his buttoned collar undone.

Shidou himself seemed as if he was deep in thought looking at you himself, as well as considering your words. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe because you're different. Maybe because you're quiet, a silent but deadly type. Maybe it’s because you're the same as him, a foreign presence in an unfamiliar environment. Maybe it’s because rather than seeing a sea of pin straight black hair, it was the neat ocean of mahogany brown braids that skimmed your lower back. Maybe it was because of the fresh manicured set of nails that you got every other week, something he observed more than the normal person should. Or maybe because, for the first time, someone isn’t playing his game, and you peaked his rare curiosity.

He gives a lopsided grin, tilting his chair back until the front legs hovered above the floor. “I don’t. Just making conversation.”

You don't respond at first, ripping your eyes away from the intense staring competition–just turning your gaze back to the window, as if he’s already forgotten. But Shidou? He’s still watching you, still curious.

And it takes a lot to get his attention. 

He focused on your glossy pout, and how it seemed to soften slightly with your next words.

“Fine. Keep making conversation…i guess.”

When you meant keep the conversation going, you never implied for him to thrust his desk right next to yours, almost bumping shoulders with you. He ignored the weak yelling of the teacher telling him to go back to his place. You were amused by his actions, not even telling him to back off like you would to anyone else.

Maybe you’ll let him talk your ear off a bit more.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

[teaandjumpers]

ooooo i wish you would write a fic where obi-wan was the stoic bodyguard to bratty popstar anakin (or some other modern au equivalent of obi-wan brawling to keep anakin out of danger) 😋😋😋

This is probably not what you had in mind, anon, but this is what came out! (mind the tags) - - - -

Obikin Rock Star(ish) Au

Anakin rushed off the stage, sweat stinging his eyes and damp hair sticking to his skin. 

The crowd was still roaring behind him, adrenaline still pumping through his blood making his skin feel tight, restricting. 

He had been preparing to settle in for the night, a bowl of Top Ramen already spinning in the microwave, when Rex had called him asking him to fill in for Fives, his lead guitarist. Anakin didn’t play guitar anymore, especially not now at the tail-end of his undergrad degree, the projects and grad school applications piling up, but he owed Rex. 

And this was the big summer festival lineup; he knew what this gig meant to Rex and the band. So he dug out his electric guitar, wore his most threadbare band tee and a pair of faded torn jeans and got a ride to the venue. 

Ahsoka met him at the side entrance and ushered him through, twirling her drumsticks nervously. She had sent him the setlist earlier and he fingered the frets of his guitar in the backseat of the Uber, much to the annoyance of his driver. 

He knew the songs by heart—he’d helped write some of them back in the day, cringe-worthy, melodramatic lyrics that Cody, their lead singer, miraculously elevated.  

On stage, there were a few kinks with the first song, but they still worked well together, the four of them having played endless rotations across dozens of local haunts during their first two years of university before Fives showed up to take his spot as bassist.

By the second song, Anakin found that even his backing vocals weren’t as bad off as he had thought, his voice only breaking during the highest notes of “I Hate Sand.”

“Great work, Flogging Hogs,” said the handsome man with locs striding past them towards the stage. He was followed by a bald statuesque woman who was close on his heels, only turning to give Ahsoka an unimpressed look. 

“We’re the Hogging Flogs!” Ahsoka called out, but her words were swallowed by the eruption of cheers for the festival headliner, Republic’s Finest.  

They had always been too mainstream for Anakin, but his high school girlfriend always had their music playing in the background and had even tried to convince Anakin to go to one of their concerts with her. But he just couldn’t get into a band whose most popular track was a blues-rock-ballad called “Infinite Sadness” (even if it was from an earlier album before they truly found their sound). 

The band was a duo now, the former lead singer having left for the theater or something, leaving the other guy to take his place.

An assistant ushered them into the green room where a table of Gatorade and beer awaited them along with protein bars, bananas, and tubes of mini M&Ms. Anakin opted for the  Gatorade, chugging down half of it before realizing he’d left his guitar case in the wing of the stage. 

He rushed back through the narrow hallways, careful not to spill his drink as he dodged the many cables crisscrossing the floors backstage. 

Intent on not tripping over any wires, and still a little blissed out from an amazing show, Anakin completely missed the hulking figure that stood between him and his guitar case. He ran into the man, chest first, open bottle of Gatorade spilling between them, coating the expensive looking light-gray vest the other man was wearing. 

The man towered over Anakin, and his voice boomed despite the sound of the heavy blues-rock coming from the stage. 

“When did they start letting civilians backstage,” said the man, scowling at Anakin as he wiped the liquid off his chest with sharp brushes of his hand. 

“I’m with a band,” said Anakin defensively, regretting it immediately.

This man looked important. An agent maybe? Or some kind of studio head? He didn’t want to ruin the band’s reputation before they even made a name for themselves. Playing at a festival was huge, but it was a stepping stone for what the band really wanted—a gig as a long-term opening act for a big band. 

