Latest Posts by justanotherartist29 - Page 3

Skip Google for Research

As Google has worked to overtake the internet, its search algorithm has not just gotten worse.  It has been designed to prioritize advertisers and popular pages often times excluding pages and content that better matches your search terms 

As a writer in need of information for my stories, I find this unacceptable.  As a proponent of availability of information so the populace can actually educate itself, it is unforgivable.

Below is a concise list of useful research sites compiled by Edward Clark over on Facebook. I was familiar with some, but not all of these.

⁂

Google is so powerful that it “hides” other search systems from us. We just don’t know the existence of most of them. Meanwhile, there are still a huge number of excellent searchers in the world who specialize in books, science, other smart information. Keep a list of sites you never heard of.

www.refseek.com - Academic Resource Search. More than a billion sources: encyclopedia, monographies, magazines.

www.worldcat.org - a search for the contents of 20 thousand worldwide libraries. Find out where lies the nearest rare book you need.

https://link.springer.com - access to more than 10 million scientific documents: books, articles, research protocols.

www.bioline.org.br is a library of scientific bioscience journals published in developing countries.

http://repec.org - volunteers from 102 countries have collected almost 4 million publications on economics and related science.

www.science.gov is an American state search engine on 2200+ scientific sites. More than 200 million articles are indexed.

www.pdfdrive.com is the largest website for free download of books in PDF format. Claiming over 225 million names.

www.base-search.net is one of the most powerful researches on academic studies texts. More than 100 million scientific documents, 70% of them are free

boxy got em 😔

⭒ㅤׂ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ʀᴜɪɴɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʟɪꜰᴇㅤׂ ⭒

⭒⌒★ Yandere!Dune Men x Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓏𝑒 𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒴𝑜𝓊 ♡ ｡ ゜  

☾⋆ Paul Muad'Dib Atreides | پل معادب آتریدس

He dreamed of you again tonight. Something cathartic laying across the sands. Your touch haunts his skin, tracing scars and stars across his cheeks. He wonders what you see him as, something sacred or something exotic. Neither matters so long as you love him...

Paul's a volatile star, always one breath away from exploding. You're scared to touch the golden boy, lest your fingers return burned and your skull rattles with the echo of the cosmos. Still, it's hard to miss the devotion when his lips grace your knuckles. Hard to miss the cacophony of his heart as it reverberates across the desert. 

ᯓ★ Leto Atreides | لتو آتریدس

Leto kisses butterflies into your shoulder, the taste of your skin feels like nectar on his tongue. His mind is always racing vying for your affection, your attention, your adherence. He traces your name across his star maps, each letter scribbled in a melancholy blue. You grace his chambers again tonight, it feels so wrong to only see your silhouette, to not feel your love bleeding like his does. He kisses you again, something akin to devotion. He needs to feel you under him again, needs to feel the softness of your flesh under his fingers. Something in him shatters, something inside him rearranges. You make him feel so erratic. Why must he love you this way?

𓆩⚝𓆪 Duncan Idaho | دانکن آیداهو

his lips taste of chaos, he pours his passion into you. 

He feels you rattle inside his bones. Feels you coursing through his veins like unaltered spice. He's on another mission, laying in the sand and daubing your essence into constellations. He dreams of your fingers running over his muscles pushing adoration into him with a rusted kitchen knife. Your eyes never gaze at him for long. And yet each stare holds the weight of a nebula. He falls asleep to the phantom melody of your sweet voice. Dreaming of returning to you once more. 

༺🕸༻ Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen | فید روتا هارکونن

There's a blade in his hand, blood marring pale fingers again. In every droplet, he sees your face. Phantom pains rampage when he hears your name. He dreams of you holding a knife to this chest, breaking the skin, and riving through muscle. Each night your ghost plagues him. Hurting him in all the ways he craves. He dubs you ecstasy, overdosing on everything he wants to do to you. Everything he wants you to do to him. He etches your name upon his bones, dedicating each open wound to you. He's going mad over the notion of you between his sheets, limbs entwined in a bloody mess. His tongue craves the taste of your flesh, starved like the trees on Arakkis. He must have you, he will have you. 

