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strangerstilinski · 10 months ago

Text

smoke me out

𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: you and eddie are friends — and really, what's a little shotgunning amongst friends? [ 7.4k ]

𝗰𝘄: friends to lovers, dubcon bc they're high, reader with a vagina & breasts, drug use (weed), smoking & shotgunning, pathetic attempts at dirty talk, unprotected sex, cream pie, and goofy eddie (always)

𝗮/𝗻: the stoner in me came out at the beginning, ngl. this is just a horny culmination of my need to shotgun with eddie and also to rub his sweaty body with my own. and yes, that one part is inspired by the gifs of the hoard scene featuring joe's tight little ass grinding away.

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+ 𝙚𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙚 𝙢𝙪𝙣𝙨𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

It's just you and Eddie today.

You're propped up against the headboard side by side, a nest of pillows providing you both with a cushion from the uncomfortable framework behind your bed. The muted sound of James Hetfield's voice floating through your stereo speakers over a heavy clash of drums and guitar has your head bobbing in time with the beat. Eddie has long-since gone from shredding on air guitar to intently staring at the way his own ringed fingers bend toward his palm every time the pitch shifts incrementally, mentally contemplating the chord changes by ear.

Despite the windows thrown open on either side of the room, your small apartment reeks of smoke and weed. The humid Indiana summer air filtering through the curtains is not nearly strong enough to properly air out the cramped space. It's one of those wonderfully warm days — peak summertime. Not overly hot, but enough to have your skin prickling with heat beneath a tank top and cotton shorts.

Eddie is still lounging in a threadbare pair of checkered pajama pants and a cutoff tee, the top half of his hair tied back in a haphazard bun to lessen the weight of the thick curls sticking to his neck.

Eddie is prone to complaining when it's hot. Or when it's cold. And also when it's rainy. Or windy.

Point is, you're not sure why he's yet to complain about the lack of air conditioning in your apartment, but Eddie seems content as ever. It could have something to do with the little glass pipe the two of you have been passing back and forth all afternoon. The bowl on the end had been packed tight, more than enough weed to have both of you thoroughly stoned, well before it's even finished.

The ceiling fan is stirring up the faintest breeze. You've burned yourself thrice on a rogue, billowing flame while trying to light up. The circulating air keeps pushing an errant dark curl down over Eddie's face every time he dips his head to take a hit.. You've combed it back for him four times, already—God forbid he set his hair on fire. Again. You're not sure he's even noticed the way your hand lingers on that smooth strip of skin behind his ear just a little longer each time.

But you can't help it, not with the way everything's gone a little foggy at the edges. Your eyes seem to process your surroundings in near slow-motion, all while the world shines with a barely-perceptible gleam. The last twenty minutes the two of you have spent smoking have done wonders to soften the world around you. Your head is full of air in that familiarly pleasant way that leaves you feeling a bit like you might float away at any second. Like a balloon in the sky. And with the added bonus of Eddie by your side, you're entirely relaxed. Contented.

Weak beneath the lazy weight of your high pressing in on you, you suddenly flop your weight down sideways across the bed, your head landing over Eddie's thighs. You blink slow up at him, hazy gaze focusing on the underside of Eddie's face while he brings his bony knees up from the mattress to cage you a little closer to his chest. The angle would be outrageous were you looking up at anyone else, you're sure, but Eddie..

He's so pretty.

All rogue-ish boy. Unkempt and wild, but still entirely beautiful.

You can't help the way your hand finds its way up, up, up. Your fingertips dancing across the barely-there five o'clock shadow on the edge of his jaw. You trace the hard line all the way from his chin to his ear, his stubble scratchy and wholly soothing when you lightly scrape your nails against the grain of it.

Eddie, on the other hand, has found himself entirely focused on the way gravity has moved your breasts in your new position below him. The awkward angle has carried them up and out, bra-less and soft and hypnotizing. They shift just a little every time your hand moves across his face. The tank top you've chosen to wear today is thin, indecently so, in his opinion. His brown eyes have been glued to the obvious outline of your nipples beneath the fabric since the moment you'd greeted him at the door, and his ogling has only gotten less subtle as his high settled in. He risks another longing glance down past your collar bones, reddened eyes dragging over the shape of your puffy nipples hidden underneath.

You're thumbing softly at the coarse hairs just under his chin when Eddie gives in to impulse and purses his lips to blow a cool breath of air over your neck and chest. You can't help but giggle as your skin reacts, goosebumps spreading down your arms, and unbeknownst to you, your nipples tightening into semi-hard peaks beneath your top.

They're not the only things that are suddenly semi-hard.

Eddie smacks his lips and swallows the drool that he's embarrassed to admit has pooled beneath his tongue. His ring-clad knuckles brush the side of your breast as he reaches to take the forgotten bowl from the blankets.

He attempts to gather himself as he takes another hit. He holds it for a count of five and then exhales a cloud of smoke whilst urging himself to imagine something utterly repulsive.. His uncle in the shower, roadkill, the way his balls itch uncomfortably after he plays a gig at The Hideout in too-tight jeans — anything that might keep him from popping an unwanted boner while you've got your pretty, unassuming head resting in his lap.

Your fingers are now trailing lightly over the light freckles dotting the bridge of Eddie's nose. His skin is a little pink from yesterday's sun, despite the number of times you'd physically dragged him from Steve's pool to apply sunscreen to his steadily-reddening cheeks. The previous day outside has Eddie's barely-there freckles appearing far more visible than usual, speckled along the round tip of his nose, his cheeks, even the crinkles around his eyes. You think they make him look even more handsome, boyish perhaps, but handsome all the same.

Through the warm fog in your brain, you find yourself smiling up at him. A dopey grin on your face as you poke at the soft apples of his cheeks — Like he's your own personal plaything. Your heart ticks excitedly when the corner of Eddie's lips quirk up at you in response, his pupils blown wide, surrounded by a thin ring of molten chocolate. His teeth flash with his sweet little chuckle of amusement, cheeks dimpling beneath the sparsest area of his stubble.

“You've got freckles,” You comment quietly. “They're cute.” You smack your lips once, mouth dry with dehydration, “I like 'em.. 'nd your stubble, too. Feels nice.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Eddie chuckles, stoned and more than a bit flattered under the weight of your attention. His chest puffs up a little proudly, his words flowing without any real thought behind them, “Made it all myself.. 'S hard work.. But, uh, y'know. Someone's gotta do it.”

He slips his lighter between two of his fingers and holds the bowl off to the side so that he can drag the fingers of his free hand softly, delicately, over your hair where it's fanned out over his lap. He doesn't want to mess it up, especially doesn't want one of his rings to get caught and pull. But it looks so soft, and through the haze, he can't fight the impulse to simply.. touch. So gently.

His attention seems intently focused on the careful motions of his fingers along your hair, and you take advantage of his distraction by finally allowing your gaze to drop to his mouth. Eddie keeps slowly rolling and biting his lips between his teeth. Canines dig into the flesh before he's scrunching his nose and pursing his lips, only to scrape his teeth over them again in a never-ending loop. You doubt he's even aware he's doing it but it's beginning to make his lips swell, the skin darkening to a brighter shade of pink from the abuse.

All at once, your trance is broken when his tongue pokes out to wet his smoke-dry lips. Your mind flashes suddenly with an idea.

The absence of both the Hellfire crew and your other friends was truly a rarity. You hardly ever got to be alone with Eddie like this. You'd tried to ask him out once upon a time- No, not just once. Twice. Twice you'd asked him on a date — both of which had somehow ended in group excursions rather than romantic one-on-one time, how it had happened two separate times, you still weren't sure — and at this point you'd given up entirely. Because maybe it just wasn't meant to be. It was okay, really, you'd almost grown content in your longing.

But, the way Eddie's lips shone lightly after his tongue stroked over them.. It had your brain reeling with possibility. If you were ever going to get his mouth on yours in private, even just for a fleeting moment, it didn't seem possible that an opportunity so seamless would ever present itself again.

It was worth a shot.

“I want another hit.” You tell him, licking at your own lips as brown eyes refocus on your face.

“M'kay, well, you're prob'ly gonna need to sit up for that, sweets,” Eddie points out, entirely unaware of the way your tummy always swoops when the thoughtless pet name falls from his lips. “Unless you were really lookin' t'get a face full'a ash.. In which case, you can definitely keep layin-” A burst of air leaves his nose with a laugh of surprise, repeating his own words to himself with a sweetly boyish giggle, “Sounds like ass. Face full'a ass. Now, that I'd like-”

Normally you'd join in on the joke. Poke a little fun at him for saying such a thing. Freak. You'd say it fondly, with an eye roll to go with it, maybe you'd throw in a half-serious offer involving his face and your backside- But you don't say any of those things. You can't. You're in the middle making the not-so-carefully crafted scene in your head a reality — And, can't he see that? Why is he trying to distract you?

“Ash. Riiight, uh huh. Well,” You pause, feign innocence before your next words. “Maybe.. Maybe you could shotgun it to me n' that way I can stay right here?” You suggest cautiously, before adding as an afterthought, “If you want, I mean.”

Any amusement is immediately stripped from Eddie's expression. He spends a few achingly long seconds blinking down at you with heavy eyelids, gaze hooded and distant. His weed-hazy brain takes a moment to actually process your words, but then, just as suddenly as he'd zoned out, he's nodding and bringing the glass pipe back up to his lips, one hand cupped around the end to shield the flame from the path of the ceiling fan.

The lighter clicks and swishes quietly as he lights up. He lowers the bowl after a long second, ringed hand dipping beneath your head and guiding you oh-so gently to arch your neck upward, until he can lean down and press his mouth down softly against yours.

That first soft brush of his lips has your whole body thrumming. Butterflies begin a rampage in your stomach, so much so that you have to actively remind yourself to part your lips beneath his.

He presses down just a bit more, lips squishing solidly to your own parted ones and sending your heart racing dangerously, but then he's exhaling the smoke into your waiting mouth. You breathe it in as it comes, letting the warmth of it flow from his body and into your own.

He watches you intently as he moves to pull back and sit upright again. Watches the way you seal your mouth shut, lips rolling between your teeth while your lashes flutter against the apples of your cheeks. You allow the smoke to simply sit in your lungs for a long moment before relaxing your chest and exhaling through your nose, releasing the diluted cloud up into the air between you.

Eddie blinks down at you with heavy lids. There's a long moment of silence between you. It's a palpable thing — not quite awkward or tense, but brimming with an unexpected energy that neither one of you can quite decipher. It's charged. Something like static electricity, or the tether between two magnets of an opposite charge. It nearly tingles in the breadth of space between you.

Eddie feels it. He wonders if you feel it too.

“D'you want another hit?” He asks after a minute, his voice scratchy.

You merely nod your head, not trusting your own voice, and the movement has you refocusing suddenly on the soft press of his calloused fingers where they linger against the nape of your neck. You watch with bated breath as Eddie brings the glass pipe in his hand back to his lips again, letting his gentle grip fall from the top of your spine for just a moment so that he can flick the flame of the lighter over the tiny pocket at the end of the pipe once again.

Eddie drops the items in his hands to your bedside table carelessly once he's gotten a good lungful of smoke. He leans down in a faster movement this time than he had done before, his hand dipping back beneath your head in a flash to bring your mouths together again.

His lips are dry against your own, but so soft. You're not sure if it's the high or simply Eddie, but the barely-there scratch of stubble over his upper lip is delicious. It feels so good it makes you a little lightheaded.

Your mouth slips open, inhaling as he exhales. You feel the warmth of the smoke entering your mouth, taste the bitterness of it on your tongue as the two of you fit together like puzzle pieces.

You're preparing to let your craned neck fall back to his lap, to close your lips in an effort to keep the smoke inside of your lungs — but then Eddie is tightening his grip on the back of your head incrementally, and instead of pulling back, he slots your lips together more firmly. Your heart skips in surprise and you can practically hear the blood pumping in your ears. Your brain seems to white out for a moment, unable to focus on anything that isn't Eddie's soft lips moving tentatively against your own.

A thin cloud of smoke escapes into the air around you as your mouths begin to move together in synchrony. You can't hold back a soft gasp of surprise when Eddie's tongue swipes warmly across the seam of your lips. Your heart pounds, your mouth opening beneath his again without hesitation.

The kiss that follows is a frenzied rush of lips and teeth and tongue. Hunger blossoms in the pit of your stomach. But it somehow manages to feel so languid, so sensual beneath the relaxed fogginess of your high.

Your back arches, shoulders lifting from Eddie's thigh to meet him more than halfway. The movement prompts his hands to find your hips and Eddie is tugging you upright in a flash. Suddenly you're wedged between his legs, practically in his lap. Your knees curling around his waist as he leans farther into your space, chasing your warmth until barely any space exists between you.