“A roadie,” Anakin lied, hoping he said it convincingly enough for the man to buy it. 

And it seemed that he did. His eyes took on a different glint, the annoyance turning into something predatory. 

“Give me your shirt,” he said, gesturing to his own clothes. “To clean up this mess.”

Anakin gaped at the man before turning to see if anyone near him had heard the man’s ridiculous request.

There were some sound technicians closer to the edge of the stage, but everyone else was huddled in small circles, determined to ignore the scene playing out in front of them. 

Begrudgingly and with heat prickling at his neck, Anakin peeled the shirt off his back, determinedly avoiding the other man’s gaze as he held the garment out to him. 

The man grabbed the shirt, but he didn’t use it to clean himself off. Instead, he threw it behind him while he advanced on Anakin, his eyes raking up his long frame appreciatively. 

"Have you ever thought of being something more than a technician," the man asked, voice close and low. 

Anakin shuddered away, looking back at the hallway that led to the green room. He didn’t want to bring this mess to the band, and he didn’t want to make a scene, but this creep kept advancing, pushing him into a dark, curtained corner. 

Just as the man brought a hand to his neck, a light accented voice rung out behind them. 

“I thought Quinlan banned you from our performances, Krell,” said the voice. 

The man, Krell, turned, revealing a shorter man with bright copper hair and a short well-kept beard. He had his arms crossed over his chest and was watching Krell with sharp, calculating eyes. 

“Did Broadway let you loose already, Kenobi?” Krell asked, his tone dripping with disdain. “Did they realize you were a hack all along.”

The man laughed in response, his head thrown back and teeth shining under the dim lights hanging overhead. 

“Not at all,” said Kenobi. “I’m just here to support the band.”

“Support them all you want,” said Krell, turning to face Anakin again, curling his palm around his neck.

“For fuck’s sake,” said Kenobi before squeezing between Anakin and Krell. He gripped the man’s forearm and pulled at it until Krell released his hold. 

“Leave before I call security,” said Kenobi, his tone cool and even. “And before I tell Asajj to post about this on her socials.”

The man sneered at him, holding Kenobi’s gaze for a long moment before turning and leaving in a huff. 

Kenobi turned to face Anakin, the ire in his voice now gone.

“If you’d like to file a report—” began Kenobi, his voice gentle, but Anakin shook his head in response. 

"I just want to get back to my band."

He rubbed at this neck, the same spot Krell had grabbed earlier. 

"You're with one of the bands?” asked Kenobi, his face lighting up. 

"Yeah," said Anakin. "Filling in for someone. We’re the—uh—the Hogging Flogs." His cheeks burned hot as he said the name.

"Ah, yes. I saw your name in the lineup. I’m also here filling in as you say. Well, more like making an appearance."

Anakin finally took a moment to really look at the man. While he was never a fan of their music, the cute frontman from Republic's Finest never slipped his notice, especially not when the man played such a prominent role in his queer awakening. Sure, the beard was new and he had a few grays, but he still had those same bright blue eyes that used to stare out at him from the posters pinned to Padme's walls. 

"Oh my god," he said. "You’re him. You’re the old frontman." 

The man’s eyebrows flew up at the word old. "I suppose I must seem old to an 18-year old."

"Twenty-two," said Anakin. 

"My girlfriend was obsessed with you," he continued. "Former girlfriend. I’m bi now. I was then, too. I just didn’t know it." 

Dear god, he was babbling. But the man didn’t seem to mind, his smile only growing wider the longer Anakin spoke. 

"And I’m Obi-Wan."

A sharp cheer erupted from the stage and there was a short lull before the man on stage, presumably Quinlan, started addressing the crowd. 

"And I have an appearance to make," he said, turning back to look at the stage. 

His eyes flicked across Anakin’s bare chest, and he bit his lip before removing the crewneck sweater he was wearing and handing it to Anakin. 

It was band merch—a Republic’s Finest sweater. Anakin hadn’t noticed the band’s logo until just then. 

“It was meant to be a joke,” said Obi-Wan. “But I think you need it more than I do.” 

"I can’t," said Anakin, attempting to return the sweater, but Obi-Wan pushed it back towards him, pressing the fabric against Anakin’s chest. 

“Keep it,” said Obi-Wan, already half way across the wing, ready to leap onto the stage. “Red’s not really my color, anyway!”