-`𖤓´- Stillgar | ستیلگار

Stillgar's love is a desert tune, the winds rustling through the grains before the breaching of a sandworm. He falls harder and harder with each soulful gaze. He's spent his whole life chasing prophecies that he's forgotten how to wholly love something not written in blood and legend. He prays upon every star, that the maker has written your names together. That maybe some prophecy exists where you are to become his. He watches you sitting across the dunes, watching as the sunset pales compared to you. He whispers prayers beneath his breath, hoping you'll be with him soon. 

݁˖☘︎ Gurney Halleck | گارنی هالک

He stiffens under your touch, under the sonority of your voice. His battered heart rattles in your presence, the air in his lungs freezes and he momentarily forgets that he is a soldier, a protector, a tool carved to fight for the Atreides. He's not meant to love, to crush, he's meant to kill, to teach, to follow. A weapon in every sense of the word. And yet he'd throw the world at your feet for a sliver of your attention. Gurney can't help the flames that grow within him. The raging pyro each night when he catches a rogue glimpse of you through the crack of your door. He wishes to kiss you, to hold you. To make you his in every way he knows he can't. 

naomi osaka's US open r1 outfit!

What did I do to deserve this 😭

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–And when my hands are bloodied—

Oh darling, would you stay?

Paul Atreides x Reader

Summary: There are always greater hands at play when you dance with Kings and noblemen. The greater hands usually belong to women.

Warning(s): Sorta dark story, I think. Talks of Sexual abuse, cheating, eventual murder, pregnancy and eventual descriptive childbirth. Mediocre Smut that includes: Soft Dom!Paul, fingering, teasing, grinding.

Notes: King Paul :) Queen Reader :) Part one! This is 9k words, vaguely based on GOT, like vibes okay, mentions of dragons n shit. Also look, I know my records with part twos but I couldn't post this fic all at once, my doc was slowing down 😭

Tart. There's a cheer from somewhere deep in the hall, a jostle of movement at his side as his father joins the group of merry men singing. Leto stands from his seat, rousing another cheer and a loud laugh from his mother.

Paul is surrounded by joy— drowning it and all he can think about is how tart his wine is. How the meat on his plate is too red and bleeds when poked. He glances at his father and Leto sways to the tune and the sweet voices of the bards. They're barely heard over the shout of others joining in and the words are lost to him but his father shouts them with the joy of a young child; Téir abhaile riú, téir abhaile riú!

Jessica is mid-laugh when Leto grabs her hands and pulls her from her chair. Her face flashes and a splash of surprise and embarrassment is all Paul can catch before his father pulls her to the ballroom floor with the mass of dancing bodies. Paul watches after them for a moment and he sighs, this life suits them. To be free of responsibilities, titles, and Kingdoms wearing them down. Leto and Jessica Atreides were no longer King and Queen of Caladan, where their soldiers' shouts were as loud as crashing waves and stronger than the tide. They are now King Father and Queen Mother, beloved by all and feared by most– even though they spent most of their days by the seaside with the princess, his sister, simply living.

Long ago, Paul thought he would never envy that lifestyle. Since he was young, he had always desired more— to be more than a future Duke and lord of Caladan. While his home was already gold plated, Paul dreamed of sharing his wealth with the common folk, of having enough sway to do so without having others look down their noses at him. But now that he has it, now that he's King, he sees it's not that easy. It's not all gold and crowns and gatherings so great that floors shake under their weight. There are a lot more assassinations than anyone ever mentioned, a lot more scheming and planning. There's a lot of… nothing as King. His father had left him in a good spot but money didn't grow on trees and it didn't just appear in the coin masters’ pocket. The money came from the common folk, as much as any noble-born tried to deny, it was the truth. Without them fattening the Crowns’ pockets with a large portion of gold from their livestock and crop sales, they'd be nothing.