Your hands slide idly along his body in a slow trail. Each scrape against your palms feels divine. Every inch of him feels like silk under your fingers. The smooth, worn cotton of his tshirt. The tight ringlets of curls at the nape of his neck, a little damp with sweat. The soft give of warm muscle beneath your eager hands on his chest, his arms, his hips. You attempt to memorize every inch of him, your limbs seemingly moving of their own accord, touch-hungry and weightless all at once.

He's so warm and- God, you want to be inside of him. You think you might want to bury yourself beneath his skin and make a home there. He smells like heaven, like sweat and weed and masculine body wash. Your fingertips drag leisurely along the length of his inked arms, inching slow back toward his neck like you have all the time in the world to explore every inch of his body.

Your touch is scorching across his skin, overwhelming and seemingly everywhere at once but simultaneously not enough. It's like all of his wildest dreams have come to life, and Eddie can't fucking believe that this is happening. That you're practically in his lap, your tongue in his mouth, legs draped around his waist, hands tucked beneath the gaping sleeves of his muscle tee to roam freely and grope at the exposed skin of his hips.

Eddie's head cranes just a bit to the side in an attempt to deepen the kiss, licking his way deeper. His own arms curl around your waist, tightening at the curve of your spine to tug your body flush against his. The action has a needy noise pushing its way into his mouth as your tongues explore one another with warm, wet licks. He groans at a particularly slow curl of your tongue, he swears he feels it in his fucking balls.

He's so turned on he thinks his dick might explode. Eddie changes your position in another quick movement, holding you flush to his chest before he's directing you to lie back against the mattress and slotting himself right there between your thighs.

Despite the way your head has gone a little fuzzy from lack of oxygen, you can't find it in yourself to pull away from him. All you can do is slide your hands from Eddie's shoulders and up into his hair. Tingles shoot from your fingertips as they slide into his frizzy curls, yanking some of them free from his bun just to feel the way they tangle around your fingers. A hot flush of arousal pulses in your cunt at the satisfied noise that Eddie lets out when you tug lightly, and that noise alone has you suddenly frantic.

You can't get enough of him; his sounds, his taste, the press of his warm body between your thighs.

The hand he isn't using to support himself against the mattress rubs along your waist of its own accord, his fingertips slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to brush featherlight over your skin. You swear sparks erupt in his wake.

You pull back just enough to murmur his name desperately against his lips, but the syllables are barely out before you're licking into his mouth again with unbridled hunger. Eddie's groan meets your ears in response to your weak plea — what you're begging for, you're not quite sure, but then his hips drop against yours with a slow roll and that-

Oh, that is exactly what you needed.

You can't help the soft whimper that falls into his mouth. The warm line of his half-hard cock pressing against your cunt through the thin barrier of your pajama bottoms has you dizzy. Eddie grinds hips against yours in another slow roll, clothed erection pressing soft into your cunt and prompting the seam on your shorts to nudge at your clit. You both groan in sync, parted lips barely brushing through the breathless sounds.

You also can't help the way you lift your hips in time with each grind of his length against you. The warm weight of his balls squishes against the fabric of your shorts every time his pelvis drags over your own. The thin cotton feels far too thick of a barrier currently between you and his cock.

Ringed fingers sneak up a little farther beneath your shirt, his hand tightening over your naked breast, and you keen at the feeling. He alternates between brushing the calloused pad of his thumb over your nipple and covering the area with his palm to give it a soft squeeze. His lips fall slack against your own, too busy focussing on the way his fingers release and then grope again and again, the kind of distracted intrigue that could only be a result of his high.

A soft whine falls from your lips after a minute of putting up with his lazy fondling. You tug at the hair between your fingers again and nip encouragingly at his lips in a silent plea for a kiss. His mouth finally resumes moving against your own, and you gratefully allow him to direct the kiss. You give him full control of the pace, which turns out to be a give and take of desperate licks into your mouth followed by gentle caresses of his spit-slick lips against your own. Lips smack each time you part, tongues sliding together wetly, heaving breaths rush in and out of your noses as you both attempt to pull as much oxygen in as humanly possible in an effort to not break apart.

Your fingers find the knob of his spine, and you tug on the collar at the back of his shirt in silent question. Eddie answers by pushing back up on his knees to yank the fabric over his head in a quick movement. His tattooed chest heaves with slightly labored breaths and you watch him with rapt attention, your eyes drawn to the tiny patch of hair nestled between his pecs and lightly dusted around his nipples. Then your focus drops to the thicker trail that leads down into the waistband of his pants. The pale skin beneath the hair glistens with sweat, and good God you want to taste it-

But you're only granted a few seconds to ogle his torso before Eddie is dipping back down to catch your lips with his, your mouths immediately separating just enough that he can strip you of your own top.

As soon as your naked chest is exposed to him, Eddie is dragging his lips down your body in a slow trail. He pauses for a moment to kiss a spot just below your ear, his voice raspy when he speaks, “You good? This alright?” He checks quietly.

You reach up to tangle a hand in his hair again, a breathless sigh leaving your lips as you feel the warmth of his mouth pressing against your neck, “Good, yeah. Very, very alright.”

Eddie wastes no time, his lips trailing lower. He leaves a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses to your exposed breasts, relishing in the way you react to his mouth, the way your spine arches up from the mattress at the attention.

“Jesus H. Christ. 's incredible,” Eddie mumbles, his words slurred against your chest as he bites and sucks at the skin on the side of your breast. His head has gone hazy with lust, his fingers slipping beneath your body to grab a desperate fistful of your ass, “Hand to God. I swear, I've never fuckin' seen more perfect-”

You interrupt the filth spewing from his mouth with an entirely unintentional moan, slightly overwhelmed by the influx of sensations. His praise in your ears. The feeling of his fingertips sinking into the plush of your ass. The prominent bulge in his bottoms dragging against you.

Eddie curses under his breath, taking your nipple into his mouth and biting down softly before immediately soothing his tongue over it in apology.

Your brain is a little fuzzy. Sweetly faded and hazy at the edges, but somehow, each touch and sound between the two of you feels heightened — Magnified and all that more intense. As if your high has somehow managed to mute everything on earth except for Eddie.

You release his hair in favor of sliding your hands down his back to grope the globes of his ass over his pajama bottoms while his hips continue to rock forward in a dizzying rhythm. A knead to the flesh there has Eddie whining sinfully against your tongue and your pussy fucking throbs in response.

"Baby," Eddie pants into your mouth, his voice nearly cracking with need, "Take 'em off, please- Baby? c'n we-?"

He doesn't finish the question but you nod, nose brushing against his as your hands slip underneath the waistband of his pants. Your fingers are very nearly trembling while you shove the fabric down below the curve of his ass.

You feel the moment that his cock springs free and you immediately have to crane your neck down to take a peek — The urge to see him is too strong. And God is it a glorious sight.

Flushed red at the tip and achingly hard— Jesus it's thick, gloriously thick. His pubes are dark and untamed around the base, hiding just how big he truly is. It's the most gorgeous cock you've ever fucking seen and it's bumping softly against the crotch of your shorts, wetting the fabric with smeared pre-cum that Eddie's fucking leaked over the head. He's wet with need, same as you, and the thought makes you feel fucking insane.

Which means you ogle perhaps longer than you should.

A needy grumble rises in Eddie's throat that has you snapping out of it suddenly and bringing a hand up into the narrow space between your faces. It takes a moment with the dryness of smoke lingering on your tongue, but you manage to gather enough spit to lick a wet stripe up your palm and fingers, and then you're reaching down to curl your fingers around him.

Half-naked is practically Eddie's default state when he's stoned or drunk, you've drooled over just the outline of him in his underwear more times than you can count, but you're still somehow surprised by the sheer size of him in your hand. The weight of him. Long and curved just a little to the right — so silky and so soft under the slippery glide of your fist. You work your hand slow over him, rewarded with a beautiful little groan of thanks from the man above you, the sound of it guttural as you begin to jerk him with slick strokes.

“Ohhh my god, that- that's, j-jesus-” His voice fucking cracks.

Eddie's hips jump as he fucks into your fist. His eyes roll back, a little delirious just from the sight of your smaller hand wrapped around him. You switch from long strokes in favor of shorter ones where you can focus your attention on his tip, your thumb swiping back and forth over the head of his cock with each flick of your wrist. Eddie doesn't even recognize the sounds leaving his mouth. The combination of his high and the wet glide of your hand is too maddening to care.

You make your own small noise of amazement that has Eddie coming back to himself suddenly. He yanks your shorts down your thighs with an impatient huff, pulling away from you just long enough to discard the last of both of your clothing before he's caging you back against the mattress once again. And then his lips are making their way to your neck, kissing and sucking lightly between these oh-so pretty little groans against your throat, his hips bucking restlessly into your own all the while.

You give an eager cant of your hips, feet pressing into the mattress until the tip of Eddie's cock brushes the seam of your cunt. Eddie makes another sweet little noise of surprise that has you draping an arm around his neck, your face pressing into his shoulder as you repeat the movement with intention.

You want him so bad your pussy fucking aches.

“Ed, can we, please?” You whisper desperately into his skin.

The question is barely out before he's nodding against your throat, bracing his knees and lining himself up with your hole. His hips push forward until just the tip of his cock presses into the wet heat of your cunt, but good lord-

He's so big. It feels a bit like he's splitting you right down the middle, but it's so good. He rocks his hips forward slowly, each little push stretching you wider than you thought possible. Every time you think he can't possibly have more to give you, he slips in a little deeper. He reaches so far inside of you that your eyes roll back, a long, drawn-out moan tearing past your lips at the slow stretch, the dull fullness behind your navel that you can nearly feel in your throat.

“Oh, fuck.” You whine breathlessly, hands scrambling for purchase along his skin. Your nails bite into the sweat-slick muscles of his back before slipping lower still. You find the dimples at the base of his spine, nails raking over the pale white skin of his hips and ass. Your whole body goes lax underneath him as the wiry bush of his pubes finally meets your own.

The noise Eddie releases into the curve of your shoulder borders on a whimper, his breath hot against your skin as he rocks his hips forward again and again. His weight pushes you deeper into the mattress, his cock grinding desperately against the absolute deepest parts of you. He gasps with each nudge of your cervix against the head of his cock, practically humping you through the haze of his high as he tries to give you time to adjust to his size.

“Y'good?” Eddie pants into your neck, words slurred together with need. He feels half a second from fucking begging when your legs spread further, your thighs falling back toward the mattress and allowing him even deeper and holy fucking shit. “Ohh, c'n I move?” He’s all but whining now, “Please. God, please can I-”

“Uh huh, 'm good, 'm good, I-” Your assurances cut off with a wail when he begins to pull back and drive in again with a sharp snap of his hips. Your fingers tighten where his hairy thighs meet his ass, nails biting into taut muscle in an attempt to ground yourself. “Ohmygod.” You whine, eyes glazing over with the heat that pools behind your navel with each thrust.

“Y'feel so good.” Eddie mumbles, slack mouth pressed to the sensitive spot below your ear.

He pushes up on his elbows, but only enough that you can gape up at him with hooded eyes, brows furrowed with just how fucking good he feels.

“Fuucck, y're pretty,” Eddie groans between deep thrusts, his words drawing a moan from your lips. He brings one hand to your cheek, thumb pushing into the plush cushion of your swollen lips before he's covering them with his own in a messy kiss, “Y're so hot. So. fucking. perfect.”

His words are spoken quietly against your lips between thrusts, his nose squishing your own in close proximity, and you draw him back down to your mouth in a hungry kiss, teeth clashing.

The pace Eddie has set is intoxicating, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming his hips forward to fill you up again with deep thrusts. Your moans are loud, wanton and uncontrollable under the haze of your high, only somewhat muffled by Eddie's mouth covering yours.

In a frenzy, you find yourself kissing away the sweat beading on his upper lip. You lave your tongue softly over the light prickle of stubble at his cupid’s bow, but you're only granted a moment to relish in the scratch of it before Eddie is nosing at your cheek and urging you back into a scorching, albeit distracted, kiss. His fingers wrap around your upper thigh to hitch your leg a little higher on his hip, rocking his hips forward again and managing to hit impossibly deeper inside of you. He drives into that spongey spot behind your navel and you writhe-

“Oh-” You gasp into his mouth in surprise, head gone fuzzy as he continues fucking your at the new angle, “Eddie! I, fuck-”

He responds with a groan. His lips leave yours to forge a trail of biting kisses over your skin. He wants to kiss you everywhere. He wishes he could kiss every inch of your skin and still keep fucking you. You're weak to do anything but lie there and take it and it makes Eddie feel dizzy with power. Your arms curl around his shoulders again, head thrown back against the bed in ecstasy.

Eddie's mouth is seemingly everywhere, lips sucking at the underside of your jaw, tongue leaving a wet trail over your collarbones and throat, teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder. Each new sensation sends another spark of arousal down your spine, sends your brain farther into the clouds.