[plooboobl]

Opening up the pert e-girl to horny bear forcemasc pipeline. Loading her up with testosterone and watching as she bulks up. Her feminine figure fills out and doubles up with fat and muscle. Her beautiful, vibrant hair starts thinning, then gets shorn off. Her old wardrobe of pleated skirts and thigh-highs and chokers replaced with more appropriate jeans and tank tops, and then making her stuff a nice latex packer under her new boxers so nobody gets the wrong impression. A face once sporting winged eyeliner and plump lips is now more noteworthy for the growing beard and bushy eyebrows. She protests. She's humiliated. She says she's nervous. But she never says to herself that she wants it to stop. She doesn't want to admit that she's enjoying it. Every night as she slides a hand underneath her boxers, through the mass of coarse pubic hair, and strokes her throbbing clit, the sensations of pleasure outweigh the apprehension of the manhood looming over her. Every time she looks in the mirror and, where a beautiful woman once stood, there's now a full-fledged man, her long hair replaced with his bald head, her perky breasts now his sagging and hairy moobs, his arms now able to flex with corded muscle, her crotch now featuring his t-dick poking between his thick thighs, the idea of being a woman slowly fades.

The final thing, the fait accompli, is him going through his phone and seeing all of the pictures and selfies of the woman he used to be saved on there, and instead of feeling just a sense of loss, he gets horny. As he gropes his fat tits and massages his cock and runs his hands down his hairy belly, looking at her bare breasts and pretty face, he realizes he will never go back, and will never want to go back.

[kteezy997]

The Heart of a Bene Gesserit-Part Three//Paul Atreides

Warnings: cursing, spice slavery, prostitution innuendo

You didn't really want to see Paul. You still felt so raw after last night. It wasn't even his fault; it was your feelings that got hurt when you realized that you'd never have a real chance with Paul. He’d never see you in a romantic light.

Once you got ready for the day, you decided to go out for a walk around the grounds, to clear your head and get some air. You didn’t opt for a still suit, as you didn’t plan on traveling far or long.

The morning was warm and bright, but not uncomfortably so, as it was still early in the day. The sun was not yet too high. You had made your way around to the spice silo crates where some workers were emptying the crops. You watched the grouping of men, and something caught your eye. The closer you looked, you noticed that it was a bald head. Harkonnen.

It had to be a Harkonnen. No one on Arrakis had such pale, smooth skin like that. You saw the man's eyes and you knew exactly who it was. A near final Kwizatz Haderach: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. Why was he a slave working for Paul?

"Miss," a servant approached you, and you turned to them.

"Yes?"

"You really should not be out in the sun this time of day."

You looked over at the silos, nodding toward the working men, "It is still early. And besides, the slaves are out here."

"As a special companion of the Emperor, he would wish that you'd stay safely indoors." the servant pointed out, trying to urge you back into the House.

"I think the Emperor should put his worries elsewhere."

"Very well, ma'am. But if you wish to stay out longer, I'd recommend changing into a stillsuit, to keep your body cool and hydrated." the servant gave you a polite nod, then left.

You looked on, remembering your singular visit to Giedi Prime years ago, seeing Feyd-Rautha dominate his opponents in the Harkonnen Arena. The Bene Gesserit found him to be quite impressive, not only in his strength and fighting skills, but also in his superior intelligence. Feyd was almost everything that Paul was. A very valuable and useful tool in human form. Why was he now reduced to a simple slave?

......

After the midday meal, you approached a rather tired looking Paul. You said his name as you walked up to him. You needed to ask him about Feyd. Paul looked at you, and his tired eyes faded into a brighter expression that lit up his handsome face. You tried to not think too much about the effect you had had on him. You felt no need to read into it.

"I want to ask you about one of the slave workers you have in your possession, my lord." you said.

Paul frowned at you, as if he could never guess the things you were about to say, "Very well. Let us retire to the council room to talk about this.”

He led the way to the meeting room in which you had spent some time with him and his men, listening to them invent work for themselves. Really, you thought he needed more women on his council, to actually help resolve issues of the Imperium.

"Sit down, y/n. What would you like to know about the slaves?" he asked, sitting down and gesturing for you to do the same next to him at the table.

"Well, I became intrigued by one of them in particular. And I'm not going to play around about this, Paul. Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen is alive and he is among your slaves, isn't he?"

Paul sat back in his seat, a strange quiver of a smile on his mouth, "Nothing gets passed you Bene Gesserit, does it?"

You gave him a serious look.

He let out a small sigh, "Yes, Feyd-Rautha is where any lasting Harkonnen should be."

"He had nothing to do with what happened to your father."

"But he is a Harkonnen! He deserves to be where he is. He's lucky he's not dead and buried in the sand with the Baron."

You scoffed, "Feyd is a psychopath, that is true. But he is far too valuable a human being to just be your slave."

“He is not just my slave. He works for the Empire, you yourself expressed that you only want what is best for the Empire.”

“Yes, but Feyd deserves a more honorable position. He’s an intelligent man, a good leader. He was able to bring spice production back to full capacity after his idiot brother fumbled the job. You could use someone like Feyd-Rautha in your corner. Hell, he should be on your council, advising you, helping you.”

“I would never take advice from a man whose family had my father killed! He would have never attained control of Arrakis if it weren’t for me.” Paul shouted, his voice littered with an angry growl.

You sat still in your chair, gripping the armrest, you knew he was right. Rabban could not stand up to Muad’Dib and the Fremen, nonetheless, this issue was not about Rabban, but his younger brother. “Someone of Feyd-Rautha’s superior breeding deserves to have a more productive job.”