Paul reaches for his wine, casting a weary glance around the hall. He wonders how much gold this wedding cost King Áed, he wonders how much it set him back on other expenses, and if his people loathed him for it. He takes another sip of his wine and he battles to keep his face untwisted at the taste. Surely, if the common folk knew their gold was being spent on disgusting wine, there'd be a revolt in the streets. He can see it now; Áed Mercer, third of his name and King of Somnus and all its surrounding stars killed on the night of his wedding and his offense? Buying the worst wine ever made for the bragging rights of the price alone.

There's another cheer, louder than before as King Áed leaves his banquet table in the front of the hall to join the dancing folk. He joins hands with one of the bards, a young boy with braided hair and a wobbly smile and the crowd goes wild as he swings the boy about with a hearty laugh. Paul nearly laughs at the sight but his eyes dart around the crowd searching only to go back to the Kings' table.

Paul has been to plenty of weddings since he was crowned King. He has seen brides so filled with joy they could barely sit still, brides so scared— terrified of their future and their arranged husbands, they did nothing but weep. But you are none of that. It's something out of a painting, he thinks, how your skin is a stunning glow under the hundreds of glow orbs and candles, your hair twisted and braided away from your face and cheeks dusted in gold, you sit stock-still, your face set in disinterest as you watch your husband prance about. Your wedding dress is Mercer red. The color of grizzly bears only found deep in the Somnus mountains— he suspects the cuff of fur hanging off your shoulders is made from that very same bear. It is a pretty thing, your cape; a thick neck of red-brown fur that gives way to rich brown wool, and at the ends of it are embroidered images of your houses. Mercer, 'the Bear' and Solasti, 'the Willow'.

He had only caught a glimpse of it during the wedding ceremony and when he did, he had held back a chuckle. The embroidered bear was stuck forever pawing at the roots of the great willow tree. It fits, he supposes. The Mercer house, royal or not, were drunk fools on their best days and tyrants on their worse while the Solasti house was only steps away from the Bene Gesserit. His mother had mentioned them before, how the house of willows was raised to be cutthroat because they were survived by daughters and not sons— how at one point, they were considered a threat to the Bene Gesserit. But then, the war happened. The Atreides became royal and the empire was crushed in the span of two years. How women who were once feared became mocked for their saying.

‘We do not weep.’

Jessica had told Paul to keep an eye out for them. To always be willing to accept them as an ally, a friend to the Atreides name. She had pulled him close after he sat in on a meeting with his father and whispered in his ear; he should never underestimate a noble house— even if they are small, they are still noble. They still have gold and as long as one had gold, one could fund a war.

Paul is so lost in thought, he barely notices the girl until she's right in his face. She's bent at her waist, her eyes planted on the floor and a silver platter balances easily on her open palm. When she sees him jerk in surprise, there's a puff of breath, a smile pulling at her lips but she doesn't laugh. Still, she doesn't look at him, instead, she extends the platter, her braids swinging with the movement, and presents him with a golden chalice, “From the Queen, your Grace.”

Paul blinks only once before his eyes flicker over to you, you're already watching him, meeting his stare head-on whilst holding your chalice. You smile at him, raising your cup and tilting it towards him with a curious look. He shouldn't take it, he thinks. He thinks of the numerous attempts against his father's life, his own life since becoming King— it is easy to poison things, foods, and drinks especially, but there is something about your smile. How bright it is, how it is your first smile of the night, and it's aimed at him. Paul knows better, truly, but…

His fingers wrap around the chalice, bringing it closer to him, he knows it's going to be sour, and tart as all of the others he's drunk tonight. He brings it to his lips, bracing himself and… and…

It is sweet.

“It is a barbaric practice.” Jessica hisses. Her nails are digging into Leto's arm as she watches only the soberest of the noblemen stand and leave the ballroom. They whisper to each other softly, snickering against themselves as they walk to the royal chambers. “Beyond eons old and it should have died out.”

“The Mercers cling to tradition.” Leto mumbles. “You know this Jessica, they pray to Gods they know to be false, they hunt to sacrifice and they take the traditions of old Kings. This is expected.” Leto pauses, looking at Paul and Paul stares back, trying to keep himself steady. The sweet wine has gone to his head, it only took two— almost three cups and it makes him want to stumble about. It takes a lot of might for him to stand still, even more so to keep his face straight under his father's stare. He wants to laugh, he's so tired he wants to cry, what even are they talking about?