It’s almost too much. It has you tightening your thighs around his hips and rolling sideways over the bed to switch positions, his cock slipping free as you find yourself straddling his waist with only a slight wobble from the momentum. Eddie makes a quiet noise of surprise and petulance, but it melts into a grateful, high-keening moan when you sink back down onto him. Your hips press flush to his as you set a new, slower rhythm of your own making.

“Oh, Jesus,” Eddie whines in amazement, hands tracing over the curve of your waist and breasts as you rock back and forth onto him, “Shit. You look so good like this.” His praise comes out through heaving breaths.

You rest one hand supportively over the sparse hair at the center of his chest, the fingers of your other hand trailing up the skin of his arm until you can tangle your hands together against the mattress. You grind your hips down harder, deeper, and Eddie groans, his hips bucking up unconsciously to meet you halfway.

Your forearms fall on either side of his head. Your weight pressing down against his chest has Eddie immediately fisting your ass and thighs in a bruising grip to help guide your movements. You lean down to bury your face in his neck as you slide back and forth along his length in a slow rhythm, your legs already aching with exertion even with the help of his strong arms.

The loud slapping of skin meeting skin every time the backs of your thighs meet his own rings loudly in your ears. Your staggered breathing falls against his lightly stubbled jaw, lips leaving distracted kisses in apology for the way your hot breath fans out against his already sweaty neck.

“God, Eds,” You moan into his skin, sucking a mark against his throat while he uses his tight grip on your hips to fuck you down onto himself, “You feel. So f-fucking good-”

You let out a yelp as Eddie twists your bodies again with a grunt, and suddenly his body above yours once more, his hand on your shoulder as he sinks back inside of you.

“Need it faster. Harder.” He pants, “That okay?”

You nod, head rubbing against the mattress, “Yes. Please, yeah-”

Eddie trails his fingers down the back of your thigh and guides you to wrap your legs around his waist, and then he’s fucking into you in quick, punishing thrusts. Your moans only increase in volume at the change of pace, your whole body seemingly flushed with heat. Your hands scrape desperately over Eddie's back as he pounds into you, nails cutting into pale skin.

“Shit,” Eddie groans, his forehead dropping down against yours in an unexpectedly tender movement, though it does little to take away from the sound of your bedframe creaking, the wet squelch every time he drives back into you. “God, 're you close?” He asks desperately.

“Uh-huh.” You confirm immediately, brain hazy and muscles tensing with each hard thrust that brings you closer and closer to your peak.

Eddie's nose rubs soft along your cheekbone as he nods, joining your mouths in a kiss that's more breath and tongue than anything else. You struggle to focus on moving your mouth against his as your orgasm begins to creep into the corners of your vision. Eddie's weight drops down onto one elbow to allow him the stability to reach in between you. His hand settles over your pelvis, his fingers swiping messy over your clit as his quick thrusts grow shakier.

“C'mon, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs against your lips, “C'mon, I really-” He's cut off by the groan that rumbles up his throat when you pulse around him, the sound entirely animalistic. “Goddd. N-need you t' fuckin' cum, baby, please.”

His voice has gone husky with arousal and exertion, the sound has your eyes rolling back. It only takes a handful more thrusts like that, with the help of his fingertips tracing light circles over your clit. Your whole body tenses as your orgasm crashes over you, legs clamping around his hips. You whine brokenly in his mouth, a sharp gasp immediately following as you scrape your fingers down his shoulders, your whole body shaking as you come undone around him.

The increased tightness of your muscles spurs on Eddie’s own orgasm within a few thrusts, and then he's following you over the edge. He buries his face in the curve of your neck as he cums with a whine, hips stuttering twice before burying deep. His weight crushes you to the mattress, your back arching at the warmth of his release filling you. Your eyes water with the strength of your orgasm, Eddie's hips unconsciously grinding into your own as he rides out his own, whimpering into your ear with the aftershocks.

You both remain unmoving for a long minute, sweaty chests heaving as you struggle to catch your breath and come back to yourself. You card gently through Eddie's sweaty hair, his curls having long since broken free from the hair tie that had once held them back from his face. You fingers trail thoughtlessly through the damp tresses while Eddie's hot breath fans out over your neck. His dick twitches inside you when your fingertips scrape softly against his scalp and you struggle to bite back a quiet laugh of amusement. Your muscles tense even with the smothered laugh, and Eddie groans as your cunt pulses around him.

He huffs when he catches the look on your face, entirely dramatic as he begins to roll away, but he only maintains that feigned annoyance for about half a second before he's cackling madly and dragging you into his chest. He nips sharply at your shoulder as he tugs you into his sweaty chest and buries his face in your hair, fingers beginning to trace soft shapes over the skin of your hip.

“You feelin' okay?” He murmurs after a moment.

“Yeah,” You confirm with a sigh, already relaxing into his touch. Your brain is pleasantly dulled from the combination of the lingering high and your orgasm. “Yeah, 'm great.”

“Oh, same, yeah. Super great. I just, uh-” Eddie pauses and you find yourself focussing on the gentle caress of his fingers along your skin, “I wanted to check, y'know.. Make sure you weren't havin' any.. I dunno, just, regrets-”

You're readjusting in a flash so that you can look at him directly, your head settling onto his bicep as your eyes flick between his, “I don't. Regret it, I mean.”

It feels much too serious of a conversation to be having considering how deliriously high you currently feel, the previous strenuous activity did little to clear your head, but you mean it with every fiber of your being. You've been hung up on Eddie for what feels like forever now, the thought of him outright regretting the events of the last hour- It has you feeling sick, stomach sinking and twisting and souring all at once.

Eddie's throat bobs as he swallows, “Just, I mean.. Y're real stoned and- Shit. I, fuck. I probably shouldn't've-”

“Eddie,” You cut him off, feeling desperate with the need to reassure him, “You smoked just as much as I did—probably more. I-I wanted this. I wanted it, like, really bad. Unless..” Your heart drops, “Do.. Do you regret-?”

“No!” Eddie disagrees immediately, and vehemently — With urgency to correct you. “No. No, sweetheart, I do not regret it. Could never regret you. I mean, that was- Shit, I've been wanting to do that since-”

Your hand finds the warmth of his chest, fingers scraping at the small tattoo there, “You have?”

Eddie nods his head against the blankets, sweaty curls sticking up every which way around his head like a messy halo, “Yeah.”

“Does that mean.. I mean, would you maybe wanna do it again sometime? But, like, when we're not high as all hell?”

Eddie's dimpled grin has an embarrassingly wild burst of butterflies erupting inside of you, “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

You lay like that for a while, pressed together despite the heat. His fingers wander over your palms, tracing the lines there while you watch the way his rings shift. Your naked bodies separated only by a thin layer of sweat. The ceiling fan pushing light waves of blessedly cool air over your skin.

After a few minutes Eddie suddenly tears himself out of your grip, and he does it so abruptly that your brain is hardly able to comprehend the loss of him. He lets out a quiet yelp of distress and nearly collapses face-first into the blankets in a mad scramble toward your legs. He manhandles you until you're sprawled on your back, pushing your thighs apart before flopping entirely ungracefully onto his belly in the narrow space he's made between them.

As you push up onto your elbows to peer down at him, Eddie is simply stroking his fingers soft up and down the length of your cum-soaked folds. His eyes are alight with wonder while he watches his own spend begin to leak out. One of his thumbs catches it as it falls, and he pulls his hand back for just a moment to get a better look at the pearlescent mixture of your combined cum.

“What're you doing?” You giggle after a long moment of simply watching him.

Eddie's head snaps up with such surprise it looks as if he might've forgotten you were even there, if such a thing were possible.

“Just, uh.. Admiring my handiwork.” He grins like he's all-too pleased with himself, dimples poking into his cheeks.

“It's our handiwork, actually,” You correct playfully, “Half of that's mine, and- No, wait. Actually, 's all mine now.” You tell him triumphantly.

His eyes narrow in confusion and you redirect your gaze pointedly. His attention follows your own, eyes flicking briefly toward his own hand, where the cum has begun to drip slow down his thumb toward the meat of his palm.

“What, this?” He questions in amusement.

“Yes that.” You tell him with a frown, “'s mine.” You have to bite back an honest-to-god cackle at the entirely contrived look of betrayal on his face. “Put it back.” You challenge.

Eddie's eyes roll in irritation as he repeats your words mockingly, his voice thrown high in an exceptionally poor imitation of your own, but he does dutifully drop his hand down between your thighs again to attempt to push the cum back inside you.

He looks pleased as punch once he's done. He looks at your cunt with a dopey grin on his face, cheeks still pink with exertion and hair wild.

“Don't miss me too much, pretty. A'right? I'll be seein' you again real soon.” Eddie murmurs softly, eyes never once leaving your cunt. He punctates his words by pressing a gentle kiss to your mound, just a hair's breadth from your clit.

And then that dumb, dazed smile takes over his face again.

You squint down at him, “Was.. Were you talking to me or my-”

“Was talkin' to this pretty pussy.” Eddie says matter of factly, stroking his hand over the coarse hairs between your thighs in the way one might pet an animal.

“Okay.” You manage, laughter preventing you from saying anything else.

Eddie tugs a large chunk of loose curls across his face and lays his cheek to your upper thigh. He stays like that for a moment, hidden behind the curtain of his hair, big brown eyes blown about as wide as he can manage through his high.

“..Do you still wanna fuck me?”

He pouts. It's ridiculous. It's adorable.

You can't pretend to mull it over for more than a few seconds, your cheeks ache with the need to smile. He makes you so happy you feel borderline deranged.

Your lips quirk up even as you sigh dramatically, “Regrettably? Yes.”

He fucking cheers.

He drums his hands enthusiastically against your thighs and yells so loud in victory that all you can do is laugh and cover your ears until he's finished.

You don't regret it, not a goddamn bit.

Made it this far? Please reblog to show your support! It only takes a moment, and reblogs are so important when it comes to helping share an author's hard work!

#eddie munson x reader smut #eddie munson x fem!reader smut #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fic #stranger things fic #stranger things smut #*

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literaryvein-reblogs · 7 months ago

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some words for worldbuilding (pt. 1)

Air

billow, breath, bubble, draft, effervescence, fumes, puff, vapor

Arena

aquarium, bazaar, coliseum, field, hall, mecca, stage

Building

abbey, architecture, armory, asylum, bakery, bar, booth, cathedral, club, construction, court, department store, dock, edifice, emergency room, factory, food court, fort/fortress, framework, garrison, greasy spoon, hacienda, hangout, headquarters, hotel, inn, institute/institution, jetty, laboratory, mansion, mental hospital, monastery, mosque, museum, nursing home, office, pavilion, penitentiary, plant, prison, rampart, repository, ruins, sanctuary, shrine, skyscraper, stockade, storeroom, structure, temple, theater/theatre, treasury, warehouse, wharf

City

capital, metropolis, town, village

Furniture

altar, banister, bench, booth, bunk, cabinet, chair, couch, crib, davenport, dresser, furnishings, futon, jetty, lectern, partition, perch, platform, pulpit, rail/railing, screen, secretary, stand, wardrobe

Geographic division

area, county, desert, dynasty, kingdom, outskirts, quarter, sector, suburb, territory, tract, zone

Habitat

abode, ecosystem, environmentalist, habitat/habitation, harbor, home, land, nest, paradise, premises, refuge, settlement, tent

Habitat, human: accommodations, apartment, barracks, cabin, castle, condominium, convent, domesticity, dungeon, element, encampment, estate, grange, hacienda, home, house, housing, hut, jail, lodging, madhouse, monastery, neighborhood, old country, palace, prison, reservation, resort, sanctuary, shanty, suite, vacancy, villa

Habitat, rural: barn, burrow, conservatory, desert, farm, forest, grange, jungle, sanctuary, wilderness/wilds, wood/woods

Land

abyss, avalanche, bank, bay, bed, bluff, campus, cape, cavern, cliff, compost, cove, crevice/crevasse, dirt, downgrade, dune, elevation, estuary, expanse, field, fossil, garden, glacier, gorge, green, ground, gulf, harbor, hillock, inlet, knoll, landscape, lawn, lot, marshy, menagerie, mine, moat, mound, mountainous, nature, outlook, park, patio, pit, plateau, plaza, porch, prairie, projection, property, quagmire, ravine, ridge, savanna, shelf, soil, stack, table, trench, tundra, valley, well, wood/woods, yard

Nation

country, home, land, nationality, soil, state

Personal item

adornment, amulet, beads, best-seller, briefcase, cache, cargo, charm, contraceptive, disguise, effects, equipment, favorite, gem, glasses, handbag, jewelry, knickknack, luggage, marionette, memorabilia, necklace, novelty, object d’art, odds-on-favorite, paraphernalia, pledge, possession, pride, puppet, purse, resources, ring, souvenir, stuff, supplies, sustenance, thing/things, trappings, trifle, valuable