“Are you suggesting spice production is unimportant? It is only the most vital substance in the universe, without it, you wouldn’t have been able to come to Arrakis, y/n.”

You shook your head, becoming aggravated with him and his condescending tone, “Do not patronize me, Paul Atreides. You know what I mean. You should use Feyd-Rautha to your advantage, that is all I am saying. Think about it.”

“Perhaps you would like to use him to your advantage.”

Now you were mad, “Whatever do you mean?”

“You were sent here to secure the Kwizatz Haderach bloodline. But you’ve been unsuccessful thus far, so why not try out a runner up: my cousin, the final Harkonnen.”

You sighed, your anger subsided and you were left with the disappointment that he still had no trust in you. “That is not my intention. You should know by now that I am here for you, I am trying to fulfill my duties as your councilwoman.”

Paul raised his brows, rested his elbow on the armrest of his chair, held his chin in palm and looked at you in the eyes, “Oh? So you’ve decided to take my job offer? You’ll stay here, on Arrakis?”

“I hope to. As long as you stop being an ass.” You stood up, pushed your chair back under the table. “Good day, my lord.” you said, turning on your feet and exiting the council room, without bowing before the Emperor.

…….

Paul sat for a moment more after y/n left, then he called a servant to retrieve Gurney Halleck.

“Gurney.” he greeted his old master, who now served as one of his right hand men.

“My lord.” Gurney answered, nodding.

“Appoint one of the servants to keep a close watch on y/n. I’d like to know what she is doing, and whom she may be speaking to.”

……

That evening, after dinner was over and the sun was set, you quietly made your way to the slave quarters. You were met with the slave master, who looked you up and down, like he couldn’t place you.

“Haven’t seen you down in these parts, woman.” he said, holding his strong stance.

“My name is y/n, friend and councilwoman of Muad’Dib. I’ve come to ask if I can speak with one of the slaves here.” you kept your poise and confidence in check. I must not fear.

The tall man before you gave a simple nod, “Hmm. Do you know the slave’s name?”

“Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.”

You were then led to a sort of outside recreational area for the prisoners. There were tables and chairs under a roof to provide some shade.

“Wait here. And don’t worry, he’ll like the looks you. He won’t have any desire to kill you.” the slave master said, giving you a small dose of assurance.

But you were Bene Gesserit, you did not need to be assured. You could take care of yourself. It did not matter how intimidating or dangerous an opponent may be, you could always come out on top with the proper training.

After only a couple of minutes, you heard his voice first: hoarse in his throat, but with chilling low tones. “A visitor, for little ol’ me?”

You looked straight ahead, seeing his tall, muscular figure making its way toward you. He was just as you remembered, his face and head free of hair, but still as strikingly handsome as his Atreides cousin.

“Well, you are beautiful. You’d be a nice gift, but there’s no way you are a working woman. Also, no sign of the Ibad blue eyes, so you’re not the Atreides’ Fremen woman.” Feyd was speaking as he looked you over, getting his senses about you.

You felt a slight thorn in your side as he insinuated that you could be Chani.

He then looked in your eyes, squinting, “You’re Bene Gesserit?”

“You are sharp, Feyd-Rautha.” you replied.

He smirked, but did not show his black teeth. He gazed at you as if he wanted to devour you, then and there. “Hm. Now, why were you looking for me, my darling?"

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @lixzey @bitchyunknownuser @ducktapebar @aoi-targaryen @yukideadinside @elloise0 @thatoneweirdgirl17 @mel-vaz @sammy-halpert @iwishchalamet @that-one-fangirl69 @jindongdongie @briefkittenearthquake

[traditionalbarberedman]

[daemon-in-my-head]

Actually let me make this it's own post. Hi here's a description of the man™️ after I stared at his face for lord knows how long and tried to gather all his unique lil details:

- his jawline is the widest part of his face

- regarding the above; or it might just be deliberate, if you look closely his hair looks like he's using the middle part to frame his face beneath all the loose strands

- his nose isn't not straight but he has a kinda defined indent on the right side of his nose bridge making it look crooked without really having a crook?

- one of his 'wrinkles' next to his right eye actually looks like a faded scar or smth. The skin returned to its normal colour but it is as deep as a wrinkles without fitting into the symmetry of them and actively crossing another

- his weird makeup choice and his hollowed face kinda emphasise his wrinkles like fuck cuz his eyes r rly, rly sunken in and his emo makeup just deepends the shadows

- he's kinda giving 'not aged like fine wine' babyface except those pinchable cheeks surrendered to a very gaunt look aka very high cheekbones but now they're rly just bone casting rly weird shadows

- incredibly hooded eyes and the skin on his browbone is very exposed and has a slight curve, thx evil arched brows

- actually re the above they also kinda resemble deepset eyes. The parts of the eyelids that you can see are highlighted by the fact that his eyes r so sunken in

- after carefully starring at a bunch of characters for far too long; he probably has some of the fullest lips in all of Faerûn, but also slightly down turned - thinning them out when he smiles, or attempts it ig

- The scar on his chin is pretty darn deep, it's not that much discoloured it's just in constant shadow

- cupid's bow? He's never heard of that

-his smile lines are about as defined as Gale's but on his face there's more shadows that deepen them

-bald spots in his stubble

- very visible pores

Overall on very close inspection he's giving hair gel imperium that runs on 1h of sleep in the last 72h and if you cut him he probably bleeds espresso. Like that man looks kinda starved and very much unhealthy. His face is basically just highlights or shadows. No in-between.