Still, somehow, Leto seems to see through his facade, his lip twitching. “You do not have to go and watch. The Mercers understand that not everyone takes kindly to their tradition.”

Jessica shifts in her place, pulling Leto closer to her. She whispers, more to herself than anyone else but they both hear, “She is barely any older than Paul. She's a child and all those men… just watching. It's horrible.

Paul frowns, the only thing his drunk mind processed was his mother calling him a child. He was twenty-one as of last month, she should know that considering she planned his birthday bash. He opens his mouth to point this out but Leto gives him a look and he seals his lips. The former King snorts at this, covering it with a cough when Jessica glares up at him, “Look, you don't have to do it. I wouldn't do it even if I was a King but I know every man in that room is seen as an ally because they do watch. I'm not saying you have to stay the entire time, hell, you could close your eyes. But we are Atreides and we–”

“Can always use more allies.” He groans. Stars above, the glow orbs are bright, one bobs by his head and he swats it and sends it bouncing away from him. “I’ll do it–” Jessica shakes her head and unlatches from Leto, “Mom–”

“I’ll be on the ship.” She says. She gives both of them a look and Paul feels a shiver run down his spine. “Do not take long. You will not watch the whole thing.” She turns with a snap of her cape and matches out of the room.

Leto murmurs a few more words of encouragement to his son, frowning when Paul blinks at him with heavy lids. He knows this is a bad idea, to send his drunk son stumbling through a castle they barely know but he knows it's even worse to let his wife stew in her anger. Leto's dark eyes flicker around the ballroom, landing on one of the servants who stayed behind for the guest who cared more about drink and food than watching a king fuck his wife, and he flags her down. The girl places down her platter of golden cups and walks over easily, blinking at the duo but bowing at the same.

“Yes?”

Leto gives her simple instructions. Guide Paul to royal chambers. He makes it sound better than it was and Paul snickers whenever his father claims he simply needs help because he's never been here before. He knows he's swaying in his spot and he knows this girl— the very same girl who served him his very sweet wine— could see that just fine. Still, she does as asked, looping arms with Paul and pulling him out of the ballroom. They walk in silence for a few long moments, servants pass them and give them curious looks all while Paul tries to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and not look at the alarming amount of stuffed bears the Mercers’ had in their home. But, after what seemed to be the fourth bear forever stuck in a roaring position, he groans.

“I think I despise them.”

The girl blinks, following his gaze as they slow to a momentary stop, “The bears, Your grace?”

Paul narrows his eyes taking in the large black back in all his furry, almost hideous, glory. Whoever stitched it together and mounted it did not care to make it as pretty as the other ones, probably because it wasn't the favored red the house loved so much. “The bears. The traditions. The wine. The Mercers...” The last part slips before he can stop himself and his heart gives a flip as he looks back to the girl, “Forgive me, I do not mean to speak ill of the ones you serve.”

And at this…? The girl giggles. Her lips twitch but they never pull into a full smile , “You do not offend me if that's what you fear, your Grace. Nor will I go off to tell the Mercer lot what you said. I'm of house Solasti, the Queen is my cousin and I'm only here to serve her.”

Paul notices the similarities now that she mentions it, he should have seen it before, you both share the same shade of skin, the same round nose, and brown eyes. This Solasti girl is pretty almost as pretty as you and Paul wonders if she was any older, would she be in your place instead. The thought leaves as fast as it comes, his stomach rolling with an oddly uncomfortable warmth. Paul opens his mouth and blurts before he can stop himself, “Did you– These traditions–”

“I am glad my cousin and I aren't alone in our hate for them.” She says after a moment, watching his face carefully. “She will remember every face in that room tonight, your grace. Memorize every leering gaze. She will make enemies out of them.” She pulls Paul forward, causing him to stumble after her. He tries to will his body to stop and when that doesn't work, he tries to summon the Voice from deep within him. His senses are dulled, buried deep in sticky mud, under gallons of dark water. He has been drugged, he thinks, no wine should be able to do this.