Planet

cosmos, Earth, galaxy, moon, planet, sphere, world

Region

capital, commonwealth, quarter, region, settlement, suburb

Room

alcove, attic, bath, bedroom, boutique, cellar, den, enclosure, foyer, gin mill, hall, lavatory, loft, outhouse, parlor, restaurant, saloon, shop, stage, store, tenement, theater/theatre, vestibule

Shape

angular, beaten, billowy, checkered, concave, conical/conic, crescent, curly, deformed, elliptical, flat, gnarled, kinky, misshapen, obtuse, round, shapeless, spiral, straight

Vehicle

camper, conveyance, motorcade, transport

Vehicle, air: aircraft, armada, blimp, dirigible, helicopter, shuttle, UFO

Vehicle, land: ambulance, bicycle, car, cherry-picker, dolly, excavator, model, traffic, truck

Vehicle, water: armada, boat, craft, fleet, sailboat, yacht

Water

abyss, aqueduct, basin, beach, blackball, brook, cape, channel, condensation, creek, deep, estuary, fountain, gulf, heading, inlet, lake, oasis, pond, promontory, reservoir, sea, spray, strait, tide, wash, wave, whirlpool

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary

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luvbug724 · 5 months ago

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here’s the thing about thea calling it jeans “old tricks.” we’re given more than ample clues to fill in the blanks. jean refused to let anyone else in the nest know he was raped. he and kevin painstakingly covered up after riko because they were too proud to let anyone in on the abuse they faced. thea has no reason to suspect assault— ive said it before, but there’s no crime unless jean speaks up.

i see the claim that jeremy knew it was statutory rape so thea should have, but jeremy is in california, from california, born & raised. the age of consent is 18, as opposed to 16 in west virginia. jeremy is operating under a different legal framework. but look at the scene as a whole: it’s not important that jeremy believes it was statutory rape, because that accusation leads to jeans revelation that he never consented. it may not have been statutory under west virginia law, but it was rape. thea and jean have never had that conversation, and if jean has it his way they never will.

thea looks at jean and she has no reason to see a victim, but every reason to see a teenager she cares about making bad decisions that hurt him. jean himself tells her they were just mistakes. that’s how her “old tricks” sentence comes across. she’s tired. it sets her apart from the rest of the ravens— that’s far more compassion than any of the current line up gave him.

#i understand #that people are sensitive about jean #but i don’t know. there’s a very perverse desire to see all his past laid bare & exposed in a way that takes all his agency from him #like having a video leak from the nest #or situations like the beach where jean is so upset he says the truth without meaning #but those are genuinely the worst case scenario for this man #he doesn’t want people to know #healthy or not #he wants things to be a secret #look at the end of tsc #leave the past to me & dobson and help me face what comes next. orv whatever #man #tldr no more FEELINGSSSSDD #jean moreau #thea muldani #sorry not sorry for my first long post in a while being a downerrrrrr i got mad

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malvoile · 6 months ago

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Me and the Devil ; i

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

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

prelude series masterlist

Penitent Crimes of Retaliation;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even at your sister's funeral.

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

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

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

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

No, instead, you mostly see black.

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

Your na-Baron.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bless their voided souls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You almost wish he will.

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

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

Even as the doors give in.

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

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

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

Duncan. Why did you wait so long?

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

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

“My Lady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The son to whom you're now destined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lady Jessica, it is a pleasure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A place to watch his pets play.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Threats demand evolution.”

The rain is gone into mist by the next day.

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

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

Your eyes burn from exhaustion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That had woken one of the servants.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you one of them?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach chills.

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

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

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

“–Or, I was supposed to be.”

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

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

He stands when you rise from your seat.

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

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

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

She tells the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Threats demand evolution.

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

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#the more i edit this story #the more i see the leaking traits of house Stark #its so awkward #i would NEVER be in that fandom!#<- me when i lie #paul atreides x you #paul atredies x reader #dune fanfiction #dune 2021 #dune movie #dune part one #paul atreides x reader #paul atreides fanfic #paul atreides smut

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codeonedigest · 2 years ago

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in1-nutshell · 7 months ago

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Hello and is it okay to request TF with this idea?

Fem Buddy as a cybertronian (or Terran) and has a twin bot. They've been raised on earth and by humans, since they were babies and They don't know anything about Cybertron, they still loves/cares Earth and anything on it

They're famous or celebrity twins on earth. (like being genius, performer, artist, model, YouTuber, actor, or others, you choose). They do love it, the fame, the happy faces that humans get when seeing them, but They sometimes wondered where they came from.

Fem Buddy and Male! Twin are both inseparable, caring for each other, they sometimes speak/act in unison, having same and/or sharing thoughts, and had great teamwork/synchronization, and yet had teasings/sassiness in a mild way

Yet Fem Buddy and Twin have differences

Fem Bot looks like a Decepticon, has an reclusive yet timid and good-hearted, yet sometimes expressive with closed lip, also being supportive (and somewhat child-like or oblivious/innocent) twin.

M! Twin, he looks similar to an Autobot, known for being a leading/leader twin, having energetic, bold, and pompous yet somewhat mature, or something like spoiled prince yet mature and has smart personality, often showing his sharp teeth, whether he's smiling, frowning, etc., also being very protective/ aggressive for his twin.

You can add this idea if you want:

Autobots' human friend/kid(s) have been a fan of the twins (and probably had a celebrity crush/es on them), before the cybertronian thing, and they introduce the Autobots to these Celebrity twins via media of sort?

I apologize if this is complicated or I've been requested a lot. Thank you so much and also take care of yourself.

(also Happy Decepticon Day!)

Finally! I got to this one before it got erased! Again!

Hope you enjoy!

Bot Buddy Twin's who live on Earth

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Cybertronian reader

TFA

The name Issac Sumdac was one well known throughout the city of Detroit.

It was also a little-known fact of his daughter, Sari Sumdac, who was almost always accompanied by two of his most astounding looking robots.

A tall one and a small one.

Affectionally given the names Sonia and Syrus.

Sonia was the larger bot that was often seen walking the grounds of the Tower, presumably as a guard bot.

It seemed like the bot fit the job having such a large, and sharp framework.

Perfect for intimidating any trespassers.

As intimidating as the bot looked, Sonia’s family knew that she was a shy bot who just so happened to look like she could end someone with her pinkie.

A couple of tourist are looking at the big bot from a distance. Tourist 1: “Do you think it can think?” Tourist: “No way, its just a machine.” Tourist 1: “But if it could…” Tourist 2: “Probably thinking on how to annihilate human kind. I mean have you seen the size of those fists!” Meanwhile with Sonia… Sonia: “I think I’ll go visit the red birds nest before lunch time.”

Around her family, Sonia was a bit of a pushover for her younger siblings.

She couldn’t help it!

They had a mastery of the puppy dog eyes she had yet to conquer.

But make no mistake, if there is even the notice of a threat to Sonia’s family, she is making sure to get them to safety before dealing with the situation.

Sari loves hanging around Sonia’s shoulder and loves doing random trust falls with her.

The Professor has lost count of the number of times he has had to buff out dents in his eldest daughter’s frame.

Sonia loves her younger sister to death but she needs to stop giving her near death experiences.

Sonia is with the Professor watching Syrus playing with Sari play. Professor Sumdac: “You know you could always join them, Sonia.” Sonia looks at him. Sonia: “But what if I hurt them? I’m too sharp and big” Professor Sumdac: “It would be on accident. We both know you would never actively harm them.” Sonia still looks a bit conflicted but ends up joining the pair in ‘Mega trust fall’. Professor Sumdac winces a bit as both Syrus and Sari fall from a ledge and Sonia cushions their fall. Professor Sumdac: “Maybe I should have talked to them about taking it easier on their sister…”

Syrus was the smaller bot.

Often seen giving some tours around the Tower for guests and tourists.

His energetic and charismatic personality fit well for the tours.

He is the closest with Sari.

Don’t get him wrong, he loves Sonia, but his baby sister is way more fun to hang out than Sonia the worry wart.

Both love playing around the Tower’s private grounds, letting their imagination run wild.

On the occasion they do decide to make the day an adventure, they both know that if things get too hairy, Sonia was always one call away.

No one in their right mind would DARE mess with them when Sonia was in her protective mode.

Sonia is just minding her business when she gets a call. Sonia: “Syrus? What—” Syrus: “Can you come get us? We might have gotten in a bit of trouble…” Sonia is already tracking down Syrus location. Sonia: “What happened? Are you and Sari okay?” Syrus: “Well… we might be hiding from Fanzone’s new rookie cop.” Sonia: “And why?” Syrus: “To be fair, he started calling Sari a brat… and we might have put a virus on his phone… and currently hiding in the park.” Sonia: “… Give me 5 minutes.” Syrus: “Yes!” Sonia: “But you two are explaining to Dad why your in this mess.” Syrus: “…Hey big sis—” Sonia: “Don’t even think about it.”

That being said, Syrus is almost, if not more protective of his family than Sonia is.

While Sonia can handle certain things being thrown at them, she has a hard time standing up for herself.

That’s where Syrus usually comes in and stands up for her.

Syrus has no problem chewing out anyone who goes after her.

Both robotic siblings are ready to choose violence if someone decides to go after their squishier family members.

The topic of the bots creation has been a hot topic for years, mainly kept up by Syrus constantly pestering Professor Sumdac about it.

Sonia stopped asking a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t think about it from time to time.

Especially looking at other, less emotional robots.

She is simply content with her life keeping her father and siblings safe.

Now, to the day the Autobots wake up…

Sonia was away on a nearby island trying to help Sari with her project on bird nesting sites.

Syrus is beside Sari’s side the entire time the Autobots are going around.

Absolutely blown away when the bots reveal that he is a Cybertornian like them.

Even gets a vehicle mode from them!

Every single one of the Sumdac’s remember at the last second that they had forgotten to mention the whole incident to Sonia.

The Professor swears he can hear Sonia’s ‘blood pressure rise in less than a couple seconds when he talks to her over the phone.

Syrus and Sari are in charge of telling the bots about their older sister.

Sari: “You guys are gonna love Sonia!” Optimus: “Sonia?” Syrus: “That’s our big sister.” Bumblebee: “Like human or bot?” Syrus: “Bot—Sari! She is going to flip when she finds out she’s an alien too!” Sari: “I bet she’s gonna watch all those alien movies with us now!” Ratchet turns Prowl. Ratchet: “I swear if this ‘Sonia’ is like Syrus…” They both share a look of slight dread. BOOM! The ground starts to tremble a bit. Bulkhead: “What is that!?” Bumblebee: “You think it could be the Decepticons?” Sonia appears at the front door venting heavy with panic in her optics. All the Autobots are ready to attack when Syrus and Sari run to the bot. Bumblebee: “Sari! Syrus!” Both jump up as the larger bot kneels and holds them both to her chassis. Sonia: “Your okay! Wait are you?” Sonia looks at both of them from head to toe trying to see any signs of harm. The bots are just stunned. Syrus: “We’re fine Sonia, but guess what! We’re aliens! Just like the Autobots!” Sonia finally looks up at the bots and looks just as surprised as Syrus had when he first met them. She shyly goes over and takes her servo out. Sonia: “Its nice to meet you all. I take it you helped keep Syrus and Sari safe?” Optimus blinked a bit before slowly shaking her servo. To his surprise, she was very gently in handling it. Optimus: “Yes, and you are Sonia?” Sonia smiles a bit while placing both her sibling on her shoulders. Syrus stops her. Syrus: “Wait! Sonia look what we can do!” He proceeds to transform into a car and drives a bit around the Plant. Sonia: “Wait we can do that!”

#transformers x reader #maccadam #bot buddy #tfa x platonic reader #tfa x reader

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funnier-as-a-system · 5 months ago

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I rearranged my room and I like it. headmates who were hoping for more corner hovels, nooks and crannies, and nesting zones aren't too enthused rn tho

As someone who likes nooks and crannies myself, I think an absence of them is a bit of a shame. But I'm glad you can find some joy in your current room arrangement. Maybe offer those headmates who are disappointed a compromise of sorts to cheer them up, such as picking out some decorations or having a strong say in how your items (ex. books, stuffed animals, etc.) are arranged within the framework you've created. It does no good to let frustrations fester within a system.

#thanks for the ask!

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sitting-1n-silence · 2 months ago

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Spirits Encountered in Healthcare

Throughout my time working in healthcare I've encountered a few different types of entities. My experience in healthcare has been centered around working in hospitals and some outpatient settings. I've worked in various departments, from Psych care, to working in a few ERs, as well as working in physical therapy with medically complex patients. So those will be my areas of focus here.

Within medical settings I find 3 types of spirits tend to the most common to encounter, chthonic entities (such as the dead), spirits of place/genius loci, and general spiritual attendants (familiars, mighty dead, angelic beings, beings serving that sorta function). These spirits might be found lingering in/around the facility, or are more commons attached to patients and staff.