He has a very attractive, very sharp face but it's very much hidden beneath all the unhealthy habits that you can see on it. Clean him up, feed him, teach him how to use a razor, replace the make up with something more subtle and he'd rise to fame thx to being a thirst trap in seconds. And if you just look at his side profile you kinda get a preview of that already. He does look young. Very much so (return of the babyface).

And he does look like a fuckboy.

[v-iroine]

₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ SEEKING FREEDOM

Chap: The red siren pt.1/2 [4k words]

✿ kid!Caleb + kid!fem!MC (use of she/her pronouns but mc's appearance is not mentioned)

ꕀ I will collect the scattered fragments of my soul, and I will diligently focus on myself alone.

✿ This is all a figment of my imagination and may contradict canon[!] Caleb's POV in the past, child torture mentioned, loneliness, psychological and physical torture, isolation, both mc and caleb are guinea pigs, experiments, Caleb is losing his mind, he's bald (MC too), indirect mention of the granny [she is a grey character most of the time].

✿ Little author's note: Please consider to leave a comment and share your thoughts, it REALLY helps me for the producting of those OS. I decided to make a small mention of Petrarca since Caleb's memories are currently fragmented and in each fragment he can only see the figure of MC while trying to rearrange them himself. 《Mi dedicherò a me stesso quanto più potrò, e raccoglierò i frammenti sparsi della mia anima》. After this one I'll probably just take a break and write some random short nsfw (I can't take that much angst)

A high-pitched sound struck the room, red lights bouncing from one shiny metal wall to another until they reached and filtered through the transparency of the solid prison walls that had once defined my room. I tried to squeeze my eyes shut.

I squeezed them until my joints ached, but that painful sound, the one that still haunted my sleep, was impossible to relieve, not even for a second.

The very idea of blocking it was unreasonable. My hands tightened around the pillow over my head, and when that wasn't enough, I pressed it down with my arms, curling into a small ball between the hard mattress and the feeble embrace of the thin blanket, my only source of relief, the only thing that had ever saved me from this kind of loneliness. I pushed my head against it, trying to silence everything. This pain had haunted me for days. Every. Single. Night.

These days felt like months, or maybe they were.

Calendars were prohibited for subjects under "visit", the passing of the time was visible only thanks to the sunlight fading behind the opaque walls or stealing glances at the clock in the "attending doctor" room, a phase that everyone was forced to go through.

Every detail of our presence was closely monitored by superiors, as well as those designated for inspections, even though they often failed to carry out their checks properly. Many slacked off during working hours; pale, shaking fingers exchanging white paper bags, it was a sight so common to me but at the same time unrecognized by others.

A bit ironic, they couldn’t wait to get their hands on this stuff, while their victims were forced to have it inserted into their bodies against their will.

Usually, the incessant sound lasted only a few minutes. In my countless attempts to fall asleep, I found myself counting how long the light and noise persisted. The chaos typically faded quickly, just before the rhythmic march of armed men echoed through the halls, their guns resting on their shoulders like an embrace. The situation was always resolved swiftly, returning to absolute stoic quiet.

But this time, the rescue had arrived, yet the sound had not stopped. That flashing light was more present than ever and the noise was no less.

At some point, I resigned myself to it; that light and that damned siren could break anyone. And after all this time, I was no exception.

The growing clamor in the distance, from the few like me who had survived (more or less) in that place until now, was soon joined by the shouting. The more it increased, the more I felt myself sinking, my ears ringing and everything becoming more opaque.

My eyelids grew heavy, my ears got used to the endless wail, it took me a long time before I realized that this would become my personal lullaby, the song I would hear every time I went to sleep, no longer a condemnation but a part of me.

Sleep was the only solution to all my misfortunes... and my only salvation, a place that no one had the possibility of taking away or controlling, every day I demanded freedom and when that was denied I found refuge in this, a place where only I had control.

When everything had finally died down, the light, not red but white, hit my face again, a warm voice struck me, the coldness of its gloved recognizable hands. 

Countless times, I had tried to escape its grip, but every time, I failed miserably.

"The subject's vital parameters are stable. "

That soothing sound was always accompanied by machinery and other dull metallic voices. The warm voice, like sunlight, always repeated those words as it brushed my hair from my forehead while blood samples were taken as proof of my existence. Blood, like heartbeat, was one of the things recorded throughout the day: every moment had to be logged, from when I woke up to when I went to sleep.