“The w-wine. Did you..?” He murmurs as she swings open a door and drags him inside. She lets him drop against a dusty old red couch and crouches before him, pushing his hair out of his face and shushing him.

“Only a fool would poison the son of a former Bene Gesserit, your grace.” She says. “Solasti wine is sweet but in its’ sweetness is a potentness that could down dragons.”

“Dragons–? They don't…” His lashes flutter rapidly in his fight to keep them open, his words begin to slur. “They don't exist…”

And at this, the Solasti girl only looks sad. “No, I suppose they don't. Not anymore.” His eyes flutter once more and she rises to her feet, giving him one last once over. “Rest well, Your grace. I shall send for one of your guards to retrieve you.”

“But the King–”

“Will not take offense. He drank more Solasti wine than you.” She snickers. “Probably can't differentiate his arm from his cock. Rest, My King. The stars will continue to light your path.”

Paul doesn't see her leave and doesn't hear it either. He's out before she even makes it to the door.

His mother's anger is a horrible thing. Silent and deadly. Days after the wedding, she stews in it despite his and his father's best efforts. He had tried to explain when Duncan came to pull him from that old dusty room but his mouth was thick with cotton, tongue as heavy as lead and every blink felt like his eyes were filled with sand. He hadn't stayed to watch the King fuck his bride, for stars' sake, he didn't even get a glimpse of that. He was gone for an hour, maybe two, and it was enough to seal his fate. He had looked to his father for help and instead was met with a subtle disappointment that made his skin prickle and crawl.

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts of his parents and their disappointments. He has better things to focus on—like being on Somnus again makes him ache for a familiar face, the sweet wine and he wishes there were fewer bears in the room with him. He eyes the small stuffed brown bear posed to forge through a tipped-over basket of waxed apples as he slowly sips his water. Its eyes are lopsided, one browner than the other and the nose of the taxidermy animal is peeling. Paul doesn't care about bears, alive or dead, all he knows is that they could provide a good winter coat, a nice blanket, and their meat is a delicacy. Paul doesn't care about the bears, he could care even less about the ones scattered about Áed's castle but… but he can't help but think it's a waste. Of space, of life, of furs that could have gone to their common folk.

He takes another sip of water, his lips thinning. He and King Áed are simply different. Paul's main concern was his people, how he couldn't rest until he knew no one under his reign went through the night hungry— he had cut back on castle expenses, and doing this he heard constant complaints from nobles about their taxes being too high but Áed…

The older King descends on him in a flurry of bear fur, gold, and blood red. He's a large man and when he wraps his arms around Paul, he lifts him from the floor with a hearty laugh that leaves him confused. Áed has never been this friendly with him before, sure, there had been moments when Paul had caught him staring at him curiously, his emerald eyes lost in thought but Áed would smile and look away. Kind, almost cold but never friendly. Paul is plopped back to the floor, his water splashing over his front and the floor but he's left blinking as he's greeted with the King's broad smile and your piercing stare. “My friend,” Áed starts, his voice pitched lower but still booming enough to make him flinch. There is a familiar sweet scent that clings to his breath and Paul risks a glance at you. Solasti wine is potent and there's no telling how many the King has drunk today. “I am– we are so glad you accepted the invitation on such short notice. I must admit if not for my lovely lady wife, I would have not invited you to this hunt at all.”

Paul looks at you again, more openly now that Áed has called attention to you, and your brow twitches. Your face is the same as that night— almost bare except for gold that dusts your cheeks and nose, your eyes connect with his and your brows drop, that carefully crafted look of indifference melting over your face once more. “He gives me too much credit.” Paul can barely hide his shiver at the sound of your voice, it is soothing. Your voice is a soft thing, so soft that he has to lean in to hear you over the chatter in your room, “I simply reminded him that you are a friend.” Your voice takes on a careful tone and Paul swallows at the look you give him. “Not all can handle Mercer Traditions, we are glad you were able to do so.”