Genius Loci:

Within in an animistic framework there is a belief that all things have spirit, including the environment and it's features. When it comes to the spirits of place, or the Genius Loci, I like to view this concept of spirits like Russian nesting dolls. Where within one large spirit of place (say the city this hospital is located in) there are many smaller spirits within spirits residing there. So the hospital is it's own entity within the whole of the city, and different units in a hospital might also function the same way, as well as different spaces like courtyards, chapels, ect within the hospital. These are spirits within spirits, whole all still have some level of individual self/awareness.

These spirits of place are generally the more docile, and the common type of spirit I've encountered, being spirits of the land and building itself. In large facilities you might encounter some beings that are greater or lesser than others (greater meaning having a larger domain or sphere of influence). Where say the spirit of the building it's self acts as a greater authority over a spirit of a specific unit. Working with this framework also gives you as a practitioner a spirit hierarchy to operate within when starting to build these relationships.

Chthonic spirits / Spirits of the dead:

Within hospitals you'll find a few types of chthonic entities, here I will be focusing on shades/spirits of the dead. The dead sometimes linger in the spaces they have passed in, and seeing as hospitals can deal with a lot of deaths they become common places to find ghosts. These ghosts sometimes keep their individual senses of self, but frequently I find that ghosts at hospitals get absorbed into the space itself. Becoming amalgamated into the Genius Loci, sometimes fully or sometimes partially.

An example of a fully amalgamated spirit that I encountered comes from when I worked in an ER psych pod. While the ER itself has had it's fair share of death, within the psych pod a patient death was very uncommon. Until it happened. A patient had died over night in their room after a traumatic behavioral event had occurred. The individual passed in his hospital bed, and found this way by the next shift. The event was shocking, and shouldn't have happened. Yet it did, and there seemed to be effect on the room it happened it. This room became known as a "cursed" or "haunted" room, even by staff who had no idea about this patient's death there. As many weird events would happen there after. Patients who had no history of psychosis would report psychotic-like symptoms at night (seeing someone standing in the room with them, hearing a male voice, ect), this room became a hot spot for psychotic patients whose hallucinations centered around demons, and more traumatic events started happening in this room compared to any other in the pod.

All of this could be coincidence, but it all starting up after an unexpected death seems uncanny. So I did my own spiritual work in/on this room when I worked there to get a read for myself. I found that this room definitely appeared to have a spirit occupying it, but It would come to me like a spirit of place, but I would also see a shadow standing with or behind the spirit of place. Trying to reach through and puppet them almost, trying to act as one whole being. This eventful death appeared to have a left a mark on the energy of this space, and then became part of the space. I debated clearing the shadow from the space, but found that as it got absorbed better it had useful qualities too that could be tapped into. So I let the spirit be.

Other times, spirits have such a distinct sense of self that they maintain their individuality in death. Remaining as an independent spirit now living within this space. Haunting it in a type of way. Frequently tho, in my encounters with these types of shades, they will live out certain patterns of behavior from life or certain events they went through within this space. Almost like a recording playing on a loop. Within the hospital this might take the form of the spirit wandering the halls, maybe even following a path they took with transport to a test they had before their passing. If the patient had something they commonly did in life they might also continue to find ways to continue that in death. An example might be if a nurse passes in a hospital they worked in. In one story I heard where this happened, nurses who knew the deceased nurse in life would say sometimes they think they hear her calling to them down the unit she use to work on. As if her spirit found it's way back there and is still trying to support them as nurses.

Sometimes I will encounter people who carry spirits with them, and will bring these spirits to the hospital when they come to work. These could be ancestors or honored dead the individual keeps close, or even be spirits they've accumulated working in this field. These tend to be the most varied type of dead I encounter around work, so I won't go too deep into them here. One encounter I will describe happened when a doctor entered a room as I working with a patient receiving physical therapy. I had never met this doc in person, so i was caught off guard when he walked in and I sensed spirits sitting on his shoulders. They appeared to me like spirits of the dead, potentially of his family, and they were guiding his hands and trying to whisper in his ears. Initially he was going to duck out of the room seeing that I was working with the patient, but clearly something stopped him because he ended up coming back to watch us work. Seeing some changes in their BP and heart rate that were concerning he decided to stay and figure that out. As if something stopped him from leaving and told him to stay in the room, maybe it was these spirits I thought i was seeing or maybe it was his gut instinct. Either way it lead to better care for the patient. Later when talking with my coworkers I learned this doctor comes from a family of physicians, so I suspect I was likely sensing their spirits trying to guide the way he practices medicine.

Spiritual Attendants:

This is a large category of beings, and when I use the term I could be referring to familiar spirits, honored dead, saints, angels, and beings like that who walk with us and guide us. They could be spirits called in during times of need, or be entities that have walked with us since before we were born into bodies. It is any spirit attending to your life, wants, and needs.

I will most commonly encounter these spirits in the rooms of religious folks. Patients and their families sometimes set up small altars to angels, saints, prophets, and Jesus. In these rooms I will often feel the presence of a spirit. Sometimes I do get the impression it is the saint or angel they've called in, other times it's just the an increase of spiritual pressure in the air. Before I walk into these rooms I'll sense a lightness in the air, or smell sweet floral scents which is then validated by the sight of prayer book, altar, or set of prayer beads.

Occasionally I'll be in a situation where a person has a spiritual attendant, and the individual seems to have no idea they're being watched over. Such as a time I worked with an elderly Irish couple. This man was getting older and his memory was going as well as some of his mobility. He had taken a fall, which brought him to the hospital. Before he even spoke and we realized he was Irish the room smelled of magic. There was an aroma of dirt, spice, and wood lingering that my subtle sense picked up. As the therapist and I began the eval we learned of their story, how this couple came from Ireland years ago and never had kids so they look after each other. From the corners of my eye I thought i saw a shadow dancing about the room, but i brushed it off as hospital lighting. When it became time for the man to stand up his wife produced his cane, a blackthorn shillelagh he had brought from Ireland all those years ago. I almost started to laugh because I realized it was the cane's spirit I was sensing. This man wasn't consciously doing magic, but his wife told us that whenever he's mad at the staff he bangs his cane on the ground 3 times without being able to explain why because of his dementia. I suspect he knew some folktales about blackthorn canes, and knocking wood, despite his memory going. And thus kept the spirit of that cane alive and working for him as an ally/companion.

With another patient recently I noticed they a spirit sitting on their head while they were receiving treatment. I found this fascinating because she was veiling her hair too. So I was getting the sense that she was connected with the spiritual realm is some form. Throughout my conversation with her I learned that the bandana she was using to veil with was a gift from an older woman from her church. The bandana was red, with a design on it I had a hard time making out, but I could see tropical trees and some blue/water, some yellow designs, and rope tied what I what describe as sailor knots. It was interesting, and seemed like it had an aura of magic to it. I think she was unaware of this, and enjoyed it as an object prayed over by a women from her church. The whole encounter was interesting, odd, and almost magic itself.

#the madman speaks #witchblr #advwitchblr #spirit work #land spirits #the dead

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lonelywretchjervistetch · 6 months ago

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The State Birds Initiative: Massachusetts (#6)

Whoa, it's December already? Wow! Been a while since I made one of these, but I honestly needed the break I think. So, uh...where were we? Ah, right.

Welcome to the sixth official poll of the State Birds Initiative! Before the poll, though, one thing real quick, and I cannot emphasize this enough! Read the post below before voting in the poll! It's not a requirement, but it is a real firm suggestion, especially important if you're lacking context about the birds being presented as the new (or old) State Bird of the Bay State, Massachusetts. This is to be fully informed as to why these are being presented, and to make your choices appropriately. Lastly, some of these birds, you will notice, *may *go against some of the rules listed in the introduction post. All is explained after the jump where the explanations are, I promise you that. With that...OK! Here's the poll!

Welcome to the sixth official poll of the State Birds Initiative! Before the poll, though, one thing real quick, and I cannot emphasize this enough! Read the post below before voting in the poll! It's not a requirement, but it is a real firm suggestion, especially important if you're lacking context about the birds being presented as the new (or old) State Bird of the Bay State, Massachusetts. This is to be fully informed as to why these are being presented, and to make your choices appropriately. Lastly, some of these birds, you will notice, may go against some of the rules listed in the introduction post. All is explained after the jump where the explanations are, I promise you that. With that...OK! Here's the poll!

Massachusetts, baby! I've had to travel away from the Bay State in the past week for a conference, but I'm excited to get back to this surprisingly great state. I say surprisingly because Massachusetts' reputation isn't a greatest for those outside of it, but living in it has definitely changed my mind for a number of reasons! That said, the time has come to talk about it a bit. The sixth smallest state in the union, Massachusetts is home to a number of prominent cities, both historically and contemporaneously. There is of course, Boston, the capital and largest city seen above via the big-ass CITGO sign. And while that's the city people equate with the entire state, let's not forget Worcester, Springfield, Cambridge, Lowell, Plymouth, Salem, Amherst, Natick, Cape Cod, etc., etc., etc. There's a whole-ass pile of classic New England cities in this small state, as well as a bevy of habitats and natural spaces.

So, to get into it a bit, Massachusetts is smack-dab in the New England temperate forests, with the highlands dominating the western portion of the state, and a flat lowland coastal region in the eastern half. Forests are temperate mixed, which contributes to the legendary falls that we see in New England. The coastal regions, meanwhile, are glacial in origin, covered in wetlands towards the center of the state, and beaches on the shores. Also of note are the various coastal marshes throughout the state, which serve as their own predominant habitats. Using the BioMap2 project as a framework, let's talk a little bit about these habitats.

Massachusetts, of course, sits on the Atlantic Ocean, which certainly isn't a first for this list, but is vitally important as we go further north into New England. In the case of Massachusetts, we're looking at sandy beaches and dune habitats as prominent foraging and nesting areas for various shorebirds, which does make shorebirds a high likely focus for this list. Some of you probably know one of the most important birds we'll be looking at, but we'll get to that one, don't worry.

Alongside the beaches, estuaries are a prominent habitat along the shorelines. Places like Plum Island, in northern Massachusetts, or Belle Isle Marsh in the middle of Boston itself, personally come to mind. Massive saltmarshes that are vital stopover habitats for migrants, habitats for insects and endangered turtles, and coastal salt ponds and tidal marshes that house incredible biodiversity within them. There's a lot of focus coming to the coastlines, that's what I'm saying. All of these habitats and the species within them comprise about 41,000 acres of land, and about 75% of that is in danger from development and rising sea levels.

Now, I'm gonna skip over a bunch of other habitats here, especially freshwater wetlands and riparian habitats, because while these are extremely important, they won't be getting as much focus here. Now, we need to move on to the forests. I've talked about them before in Connecticut, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, but we've got a very specific situation here in Mass. Here, because of the large number of people and settlements, fragmentation is a very prominent problem in the state. For the uninitiated, habitat fragmentation is basically what it sounds like: splitting up habitat by roads or other man-made corridors, breaking up populations of several animals, birds included. Doesn't sound like a big deal to animals that can fly, but birds don't like crossing corridors if they can help it, because it makes them vulnerable to predation (of adults and nests) and car strikes. So, forests of New England and Massachusetts are a habitat of needed focus. And while this will receive a slightly lesser focus, most likely, it's still a place we'll take a look at.

These three habitat types, wetland, coastal, and forest, are the most important in Massachusetts, as well as in New England (which, again, will change slightly as we head further north). But there's also the ever-important human element to consider, ESPECIALLY here.

While I said Boston doesn't define the entire state, and it doesn't, it's also the second most populated city on our list of states thus far, and happens to be one of the most important places in the country historically. Let's not forget, this is basically the seat of the American Revolution in many ways, so it's a pretty major part of our cultural identity as a country. And trust me, Boston is fully aware of that fact. I'm never one to dabble in stereotypes, but Bostonians are extremely proud to be Bostonians most of the time. It's a proud city, and that's understandable from a traditional point of view.

Plus, with Plymouth Rock 40 minutes to the south (and not worth the drive, from what I've heard), the textile-based seat of the American Industrial Revolution 40 minutes to the north (looking at you, Lowell), the site of the "shot heard round the world" 15 minutes away (Concord and Lexington, of course), the oldest American university 5 minutes away (Cambridge, of course), and the home of the legend of the American witch about an hour north (Salem, of course)...look, it's a central hub of the state, and it WILL not be ignored! So, with that said, grab some coffee from Dunks and some clam chowdah, let's settle in and check out some birds!

If anybody has a suggestion that I hadn't brought up here, send it my way! I will absolutely add another poll if there are entries I think could bear fruit. But, in the meantime, read on if you're interested in the possible choices for the State Bird of Massachusetts!

Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus)

I gotta say, I have a real soft-spot for these guys. Although, to be fair, I think most people do! Named after their iconic call, and their memorable black cap, the Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus) is one of the most iconic birds of New England, and arguably of North America. I say arguably only because there are a few chickadees in the United States, but the Black-capped is one of the most famous. We'll revisit the rest in two later posts, but this one is our focus today.