The tingling sensation made me struggle, but at least it reminded me that I was still here, still on this earth, even if it was only through the prick of a needle.

I have no idea if all the victims in that facility had been treated the same way I was, but one thing was for sure: this was not living. The only thing that calmed my state of mind was that voice. The only human who had bothered to treat me like a living being, yet never as an equal.

"Ma'am, what time is it?"

"It's time for you to wake up."

"Another math test?"

"Yes, exactly."

This is how the day began. I lied to myself by calling it just math, it was anything but mathematics.

Around my neck, the collar they forced on me during the removals. I couldn’t stand it, the cold metal against my skin, the weight of it, the false hope that I might escape. Too tight to slip off, yet loose enough for the needles to dig in, unmoving. A precaution, they called it, in case I did anything unpleasant to them.

The spikes had left red marks on my skin just from touching them. I tried several times to loosen the grip on my neck, but all my efforts were in vain. In fact, I risked it more than once, even though I knew it might make them lose their patience. But you can understand what the result was... I was still there, alive, but with more guards keeping an eye on me.

This how my day began: physical and mental tests... they wanted to see how I adapted to stress, discomfort, and anger. How I responded to environmental stimuli. It began with typical school tests: an empty room, just a tablet screen in front of me. Suction cups clung to my chest and my nearly bald head, the cold gel seeping into the white fabric I wore every day. The questions grew harder, the timer ticking down, pressing against my mind like a second restraint.

The more I solved within the time limit, the fewer tests I would have to endure, or at least, that’s what they told me. The questions were varied, they did not focus on a single topic.

They were unpredictable, shifting from started physics problems and ended with the horrors of war. Psychological assessments, how would I react... how would I behave when the timer suddenly sped up and grew faster and louder in my ears. My survival or the others, that was the core of the test. They tried to convince me to 《prioritize the survival of the majority over yourself》, and for a time, I've started to believe those words. But, at the end of the day, if you are trained to go down with the aircraft, they'll still call it service. Not suicide.

In reality, they valued what I lacked. And how cooperative I would be with them, especially they wanted to understand how I would behave in an empty room, with no one who could observe me, even if those eyes of theirs did not move from me. When the cameras were malfunctioning or the power started to stutter due to inconveniences with other subjects, I would enjoy humming songs, not out of nostalgia, but just to see if  anyone was still listening.

If the silence would shift...

But it never did.

That was the worst part.

Tortured and monitored daily, yet still discarded when a little inconvenience occurred. As if my suffering wasn't worth their time.

And with that the day flew by like this, inside those white walls, one day slower and more melancholic, more pointless, more useless than the other. That wasn't living, just something to get through to understand what living means, but what would a kid know about that?

The end of testing always meant meals-if you could call them that. A kind of mush. Nutritional sludge, mixed from God knows what, designed to keep me alive.

Not fed. Not satisfied. Just functioning.

They weren't going to let me starve, obviously. That'd be a waste of time and space.

Meals were taken alone, always. In my room.

Cutlery? Not allowed. No plastic, no wood, no metal... nothing I could use to hurt myself. Or them. So the almost-liquid food came in a flimsy paper cup. The kind that started to dissolve if you didn't choke everything down fast enough.

Sometimes I asked them to bring me something different, and edible, but as expected, my protests were just wasted oxygen for them. I asked, I tried, but I already knew the answer. That was something that could be silenced if not listened to, something that I didn't have the luxury of think it could change.

But, like everything else, there were exceptions.

Sometimes, my voice actually reached the guards, the ones who couldn't stand my complaints, the ones who, in their frustration, would try to get a superior involved. And not so coincidentally, in the end it always appeared before me, the same voice that woke me up in the morning.

But it didn't matter. It did nothing but listen. Whether the voice actually cared... well, I have serious doubts. But at least I had someone to talk to. Empty words came out of its mouth, but at least they gave me hope that the next day things would change, but at the end of the day the disappointment of the brutal truth: nothing can change even if you want it to.

And the day went on like this: more test after test.

When I couldn't concentrate anymore the room was my only refuge.

I slept for hours to escape the boredom, and woken up only to swallow more mush while they analyzed my parameters again.

The night swallowed the white palace, deleting all the colors around me. The sleeplessness had taken over my tired mind.

The deathly silence was accompanying me in my failed attempt to fall asleep when I heard the slap of bare feet trampling on the floor.

A new sound for me, I didn't believe it, I was worried that it was just my brain playing tricks on me.

An ugly cry, fleeting, pierced the thick air trapped within those walls, time seemed to stand still. My muscles stiffened, my hair stood on end, as a high-pitched voice, too high to belong to any of the prisoners nearby... it filled my ears.

I wasn’t afraid of the voice itself. I didn’t believe in ghosts. It felt pointless to fear monsters that couldn’t touch me, when I lived among them every day.