The Queen is lying for him and the look she gives says many things but he can read one the clearest; go with it. She had opened a door for him, she is making him an ally but why? He remembers the girl's words from that night, of you making an enemy of every face in that room. He takes a glance around the room and he sees it— the men that surround them are the ones he saw snickering and speaking cruelties about you as they went to your room. Paul is the only noble here who has not seen your naked body. He is the only one who did not watch Áed lay claim to what is ‘his.’ He looks back to your expectant eyes and he finds himself rushing to agree, “Of course.” He says, his voice nearly cracking. He clears it, squaring his shoulders as he breaks eye contact to look back at Áed. “It was an honor to be included in something so… so personal to you. It is always eye-opening– being included in new traditions, I mean.”

Áed lets out an absentminded hum and Paul knows it went in one ear and out the other. The king is gone, his eyes glassy and he wobbles just slightly— he has a hand on your shoulder, balancing himself then he looks past Paul brightening. Paul barely turns his head before a young man passes, he's holding a tray of chalices and Áed moves with a quickness to follow him. He leaves but not before patting Paul's arm whilst calling him a ‘good man’. Áed leaves and you stay, only gazing after your husband with a slight frown.

Paul clears his throat, ready to ask why you invited him here but you interrupt him. “A word, your grace?”

Paul tilts his head and you take a step closer to him, your hand pulling the water glass from his hand. He watches, astonished, as you bring the cup to your lips, drinking from the very place where his lips once were. “My husband is called the Boy King.” Water dribbles from the corner of your mouth and you are quick to raise a hand to swipe at it, “Not because he is childish. Not because he has a temper that could rival a child.” You pop the thumb into your mouth and Paul is frozen by the action, swallowing harshly as you pull your thumb from your lips. “He is called the Boy King because… he rather stick his cock in boys than his wife.”

Paul flinches, taking a step away from you. “Pardon?”

“Oh, I think you heard me just fine.”

Paul did hear you, he just didn't expect you to speak so plainly to him. There is something about you, your voice and its breathy whisper saying cock that makes his head blank but— stars above and below— that is not the point. You are watching him again, taking amusement in his visible buffering at the information and he stutters out, “It is just–” His voice cracks and he is loud, loud enough to draw looks from the other men and servants in the room and he takes a step forward to you, his head bowing till he's close to you and his voice a whisper floating over your skin, “I do not… I don't understand why you're telling me this.”

You look at him like he's stupid. “You are a pretty boy, your grace.” Paul's breath leaves him as you lean in closer, your lips brushing his ear, “The King's cock wanders… you wouldn't want it in any uncomfortable places.” You pull back slowly, pressing his glass back into his hands. “If you will excuse me,” You start, louder than you spoke before, “I do not care for Áed’s hunts. I will retire to my chamb–”

But for some reason, Paul can not let you leave. Before the glass truly leaves your hands, his hand encases yours— fingers trapping against the cool, wet glass. “Do you have an issue with that? man and man, does it bother you that much you'd warn me away?” He wants to know what about him gave him away— what is it about him that screamed that he had no true preference between man or woman but he knows better. In a room filled with people, no matter how drunk, he chooses his words carefully.

“I do not care if a man sleeps with another man.” You say slowly, eyeing him coolly before glancing at your touching hands. “I do not care if a woman wants to marry another woman. Love who you love, your grace. Fuck who consents. My issues lie with men who use their position to scare younger ones into getting what they want.”

Paul looks to King Áed, drunkenly hanging off the servant boy that passed only moments before. He is talking to another nobleman but has a vice grip on the boy despite his obvious squirming and discomfort. You follow his gaze and there it is again. Not the indifference that always seemed to be at home on your face but pure, unfiltered annoyance. You shake your hand from Paul's and he watches that indifference come back, he watches you fall into the role of being Queen and you are gone from his side in seconds. He watches as you slide between the boy and Áed, he sees you give the boy a soft look before dismissing him.

Paul sees a Queen, a wife reluctantly doting on her drunk husband— he doesn't see you flinch when Áed bellows: “The hunt starts now!” Paul sees you clap while the men around you cheer and he finds himself copying the movement. Your eyes meet, brown on green and Paul sees you. An ally, a potential friend.