This bird was originally chosen because, well, it's iconic. I assume. To be honest, I don't actually know why it was chosen, outside of it being recognizable. It's also possible (POSSIBLE) that it was inspired by nearby Maine's choice of State Bird. But that's a choice we'll get to at a later date, I promise you that. As for the BCCH here, does it fit the state? I'll be honest, I actually like the chickadee for Massachusetts' State Bird. Partially, that's because it's a bird that can be found all throughout it with no difficulty, and it's an excellent beginner bird for kids (and just-starting amateurs). But, it's also small and incredibly scrappy, just like Massachusetts. I've had these guys in hand before, and I tell you, these little bastards'll hammer away at your cuticles with their beaks to get you to let them go. Doesn't hurt, unless they really try to grab on and twist at a sensitive spot, but they're fighters!

They're also quite social and vocal, which also fits residents of the Bay State. They have a unique language, with an alarm call that's recognizable by multiple bird species for warning, and it's also their most famous call ("chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee"). The more "dees" there are, the higher the perceived threat is, fun fact. They hang out in groups in the winter, both with other chickadees and other birds, and their brains generate new neurons in the autumn and winter to remember and navigate to places where they can find food during a difficult harvesting season. That's how I feel when I have to remember where the nearest Dunks is for coffee, not gonna lie.

I realize that I'm making some convincing arguments for the incumbent here, but...yeah, there's a reason. I do honestly think this is a solid choice for the State Bird of Massachusetts, so I'll support its re-election if that occurs. But with that said and presented, let's move on to the challengers. Some are good, some are mediocre, and some are a bit surprising. And some...should maybe belong to a different state.

Piping Plover (Charadrius melodus)

eBird's suggestion is, unsurprisingly, the Piping Plover (Charadrius melodus), because a whopping 25% of the breeding population can be found in Massachusetts, according to eBird Status and Trends. And WOW, that is a massive proportion. That means, just to make this clear, one in 4 of ALL Piping Plovers are born in Massachusetts. Significant proportion, meaning that this has a claim on the role of MA State Bird for that reason alone. And Massachusetts certainly knows this, as several beaches in the state are shut down during the plover breeding season to allow them to nest in peace, without human disturbance.

In fact, when Piping Plovers were declared endangered in the Endangered Species Act, Mass Audubon launched the Coastal Waterbird Program to protect them and a later entry on this list. The population has exploded tenfold in the last 40 years of conservation work, and these are a pretty easy to find species now, if you're looking for them. This is a great introductory bird, both to conservation efforts, and to shorebirds (which are notoriously difficult to identify). It's also, surprisingly for shorebirds of this ilk, pretty easy to identify. And also...they're incredibly cute. I mean, have you seen the babies? It's crazy how cute they are. Seriously, LOOK AGAIN. Precious. Another solid candidate, and an excellent representative of the beaches of Massachusetts.

Ipswich Sparrow (Passerculus sandwichensis princeps)

Ah, the Savannah Sparrow (Passerculus sandwichensis). We meet again. Sorry to abandon you back there in Georgia, but to be fair, you were only nominated there because you're named after a major city in the state. But here...ah, wait, right, same thing. Now, to be fair, you've probably mentioned that the nominated bird is the Ipswich Sparrow (Passerculus sandwichensis princeps), not the Savannah Sparrow. But this is, of course, a subspecies of the Savannah Sparrow, named after Ipswich, Massachusetts due to its first sighting there. Larger and paler than its compatriots, the Ipswich Sparrow is known from Massachusetts...but breeds in Nova Scotia. Yeah, we've got another Connecticut Warbler (Oporornis agilis) situation here. Yikes.

So, is there a reason to nominate this bird for Massachusetts outside of its name? Well...actually kinda. These pale sparrows are, to be fair, pretty uniquely found in Massachusetts. And, while this isn't the only place you can see it, it is a reliable place to find it. It's sighted on the dunes on the Massachusetts coast, blending in with the light-colored sand, and making its way to and from Nova Scotia, where it only breeds on one island. So, conservation concern (and focus), seen in the state (even if it doesn't breed there), relies on some of its habitats of focus (saltmarshes and coastlines), has a tie to it that's unique to Massachusetts...it's something. Not as good as other options, but...something. In any case, let's move on.

Snowy Egret (Egretta thula)

Hold on. We saw this guy in the Connecticut post! What is this post, a bunch of repeats? Well, to be fair here, the Snowy Egret (Egretta thula) is a slightly better fit for Massachusetts than it was for Connecticut...for the exact same reason it was suggested for Connecticut. Well, part of it, anyway. I stand by the idea of applying the "macaroni" label to the Snowy Egret to fit with Connecticut, but it's the Audubon Society part I'm focusing on here. Lemme quote the previous post:

To be clear here, quite a lot of birds were used in millinery back in the day, but the Snowy Egret (and the Great Egret (Ardea alba), for that matter) are special. Those long white feathery plumes were heavily prized as hat decorations, enough so that the species nearly went extinct from hunting them for the hat trade. As a result of that, people began to turn their eye towards conservation of the species, and the protection of birds in general. Two women, Harriet Hemenway and Minna B. Hall, got a group of women together to protect the birds. They rallied the troops, and their organization became fairly popular. Eventually when they sought to name it, they did so after one of the most famous ornithologists in American history at the time: John James Audubon. And from there...well, you can guess.

The Audubon Society is one of the premiere bird conservation organizations in the world, and especially in the United States, and is well-known to the public sector. And it was born right here in...Massachusetts. Oh. Wait, have I jumped the gun on this one?

I had, indeed, jumped the gun. So, to fix that now, let's throw the Snowy Egret in here instead! After all, it does breed in the state (a little bit), and I actually saw some earlier this year in Parker River NWR! It has a historical tie, and to the largest conservation organization in New England! Trust me, Mass Audubon is a MASSIVE deal up here, and their link alone gives me cause to put the Snowy Egret on this list. That said, though...that's not their logo.

Common Tern (Sterna hirundo)

To my genuine surprise, the logo for Mass Audubon is actually the Common Tern (Sterna hirundo), an aerial and acrobatic seabird found on the shores of Massachusetts, in some surprising places. In Massachusetts, though, there's a major tie to conservation and the Common Tern, because this is actually one of the birds whose feathers were stolen for hats, inspiring the foundation of the movement. Yeah, both the Snowy Egret and this species, which was (and is) more common here. So, if there's an Audubon-related bird to be elected, it probably should be this one, to be honest. This is a species, understand, that was crashing in population in the late 1800s, and was saved from hunting by a young Mass Audubon. Between 1889 and 1920, the population bloomed eightfold, from 5,000 pairs to 40,000 pairs. An impressive population boom in every possible way. However, that wouldn't last.

Herring Gulls (Larus argentatus), human activity, and various other disturbances have created numerous population crashes and bottlenecks in the species' history in Massachusetts, keeping them a conservation focus to this day. The species has notably spread throughout the state's coastlines to this day, and they aren't terribly hard to find. In fact, you can see them in the Boston Harbor, from the shore! I've seen Common Tern from the New England Aquarium very often, in fact, and it's sort of magical to see them smack-dab in the middle of the city. Their habitats of beaches and shorelines need to be maintained and protected, so throwing the conservation focus on them is incredibly valuable for the species' future. A solid choice for State Bird (or another category sponsored by the SBI), if ever there was one.

Veery (Catharus fuscescens)

But wait, coming in at the last moment, just making it, the Veery (Catharus fuscescens)! Yeah, this one's a bit of a surprise, but I found out some very interesting info recently. The Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapilla) was not the first nominee for State Bird; instead, in 1931, the State Federation of Women's Clubs (yup, another woman's organization) nominated the Veery for the State Bird...and got shot down. It took them ten years to nominate the Chickadee for unknown reasons, meaning the Veery probably didn't even get its day in court. Shameful! So, let's try and rectify that here, shall we?

Veery are thrushes, famous for the beautiful, ethereal calls that give them their name. This is a robin-sized migratory songbird that breeds in the forests of New England and southern Canada, and are an iconic New England bird in their own right. They're found in forested wetlands (that's two habitats of concern in MA), usually fairly close to beaver ponds, and the two species are often associated. It's also a species mentioned in Henry David Thoreau's Walden, one of the most important environmentalist literary works in American history, as well as an important Massachusetts story. It's also currently spreading in the state, increasing the size of its range, while also experiencing slightly decreasing populations, meaning that focus is still needed. And again...that song. It's a delight to hear it in forests, and recognizing it is a great step for beginning birders to pay more attention to the sound around them.

And with that...yeah! We'll end it there! Only six nominees, and you're probably wondering what's happened to the State Raptor and State Game Bird. Well...I'll explain that once we get to the results. Because that's a bit more complicated then expected.

See you next time, and happy birding!

Introduction to the State Birds Initiative

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literaryvein-reblogs · 3 months ago

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Writing Notes: Nested Stories

Have you ever read a novel, novella, or short story and realized that the characters within the narrative were reading or watching a story of their own? If so, you have experienced a literary device known as a story within a story.

A story within a story occurs when some sort of tale is told to characters who exist within the main narrative of a work of fiction.

Also found in live theater, TV shows, and film along with written books, this literary technique implants a nested narrative within the main story.

Sometimes, the nested story contains its own story within a story.

This creates a multi-story set where multiple narratives exist within the framework of a larger plot, thus forming the literary equivalent of a Russian doll.

A popular variation on this embedded narrative is a technique known as a frame story.

In a frame story, the main narrative itself is a story within a story.

An example can be found in the novel Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

The main narrative of the novel, involving Dr. Frankenstein and his monster, is told via a series of letters written by a man named Robert Walton.

Examples: Story Within a Story

If you have ever read the “Mad Trist” narrative embedded within Edgar Allan Poe’s Fall of the House of Usher or “The Grand Inquisitor” story in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brother Karamazov, you have read classic examples of a story within a story.

Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, Count Jan Potocki’s The Manuscript Found in Saragossa, and Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales use frame stories to bracket their main narrative.

In film, The Princess Bride features a frame narrative told by Peter Falk to Fred Savage.

Here are some additional examples of an inner story appearing somewhere within the first story presented to a reader:

The Odyssey by Homer: One of the most fundamental examples of frame storytelling is Homer’s The Odyssey. The entire narrative is recited by Odysseus himself within the royal court of King Alcinous in Scheria.

House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski: In this novel, the main character finds a manuscript that itself refers to a documentary retelling a real-life event in the world of the book. Dense and layered, the book contains multiple stories within a story. Other science fiction novels with embedded stories include Cloud Atlas, Red Orc's Rage, and The Man in the High Castle.

William Shakespeare’s Hamlet: Hamlet features a play within the play. The embedded play’s storyline is too similar to events occurring in Hamlet’s own life, and he brazenly interrupts.

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad: This novella is partly a conventional story within a story and partly a nest story within a frame story. Its main character, Charles Marlow, tells his fellow sailors of a haunting episode from his own life story. The main plot unfolds as a flashback within Marlow’s own life and is told in first-person voice.

One Thousand and One Nights: Commonly known as Arabian Nights, this written work features an unnamed narrator telling of stories that themselves are told by the character Scheherazade. What’s more, many of Scheherazade’s stories have their own inner story, so the Russian nesting doll effect applies here as well.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#nested story #writing notes #writeblr #literature #writers on tumblr #dark academia #writing reference #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #writing inspiration #writing ideas #books #light academia #fiction #story #writing resources

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expfcultragreen · 4 months ago

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So in terms of using telepathy to make someone do what you want, there are a couple options. If you find that sometimes when you think something but dont say it outloud, other people hear it and assume/react like you DID say something out loud, maybe you could be heard by a specific person by directing your thoughts to them. Like think about them hearing the specific thing you want them to, essentially remote-view them hearing it. A starting place is seeing if you can pass yourself off as their own inner voice eg "i dont want to be scrooge without the morally-valid pivot, ive got to make a morally-valid pivot". Lets say that doesnt work, but, they hear it...it just doesnt sound like them to them and/or it feels weird like its coming from someone/somewhere else. You could opt for staying in character as something they'd love to believe like, an angel, an alien that wants them in particular to do well, whatever. Probably wait a while so the phenomenon of their inner monologue being hijacked by someone pretending to be them isnt obviously connected.

If they wont react as directed to any of that, you could opt for just disabling them ie yelling "sic semper scrooge" in their head so incessantly its maddening, etc.

Now, most people are so full of drugs and other chemical/material interference that its not very easy to manipulate them in this way, probably by design. And the people who are on drugs that do the opposite, thats also not the most useful....lbr, because of the stigma around these drugs, usually people who do them have nothing to lose, not financial empires to micromanage...john mcafee notwithstnding lol. Unless musk upgrades from bumps of k to big fatty hits off the bubble pipe, it doesnt really matter if you can convince people on meth to do stuff....we're trying to undo centuries of economic junk-philosophy used in place of religion by the 1%, not rob a mcdonalds or finally dig out that one whitehead (do not do meth and try to dig out that one whitehead, this is how people get flesh eating bacteria-filled sores).