What unsettled me were the implications: Had they started practicing physical experiments at night? Too?

The crying grew closer, more penetrating with every second, and the nearer it came, the more I noticed the little details.

The panting that came in bursts, the sloppy shuffle of feet trading places, one after the other, over and over. The whimpering, swallowed only to fuel that futile race… because even if that voice somehow escaped the structure, freedom was never guaranteed, and I was the confirmation.

A curious voice tried to speak, indeed female, but her words got stuck into her throat, only letting out ununderstandable sounds. In the end she seemed more frightened than I was. I was sure that was a female voice, the sound was too high-pitched to be older than me and the speed of her walking didn't suggest otherwise.

I never thought I’d meet a girl my age there. I was sure I was the youngest in that damn place. At first, I assumed she was a relative visiting from the upper floors. But considering how they treat me… I doubt they’ve ever had children, at least I hope not, just for their sake.

My back shielding me from the source of the noise, I curled up even though the terror had begun to fade from my limbs and I had lowered my guard. The voice made me feel tender, it reminded me of my first day, when I believed that everything was just a bad dream and I would wake up soon, but the days passed and so did my hope.

One of the few still intact traits that scientists had failed to eliminate from my youth was curiosity; and when the voice reached up the proximity of my cell I couldn't help but leave my warm and safe position. I turned around clinging to the sheets and stealing a glance in the cold corridor outside said "room".

My eyesight had been adjusted to the darkness for a few hours, but as soon as my gaze, full of curiosity and confusion, was blinded by a sudden red light, the usual red light. The person was nowhere to be found, not even the faintest shadow, no sounds, just me, the red and the siren, all over again.

The following morning came like any other. She was gone and the red siren with her. And another day brings another morning check up, and so another test.

"Ma'am, what time is it?"

"It's time for you to wake up."

"Another math test?"

"No, today is Thursday."

I immediately understood the meaning behind those words. Since I started my stay here, I learned to hate Thursday with all my heart.

My face immediately lost its color, I could feel my blood freezing in my veins, my muscles tensed and the blood was struggling to be extracted. I tried to hold on to the hand that was analyzing me. With wide eyes I tried to find compassion in the mask that was placed before me, but I couldn't find anything else but my own reflection on the plastic covering her face.

Resignation settled over my face like dust.

This time, it was the room with the gravity machine.

Last time, I got away with a few scrapes and a torn nerve, nothing impressive. It wasn’t even my first broken bone.

The good side of a broken bone? A fracture meant a temporary stop. A couple of months, maybe. But even then, they never let you rest. There were always other tests. Slightly different, still painful.

My grip loosened up. I let myself sink into the bed, drowning in my despair, but she interrupted me. Her wrists clenched she seemed to struggle to speak, she opened her mouth once rearranging her words, and only then formulated a sentence with hesitation.

"Would you like to take a walk... instead of taking the test?"

It seemed that night had suddenly returned, its ghostly silence enveloping everything. Not even the continuous beeping of the machinery next to me reached my ears. My confusion was evident.

What did all this mean? Was it all just a joke, or another test? Were they trying to see how I would react? Were they giving me false hope, only to follow it with an exercise far worse than the previous ones? Was it all just going to be another torture?

But it was, indeed, a very bizarre question for an equally bizarre situation. Who wouldn’t want to skip those tests, after all?

Then the memory of the previous night struck me: the little girl. I didn’t know why, but I was sure it had something to do with her, I couldn't even imagine the reason, but no other differences came to mind compared to the previous days, at least from what I had the opportunity to witness myself, and that I was aware of.

I knew that was a question with only one answer, even if I refused the result would be positive regardless so I had no choice but to agree. A slight nod of the head, my throat suddenly became dry and from which it was difficult to come out words longer than a monosyllable.

I let out a sigh, waiting for my tests to be completed, but at the same time the fear of what was about to happen to me was piercing my mind like a nail driven into wood. Much faster than expected I found myself with my feet on the soft floor, my knees not allowing me to walk in a straight line because of my fear. I was barely holding on to the woman's white coat, hoping that if anything happened to me I could extract some compassion from her. When I was about to step out of the room, I was waiting for that damned thorny collar that strangely never reached my neck, at least not today. The day was getting more and more bizarre with every second. I looked around with my head, searching for the soldiers, but nothing from them either, they seemed to have vanished into thin air.

I noticed, strangely, that the number of scientists in the room had decreased drastically, there were only three of us left, and the third after the blood sampling, had left almost immediately, muttering something to themself. I searched for answers in the expression of the woman next to me, but all that came out was a sigh.

"Luckily for you, someone had made a mess in the laboratory and so we will have to postpone your exercise until next week, aren't you happy?"

I was astonished looking at the woman's blank expression, she simply stared straight ahead at the reflective wall. It wasn't long before the slow-paced old lady began to walk away, my grip loosening her fabric, I was almost left behind by her, as I was flooded by the confusion of the situation.