And… he sees you smile, just barely at him. It makes him feel like he's drunk several cups of Solasti wine.

Friendship, Paul finds, comes easy with you. King Áed invites him back to Somnus for several hunts— he gets drunk out of his mind with the other men and then they put on their hunting gear, grab their weapons and disappear into the surrounding mountains for a few days. Paul stops going into the forest when he sees it's pretty much the same thing every time, all the men drink till they can't stand, King Áed convinces a few to disappear into his tent with him and the royal guards do all the hunting. The men pretend they caught whatever deer or bear and they pretend not to see Áed take on lovers other than his wife.

Instead, he stays behind, taking one for the ‘team’ as Áed had joked, and spends his time at your side. At first, you seemed confused by his presence— you had tried many times to shake him off your tail with different tasks and chores, and you had tried to bore him as well. You had begun to read a book out loud– it was in a language he didn't understand and you never changed your tone but he stayed and listened. For someone who planned so heavily to always be a step ahead, Paul doesn't understand why you don't see he's simply in your company because he prefers it. It takes you weeks to see it when you finally do, you talk to him, plainly. Openly.

His favorite pastime is naming all the bears in Mercer Castle and coming up with outlandish stories. There is a bear tucked away in your study, it is a gaudy thing with ratty white fur and faux ruby eyes. It stands taller than you both even as hunched as it is with big yellow teeth bared and crooked. Paul affectionately called it Rhubarb much to your previous annoyance. He'd come into your study, stuff an apple in its mouth and begin to tell you the same old story he came up with weeks ago:

“Rhubarb was brown once. As brown as the bark on a tree, as brown as your house crest.”

You don't look up from your embroidery. If Paul didn't know you by now, he would have thought you weren't listening but you have your tells. Your hand stalls for just a second and the corner of your lip twitches downwards. Paul also knows he's annoying you. You had your limits when it came to him and sometimes, you truly enjoyed the silence and being able to just sit at your desk, his mind never turned off, and his body could never seem to sit still for too long.

Your needle pierces the fabric and you tilt your head forward, baring your neck to him. “I thought you didn't like the bears.”

It takes a moment for him to answer, his gaze greedily taking in the sight of your smooth skin, the curve and dip of your collarbone. Paul didn't thank the Mercer family for a lot of things but he finds himself thanking them for their choice in fashion. The gown itself is that deep, Mercer red and it hangs low on your shoulders, stopping just above your breast where the fabric begins to bunch around a fat sapphire gem. You move, tightening the thread as you do as Paul catches the flash of a thick gold bracelet on your wrist then the thin metal of your wedding ring.

He swallows, looking away. “I don't like the bears that haunt the halls. Rhubarb is hidden away, prettier than the others.”

At this, you look up at the big ugly bear then look back at Paul, your face pinched. “Be serious.”

It's enough to make him laugh. He moves closer to you, away from the bear, tossing an apple from hand to hand as he nears. “Rhubarb was a brown bear. The biggest bear that ever lurked in the woods of Somnus. Then one day, as he went hunting he came across a creature. A small creature with big watery eyes and a short snout, it didn't walk on four legs like he did– no, much to his horror it walked on two!”

Paul makes a show of acting surprised, he catches the apple in one hand and raises himself high and you bite your cheek, snorting as he stumbles. “Rhubarb had never seen a creature so ugly, a creature so small and hairless. The shock of it turned him white.”

“That is not how it works.” You laugh, shaking your head and Paul tuts playfully.

“Is too, your majesty. I would say ask Rhubarb but…” He trails off grinning when you laugh softly. He continues his story with another toss of his apple, “The horrid creature stood before Rhu on its two short legs and exclaimed, ‘I am Lord Finan Mercer and I will be king of these woods–’”

The laugh that leaves you is so genuine and abrupt, it sends Paul stumbling over his words. His eyes widen as you slap a hand over your mouth, giggling into your palm. You try to apologize but it sounds insincere to your own ears. Of course, you've heard the story of how the Mercer house came to be— anyone who stepped foot on Somnus knew the blasted story. Lord Finan, fifth of his name, had killed a ghost bear that preyed on his family's settlement and donned its coat before others who praised him for ‘saving’ them. It had earned them their claim to royalty as well as their house words:

We bare the truth.