Of course, most people in positions of power are like jabba the hut, jedi mind tricks dont work because of their extreme congenital narcissism but, you can just use the basic toolkit for manipulating narcissists in-lieu-of*.

I suspect most "psychotic" people never let on that theyre aware of or attentive to anything like "i kept silently yelling the answer and it appears to have been recieved because it was kind of an obscure/unique phrase or whatever and now the person i was thinking it at is saying it seemingly apropos of nothing"/"someone told me to guess or deduce an answer and were surprised i got it right because it was really obscure/unique" happening in their day-to-day......because the thing is, as ive maybe illustrated above, its obviously so easy to abuse that ability or be abused with it. (Something to keep in mind about people who are clearly dealing with The Voices; it seems like the MAIN reason anyone is open about it as something theyre dealing with is theyre experiencing abuse by it directly or are otherwise disoriented....but whether the distress is obvious or not, it can be hard to help even if someone wants help.... its of course unclear where the other voices in your head are ever coming from even if youre very astute about affect/motive/vibe/etc clues.....so it could be anyone around, or not around.... it could be anyone they see, it could be that when you express concern to them thats just a cruel paradoxical joke at their expense and they need to fight you for it, or it could be that by trying to avoid eye contact and avoid them youre doing exactly what a voice told them The Devil would do...that youre hiding from them so they cant archangel you and save the world....whats scary about this shouldnt be "crazy people are sooo unpredictable" because most genuinely crazy people started out normal and so dont want to fight and dont particularly know how anyway all of which is pretty predictable, but rather whats scary is "any day could be my own gregor samsa day" and we're still pretty much in the soup on the matter of intervention....the best case scenario is getting on and off an effective brain-shrinking neurotoxin fast enough to decrease symptoms without permanently damaging your whole brain, while having the necessary supports to go through that whole process...but the people who can put you on these pharmaceutical interventions are often so opposed to you going off in a timely manner that they get someone to legally compel you to stay on them, possibly under observation and in confinement...nominally because people are so freaked by the unpredictability factor in every psychotic person having their own kaleidoscope of inner-world that might cause them to lash out unexpectedly, violently, etc...but actually predictability is more or less as easy as getting to know the person and their framework, even if its very fluid ...but laypeople are resistant to doing that [imo due to the pernicious belief/attitude that its pointless to "indulge" the "unreal" or engage with anyone who does "indulge" the "unreal" with a stance of anything like credulity or good faith] or else arent given the opportunity...and people working in clinical settings--who fwiw certainly DO have the opportunity every time they encounter a patient with psychosis--should have pieced together that point about overarching predictability from longitudinal observation hundreds of years ago, BUT based on my experience, they have no interest in doing anything that would actually be useful and are, i think consciously and acutely, concerned mainly with how permanently they can disable the psychics who have been identified and subsequently driven their way, as opposed to worrying about how humanely they can "treat" "psychosis"...presumably some professionals arent in on the whole thing of "actually these people are telepaths being targetted to discredit/distract/disable them from doing anything with their telepathy and our role in that is, we dispense the brain-shrinking poison that keeps them out of commission...a lot of them ASK for it, literally...the onslaught is too much otherwise...now medically its best for them to get off these drugs as soon as theyve stabilized but we dont tell them that, we tell them they have to stay on the drugs, forever" )

*anyone less prone to brainwashing than grimes wanna try? No one seems to be willing to take the hit of being seen with these dudes, highkey seems to be how we ended up here, with them in their bubbles & on their pedestals & bombarded with assurances that its not possible to be happier and that they should never change course in pursuing their own happiness regardless. Experience tells me these dudes were prone to pathological/antisocial degrees of selfishness prior to being rejected by all good company, so from that pov its moot whether more and better friends/lovers would have helped or would now help. So, i guess since there's really no fixing these guys (i mean, feel free to try; put on some binurals and astral project as hard as you can over to whichever oligarch is your preferred secret moe-blob, why not) .....we could just let the weirdo fash girlies keep running at them for golden child support tickets, proving exactly how paint-by-numbers the behavioral control playbook is ...what does daisy say, "be a beautiful little fool"? Theyll never think anyone could outsmart them and arent looking to feel outsmarted, right now theyre in a race against revolution but theyll all get tired eventually..its probably tiring already. Someone could probably lift ashley at clair's script verbatim and have it work on any oligarch, even musk, again

#Things Mental Healthcare Professionals Could Do That Would Actually Be Useful For People With Psychosis:#highly individualized/personal care (not pharma-lobotomy-fits-all)...on that note: pharmacological conservativism...#being unhurried/time-generous...#genuine interest in the specifics of the client/their symptoms...each symptom (eg damaging/painful delusional beliefs) is its own mystery...#...not just 'yet another fake thing a crazy person thought exactly the same as any/every other fake thing ever thought by a crazy person'#'all of which of course need to be treated like undifferentiated garbage thats also contagious and must be suppressed chemically asap'#like really none of how the system treats psychotic people makes sense #unless the whole point is the clinical pros arent looking to be helpful or even knowledgeable. the point is to gaslight & isolate #control not cure is the agenda...why? well u cant fix someone sick from lies by telling them the lies louder but thats all they want to do #so whats left? control through chemical coercion (even though spending less money on the same drugs for less time comes closer to curative)#mangle the brains so they cant Do That Thing We Really Couldn't Care Less About And Are In Fact Openly Disturbed By & Afraid To Talk About #wow for people whose business is caring for crazy people the clinical pros really have no apparent interest in the content of the craziness #quite the opposite. as i said they seem actually afraid to engage at all abt specifics of symptoms. like theyre opposed to hearing about it #does that not seem strange? is that how any other psychological issue is treated? dont they spend years of sessions on every detail?#like isn't it usual to spend your whole adult psychological-practice-availed life dissecting your whole pre-adult life for hidden insights?#when you have a very 'predictable' brain/life they act like its fascinating & the more unusual your brain/life is the less they want to hear #again...isnt that strange? give the abnormal psych experts some abnormal psych to play with and they can't get away fast enough.#they cant find out little enough #i think thats amazing. if the whole thing isnt a top-down conspiracy what explains that protocol #a voice in my head is like remember that 'michelle remembers' shrink? that's why the protocol is avoid-the-quicksand #no but thats a perfect illustration of what IM saying; the problem there wasnt that he listened to too much....#if he'd paid MORE attention & been MORE client-oriented maybe he'd have done due diligence & taken the same steps his ex wife later took...#to either corroborate or concretely rule out the material facts of what michelle was purportedly remembering in their sessions #like thats exactly the kind of mystery/nest of mysteries positioned to destabilize most psychotic frameworks if investigated #but they deem investigation a waste of resources when prescribing brainrot ''will do'' (does it? the brainrot is expensive AND disabling)#(like it doesnt make people more able to do anything...outcomewise its at best lateral to psychosis ime)#(like if you believe it medicates the unpredictability issue sufficiently and makes the behavior all not-scary & that thats the end goal...)#(yeah ig its more effective than directly addressing the conceptual underpinnings of the unpredictable scarryyy behavior...)#(if the goal is getting one functional/independent/happy maybe the elbowgrease approach has better odds than ol' quick & dirty drug-it-away)#(the drugs dont help w functional/independent/happy at all...theyre more like a punishment for not lying more...'stay in the crazy closet!')

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dronebiscuitbat · 8 months ago

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Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 95)

The addition of a second, third and forth pod meant that the frame of the escape shuttle was finally beginning to take place, aluminum and titanium wrapped around in a welded cylinder and thrusters mounted at the back to push it out of Copper-9s atmosphere.

It was mounted on steel scaffolding, facing the sky in all it's patchworked glory as worker drones dotted around it welding peices together and double- triple checking that everything was done to the best of their ability.

There could be no test flights or second chances- this had to work first time.

Along with the framework of the shuttle came month 5 of Uzi's pregnancy, along with N's birthday.

Which was today.

N was now officially twenty years old- an adult by everyone's standards and solidly out of the ‘almost adult’ limbo he'd been stuck in a couple years.

N fought vehemently against any sort of party for his big day, preferring that focus remained on the construction effort, he could celebrate when they were in space… safe.

That… may have had something to do with how possessive he'd been over Uzi lately… he couldn't bare to patrol too far from her, his sweeps getting into tighter and tighter circles.

He'd felt territorial around her since… well, since she'd gotten pregnant. But now it felt like all his sensors were dialed up to eleven at all times, alert to every little sound, movement, change in the air.

Like his entire body was in constant anticipation, waiting for… something.

Knowing J was still out there wasn't helping, every nerve in his body alight as he paced on all fours on the roof of the building that inhabited their nest- which they had both been spending much, much more time in since the baby started moving.

He wasn't the only one exhibiting this pacing, expecting behavior either, Uzi was doing much of the same, though slightly differently- in the form of collecting everything even remotely warm and soft and piling it in the nest and then obsessively rearranging the inside over and over again.

She was still working on the ship, sure. Her blueprints were the ones being used for it's construction, she was in the workshop every single day to either plan the next expedition for another pod, or to work on welding the frame together herself. But the second the work was done it's like they were both taken over by the urge to just… pace.

V was also struggling to contain her baser instincts, though in a different way- she was bringing food up into the nest, most of the time a scavenged limb or head (that did always end up eaten or drunk in it's entirety after everyone else was asleep) and fighting back the desire to pull Uzi into a session of grooming and preening that they would both find embarrassing.

Thad and Lizzy were less affected- Though both took up the habit of escorting Uzi everywhere she went like a pair of especially loyal gaurd dogs. Though now they were sleeping in the nest less and less, N was starting to urge them to sleep at home instead, keeping the nest occupied by three the majority of the time.

Which, finally, brought us to this very moment- V out on patrol/hunting for spare parts while Uzi took a break from adjusting every aspect of the nest to try and get her kit to play.

The incident at the playdate had Tera quiet, silently playing with her bat plushie, only chirping softly every so often instead of the rapid fire happy trilling Uzi was used to.

Considering it had been over a week since- Uzi was starting to get worried.

So she picked Tera up by the scruff of her onesie with her teeth and sat her in her lap, where the toddler just continued quietly playing, head angled to where her mother couldn't see her face.

“Tera.” Uzi called softly, and the solver kitten stopped, shoulders scrunched and bat held close to her chest as she still refused to look directly at her.

Uzi sighed.

“It was an accident baby bat, Daddy and I know you didn't mean to.” at this, Tera finally looked up, wriggling to get into her mother's arm.

“Sad.” Tera mumbled adding distressed warbles along with it, eyeslights knitted in an expression of contemplation that a toddler of her age simply shouldn't be capable of.

“He wa’scared-” She kept going, working the more complex words out of her mouth tentatively, struggling, but not as much as before. “-Of me.”

Uzi felt her core squeeze uncomfortably, threatening to unleash misdirected anger on a toddler she'd only met once.

“Why?” Tera asked, making Uzi blink, for starters, Tera was less then a year old and already asking introspective questions- something that she absolutely should not have the processing power for yet. But;

She really didn't like the direction the conversations was going.

“Oh… Jellybean.” Uzi lent down to hug her daughter, squeezing her tight before pulling away and putting a hand on the toddlers tiny head.

“We're… different from the other workers. We all are, Mommy, Daddy, Auntie V. We have different needs, and sometimes-” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “-sometimes people won't understand that.”

Tera took a moment to think about it, a loading circle appearing on her visor before she looked back up.

“That's mean.” She said, a very familiar glare written all over her face.

“Yeah. Some people will be, that's how people are. But there will be ones who will put in the effort to understand you. If you let them.” Uzi smiled reassuringly, her tail coming free to rest beside Tera as extra comfort.

Tera's attention went over to it, the tail cocking it's head as Tera cocked her own, she put both hands on it, thinking hard.

She nodded slowly. “Otay.”

“You wanna play with my tail…?” Uzi asked gently, snapping her tail playfully at her daughter; making her squeal in delight.

“Yah!”

Uzi grinned as her kit seemed to slowly regain her usual energy, biting and nipping and pouncing on the semi-indepentant head of her tail, trilling happily; her core whirred in delight.

Thump.

And here came the birthday boy.

N pulled back the sheet covering the entrance and crawled inside, stretching like a cat before flopping near Uzi lazily, grumbling.

“Find anything?” She asked, reaching down to tangle her fingers in his tousled hair, his tail wagged happily and his core began to rumble with the sounds of his contentment.

“No. Just more flesh.” He mumbled, lifting his head up slightly.

“How close?”

He paused for a moment.

“Too close, it's uh- it's moving faster then we predicted. I think the more there is, the faster it spreads.”

Uzi sighed.

“We have less time then we thought then… we still need a couple more thrusters, fuel… we're not even close to done.”