Everything happenned so quickly, my thoughts spun as everything started blurring around me. I was on the verge of collapsing to the ground. I didn't know how to feel, whether relieved or scared.

Was I no longer needed? Had I become useless? Had someone taken my place? It didn't matter if it meant giving up my old routine. I felt my eyes watering, I was on the verge of crying from happiness, after countless days where everything was getting worse finally there was some good news.

A thin cough woke me from my trance

"If you want you can always return back to your room."

Her gentle voice suddenly became dry of emotion, but this made me quickly walk towards her without saying a word while my sick hand reached for my eye and wiped a falling tear.

I approached the older figure, positioning myself next to her. I didn't know how to feel, but for once I felt good, even if temporarily. I hoped this moment of freedom would last forever.

"If you behave now, you may be able to play on the playground outside in the future."

Of what happened next there were only vague fragments, memories started and never concluded, only a walk through deserted corridors, the white light running through all the surfaces creating an optical effect that made it infinite, a walless labyrinth.

Not even a sigh from the other prisoners or from those who worked there. Only the walking of the woman next to me who preceded mine.

And so the days went by, the physical tests from almost twice a week now decreased to once a month. And consequently I was given more freedom, if I avoided rebelling they gave me more time to walk within those walls. I still had to take the tests but I felt more motivated to complete them. If the intent was to make me behave, well, they had succeeded.

Every week the woman gave me the freedom to stretch my legs a bit, even if her absent expression suggested to me that she wanted to find herself elsewhere, she never failed to remind me that she was doing me a favor, while I watched her in silence.

I also began to hear numerous, most likely unfounded, rumors about about recent events. Some claimed that one of the workers was killed during a training exercise involving one of the study subjects and then tried to escape. I didn't believe it nor I wanted to. To believe it would mean accepting that all the unfortunates could be potential murderers, and it wasn't the case, was it? They were the bad guys, weren't they?

The more time passed, the more my ideals changed, the more I grew and the more freedom I was granted, everything was perfect. At least I thought so? I wasn't sure anymore.

Another morning contrasted with night, a tube once again attached to my arm, blood being pumped along the clear plastic tube. Apparently the blood results had improved along with my mood, and the physical tests that had become once every two months had also yielded better results, I hadn't dislocated any bones, nor had any long-term damage, and I felt more alive than I have ever had. That Thursday morning the woman woke me up once again. By that time, not even the only scientist who took my blood was present, I was left alone with her. I started calling her grandma, but she looked at me askance, as if she wanted to tell me to stop, but didn't have the strength to do so. The memory of that little girl running outside my cell had faded with my problems.

"Grandma, can we go out into the playground today?"

Silence filled the room again as I stretched my arms while still sitting on the bed. On her mask the reflection of the sunlight that filtered into the room darkening her expression and everything it hid.

"Yes, why not? You behaved well."

Her voice neutral, faint, trying to hide from the ears of others and from herself, but loud enough for me to hear. For the first time her hand reached my head, caressing the few remaining hair that covered my skull. Her gloved hand was cold, a dry cold that penetrates my skin, that left me with chills down my spine, but even in the frost there was something pleasant, a friendly intention, or at least I thought.

Deep down, she felt pity for me too, at least I hope so.

And so it was, with my hand gripping her plastic fabric, I held it tightly, no longer having fear or dread in my head, but to seek affection in her almost always unchanging expression: pity and probably remorse.

I walked down the corridor, silence still reigning supreme, as I tried to remember when was my last time in a playground, and what I had played that day.

The answers were burning to come, and in truth they didn't come at all, I didn't remember... I didn't remember anything outside of that place. I didn't.. remember? For all I knew I could have been born in that place, and for all I cared, it had always been that way.

I no longer had any kind of nostalgia for a past that I struggled to grasp; and yet I kept searching for the solution to my question. I kept feeling like a deja vu... and yet it was the first time that... never mind. I'm just confusing myself.

In a second I heard a creak, a red handle above my head, within my reach. That door represented my freedom, a future outside of that place. Gloved hands pushed the door open. I immediately felt the cool air clouding my nostrils, the warm breeze and pollen brushing my face.

A light brighter than the red siren appeared before me, hiding behind the whiteness of the door. It screamed my name, it pulled me closer.

The aforementioned freedom was just a step away from me, yet my legs were paralyzed... I held the woman tighter. I still didn't know what I would find ahead.

"You can go out, just stay close to me and don't hide."

A hand on my shoulder and a push to continue my journey, I didn't know what to do, I couldn't believe her words, yet I wanted to trust everything this woman said. I looked up and stared at his sunlit mask, searching for her eyes, ending up again finding nothingness, only the reflection of what awaited me.

I simply nodded. I had no objections, but there was always something strange, I felt it. A sound was heard in the light, it penetrated my ears. Something that did not try to hide as I did, a sound that reminded me of being alive.

Something I known in the past and that I had almost forgotten: the laughter of a child.