“I know.” N replied.

A tense silence filled the nest.

“I'll tell dad tomorrow… the sun's almost up.”

“What's the plan then…?” N almost smiled, admiring the way she did always seem to have a plan.

“We're just going to have to work on crunch time. I'll start working on the guts of the ship this week, we still need a way to recharge while in space.”

“We also need a place to go…we can't just wander aimlessly.”

“I know. I've been looking at old files from the bunker, there's an old satellite hub that might give us a idea of where to go.”

The air got more tense, heavy as lead and just as toxic for their health.

“Let's… try not to think about it.” Uzi said after a moment of feeling the dread creep up her back.

“I think that's what we're all doing…” N replied softly, tail hanging low.

“Happy Birthday.” Uzi near whispered, placing a kiss in his head that made his tail wiggle all over the place.

“Mm. Kinda not the best time to celebrate huh?” He admits, sitting up curl into her shoulder.

“Well…”

“We could always celebrate privately.” N's visor flushed, his tail kinked up straight before coming to curl around his mate, a playful chuckle leaving his mouth.

“Oh?” He hummed. Watching his kit wear herself out playing with Uzi's tail.

“Once she gets tired we can…” She whispered something in his audial that made him blush harder, but then he laughed before whispering something else into hers, which made her blush a shade of impressive violet, in response, he nibbled up her neck and a giggle bubbled out of her throat.

When he pulled back, they nuzzled each other's faces, sparks fluttering between them as he whispered the the words “I love you.”

“I love you too.” She replied, connecting them in a slow, passionate kiss that N ended up sighing into, stress evaporating off him like it was never there.

Next ->

#murder drones #uzi doorman #oil is thicker then blood #serial designation n #nuzi #biscuitbites #tera doorman #i feel like this is lower quality then usual but I couldn't tell you why #gonna be transparent- this fic is about to fully kick into its final gear #n and uzi

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shortqueershakespeare · 2 months ago

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My Merlin songfic is finally up! (Part 1 at least). it's a fic using Abstract (Psychopomp) by Hozier as a framework, I hope you enjoy! I'm not thrilled with the ending but I had to get it out into the world because it was driving me MAD. Fic under the cut and ao3 link

Sometimes it returns

Like rain that you slept through

That washed off the world

The streets looking brand new

I will not be great

But I'm grateful to get through

The feeling came late

I'm still glad I met you

***

Merlin’s earliest memories feature his mother. He knew he was loved the second he was born, even when he was little and the magic sprang from him like a dam unstopped. The first time he remembers consciously knowing his mother was a good person was when there was a sickness going around the village. The villagers exiled the sick, frightened of the illness sapping the life from them one by one. But Hunith could not stand by and do nothing. She had a son, but she had a beating heart and she could not watch the villagers die, cold and alone. She could give them love in their final hours, even if anything else was beyond her grasp.

She sent Merlin away to stay with Will until she could be sure the danger had passed. He did not want to go. He could not imagine leaving his lovely, selfless mother. But she told him that if he did not go the sick would die untouched and unloved and, well. Merlin inherited his bleeding heart from his mother. The first night he had to sleep through a storm without his mother, he cried inconsolably. He wept and begged to be allowed to go to the house, just to see through the window that Hunith was okay and he was doing the right thing to be away from her. Even at that age, his fear was always for others first. Will’s father walked him across the village and gave him strict instructions to stay where he was. He rapped his knuckles on the door and hurried back to Merlin’s side. Hunith answered, her face drawn and exhausted, worry and fear crossing her face at Caelen’s presence. When her eyes landed on Merlin, she broke out into a smile.

“Sorry Hunith, I know you’re busy, but he wouldn’t sleep until I brought him here to make sure you were safe in the storm.”

“I’m safe love, and you are too. Now be good, and go back with Caelen, alright?”

The sickness passed eventually, and Merlin returned home. The villagers, though cautious at first, were kind to Hunith and brought her what little food they could spare. Merlin kept that memory for the first nights of thunder in the castle, when he was scared and felt like a small child again.

***

The memory hurts

But does me no harm

Your hand in my pocket

To keep us both warm

The poor thing in the road

Its eye still glistening

The cold wet of your nose

The Earth from a distance

***

Hunith was always taking in strays. Merlin had grown up at his mother’s knee, often sharing a bed with a stranger or a pained animal. The first time she brought home a fawn, Merlin was terrified that his brilliant, kind mother meant to slay it for meat. Instead, she bathed the skittering beast, gently washing the blood from its leg. With soft instructions, Merlin helped her bandage the creature’s wounds and make it a nest from any soft things he could find. Hunith spent weeks forgoing meals to ensure the fawn could eat and return to health. When it began to stand again, Hunith wept in relief. They went to the edge of the forest where it had been found to release it, the adolescent deer still somewhat tentative on its feet, but growing in strength. Over the following year, when they went to collect wood, they would catch occasional glimpses of red fur in the distance and their hearts would lift a little at the small life they had managed to save.

***

See how it shines

***

Merlin was always fascinated by moonlight. Even as a child, Hunith would find him staying up past his bedtime, climbing up to the window to look at the light streaming in. Privately, she thought it reminded him of the brightness of his magic, just a little, and he loved that the moon was there, everpresent. And Hunith noticed the fascination, of course she did. So she began sewing little moons into Merlin’s clothes, a small reminder of her tacit approval and unconditional love for him. It took him years to notice. At first he was sure she must just do it to all of their clothes, like a little flourish to make them more personal. It was only when he started doing their chores by hand, after he lost the excuse of being too young to know better that he noticed the little embroidered moons. Painstakingly created, no two the same, always close to his heart or his hands. He understood then how much his mother loved him, no matter how much he risked, she would always love him.

***

Sometimes there's a thought

Like you choose what you're doing

But it comes to nought

When I look back through it

I remember the view

Street lights in the dark blue

The moment I knew

I'd no choice but to love you

***

Arthur is a brat. He’s loud and brash and he drives Merlin up the fucking wall. But it’s evident fairly quickly that there’s a soft heart behind the bravado and bluster. One day when Arthur is being particularly annoying, he’s running a tonic up to Morgana for Gaius and maybe being a little overdramatic over Arthur’s behaviour. Normally Morgana is the first to jump in and add her own annoyances at his behaviour, but there’s something soft in her eyes today. Merlin’s been complaining about Arthur’s habit of always leaving a little food left on his plate, it’s always such a faff having to take it down to the kitchens and it’s such a waste . Sure, Merlin himself could eat it, but he’s well-fed as it is and there’s a part of him he can’t shake that feels like everything will crumble in a second and he’ll be back to the constant gnawing hunger he grew used to in the rough winter harvests in Ealdor, when his mother wouldn’t let him use magic to stretch their food, so he insisted he’d eaten plenty just so he wouldn’t have to watch her face go gaunt.

So it’s been a pet peeve of his as long as he’s been Arthur’s manservant, until Morgana gently tells him the reason Arthur does it. As a child he’d had a small appetite, and he’d seen so many with less than him, of course he’d wanted to help! But Uther was a bitter man, twisted with fury after the loss of Ygraine, so he’d told Arthur that it was bad for a prince to encourage overreliance of the citizens on the castle. The cook found Arthur sobbing in the kitchens one day, a broken plate in his hands from where Uther had thrown it across the room in his rage. Marion was lucky, working at the castle afforded her the privilege of plenty of food and she never wanted for sustenance. But she took pity on the bawling prince, defenseless at the sight of a crying child. She told him that she would see to it that any food returned to the kitchens on his plate would be distributed to the poor, free of charge, without the knowledge of the King. So Arthur grew used to overfilling his plate and receiving giant portions Merlin always grumbled over. Merlin was left speechless when Morgana told him. Fuck. If he wasn’t already halfway in love with the bastard, he certainly was now.

***

The speed that you moved

The screech of the cars

The creature still moving

That slowed in your arms

The fear in its eyes

Gone out in an instant

Your tear caught the light

The Earth from a distance

***

If Arthur noticed Merlin’s behaviour softening toward him after a few months, he didn’t say anything. They were still trading barbs regularly, but there seemed to be less venom behind the words. He knew Merlin was loyal to a fault, but that didn’t mean Merlin had to like him. Merlin was preparing Arthur’s bathwater at short notice, as if he didn’t have enough to do. The bastard seemed to have been almost gleeful when he fell in the mud earlier, thrilled at increasing Merlin’s workload, no doubt.

He’s understandably a little taken aback when Arthur comes sprinting into his chambers, tears streaming down his face and making some sort of distinctly inhuman wailing sound. He’s up and by Arthur’s side in an instant, checking him over for injuries when he notices a bedraggled and very vocally distraught kitten in Arthur’s arms. This man will be the absolute death of him.

He looks in Arthur’s eyes and he knows they can’t just do nothing. The ginger kitten is bleeding everywhere and what on earth is he meant to do, that thing is beyond saving, unless. Unless. Merlin breathes deep, slow and strong and terrified of what might happen, what they might do to him, But this has to be a sign, right? Arthur has a good heart and he is trying to save a creature far beyond saving. He has trusted Merlin with its life. He can’t let him down in the face of that.

He whispers the words and hopes against hope that his instincts haven’t led him to ruin.

***

See how it shines

***

All Arthur can see is the flash of Merlin’s eyes and the blood is gone, the wounds healed and the kitten back to mewling instead of wailing. Merlin meets his eyes and he doesn’t know what to think, so he turns and runs, runs until he’s out of the castle and his lungs are burning. He’s terrified that he’s made a mistake but he’s exhausted and falls asleep under the light of the moon, its embroidered counterpart on his tunic clutched between his thumb and forefinger, hoping he’ll be alright.

***

Darling, there's a part of me

I'm afraid will always be

Trapped within an abstract from a moment of my life

The weeds up through the concrete

The traffic picking up speed

All my love and terror

Balanced there between those eyes

***

He wakes the next morning and he’s still terrified, but he’s alive, so maybe, just maybe he might be okay. He takes his time returning to the castle, ready to take off running away from the patrol he’s still half convinced must be mere moments away from dragging him to the dungeons. He picks his way through the bracken, stopping to collect the odd ingredient, partly out of self-preservation, in case he really does have to run, partly as a way to buy himself back into Gaius’ good graces after yet another impromptu disappearance, no doubt with an irate prince to go along with it.

When he finally opens the doors to Gaius’s quarters, he’s bewildered to find the old man moving around the room at a much faster pace than his creaking joints should allow. He spots a blur of ginger fur and slams the door shut just in time to stop the creature escaping. He looks up at Gaius, braced for his ire and is surprised to see the man with a soft smile gracing his features. He raises his eyebrows in question until Gaius explains that Arthur was worried that the cat might still be nursing unseen injuries and had decided that Gaius was better placed to cope with the possibility.

Merlin is, at best, utterly baffled. Did Arthur not say anything to him about what he did? Has he already decided to turn Merlin into the king and doesn’t want to deal with the old man’s pleas for mercy?

Gains can clearly see the panic written across his face and takes pity on him, handing him a note from Arthur. A note. From Arthur. What the fuck?

Merlin,

Please tell me you haven’t gone and done something stupid. I have the tournament coming up and I won’t have my servant slacking and making me look messy, especially since recent discoveries have made it clear to me that you are more lazy than incompetent.

Make sure you help Gaius take care of the kitten, we’ve named him Ethelred.

Yours,

A very patient prince

Okay, Merlin thinks, that note did NOT make things any clearer.

He doesn’t sound angry though, he sounds like his normal prat of a prince. Did something go wrong with a spell somehow, has Arthur lost his memory and that’s why he’s so calm? No, that can’t be it, or he wouldn’t have mentioned recent discoveries.

Well, Arthur mentioned the tournament, so Merlin goes to his chambers to collect any necessary items, entering far more quietly than his usual slammin gof doors, hoping to avoid the prince’s gaze. No such luck.

Arthur is there, and his eyes are soft when they meet Merlin’s. His heart is in his mouth as Arthur crosses the room to him and he barely has the chance to catch his breath before Arthur’s lips meet his.

Arthur pulls away, resting his forehead against Merlin’s and murmuring reassurances. Merlin can’t believe his luck. He really is going to be alright.

***

See how it shines

***

Many years later, Arthur is more than used to the flash of gold when Merlin casts a spell. At first furtive and only in emergencies when Arthur’s life was in danger, now something that happens thousands of times a day because really why would he bother moving from his bed to fetch more water when magic can do that for him?

When they are married, Arthur insists the ceremony take place on a specific date, at an unorthodox time. Merlin thinks he’s just being difficult until the night in question, when he sees the full moon shine above their heads, the light reflecting off the rings they exchange. Arthur asks for a simple spell and Merlin’s eyes flash gold once more, the rings lighting up in time, binding their souls together beneath the stars.

#merthur #merthur fic #merlin x arthur #merlin fic #bbc merlin #my writing #my fic #song fic #abstract (psychopomp)

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