The ghost bear's coat had been lost to time and words. No one could tell you if it was white, brown, or the signature Mercer red. Some stories say Finan had turned the bear into a statue and some say he had carved the bear of its meat and left its fur so tattered not even a blanket could be made from it. All anyone knew about the blasted bear was that it was big and as silent as a ghost— it ate anything from cattle, and dogs to little children who wandered too far in the woods.

You shouldn't laugh at Paul's words. What he says could be seen as treason but after spending weeks surrounded by those who worship the dead old king and that stupid ghost bear story, it startles a laugh out of you. You clear your throat, choking back the rest of your giggles, and shake your head, “I’m sorry, My King. That was rude of me but… no ruder than you. Speaking cruelly of a king that houses you, how unbecoming.”

Paul considers you for a moment, his grip tightening around the apple in his hand then— “It can be another one of our secrets then.”

Your embroidery is almost completely forgotten. You look at him, eyes glittering. “Another one, hm? How many secrets is that now, My King? One or two?”

Paul brings the apple to his lips to hide his smile at the use of title and it sends a thrill through him that you watch him bite into it with keen eyes. “I have lost count.”

“Oh?”

“Our first…” He says carefully, slowly as if to give you time to reprimand him for his words. When you don't, he continues with more confidence, “Our first was when you lied for me,” He pretends to think, chewing slowly. “Or maybe it was when you gave me the wine then you had your cousin guide me to that old room.”

You look back to the embroidery in your lap, looking a touch embarrassed. “I believe you had it right the first time.”

Paul is grinning, truly grinning so hard his cheeks ache. He swallows his bite of the apple and takes the last few steps that separate you and kneels before you. Your breath hitches and your fingers clench around the fabric— the needle threatening to stab through your finger. No King other than her own kneels before a Queen. It is a tradition Mercer's hold close, closer than their bear pelts and their rusty reds. If Áed was here, he'd likely throw a fit, he'd likely have Paul banished.

The King before you doesn't seem to know the treason he's truly committing and you can not bring yourself to tell him.

No King but her own should kneel before a Queen.

Áed has never knelt. He barely even bowed his head. It is a power he will never give you over him— wife and heir maker, Queen but never a lover, you will never be allowed to hold your head higher than he holds his. Such is a king's right and yet…

Paul kneels before you, he places his apple somewhere off to the side and gently takes the fabric from your hands before holding them carefully. “I suspect we will have many secrets in our time together.” He grips your hands softly, smiling boyishly, “And… knowing you. I suspect we will have time to talk about it later. If you allow me to continue my story, your grace.”

It almost makes you feel bad for… using him in the way you are. He is so sincere, so sweet. It makes your heart clench oddly. Yet… “Of course, my King.”

You push forward.

“I think you should tailor a suit to fit Rhubarb.”

You blink. Looking over you see Paul standing before the bear, a glass of Solasti wine in hand. He brings it to his lips and lets out a pleased little groan as it goes down. “I missed this wine.”

You roll your eyes out of habit, swallowing your mouthful of wine. You two have been talking and drinking for hours, sharing a single bottle of Solasti wine between the two of you. You drink yours straight, basking in the warmth that floods your body with every sip and Paul has his watered down, drinking slower than you but still somehow drunker. “You say that every time I give it to you.”

“You like to deprive me of it.” He whines turning to face you. “Why can't I drink it like you?” He tilts his cup towards you, “What is that? Your fourth cup? This is still my second and you keep adding water to it every time I take a sip.”

You stare up at him, “Is that why you're standing? So I won't put water in your wine?”

Paul makes a face but doesn't respond, instead choosing to look back at the bear. “He is a royal bear, I believe he needs a royal suit.”

You look blankly at the man, not even the alcohol in your veins can dull your amusement towards him and you smile as you say, “Every bear in this wretched place is royal. Royal or not, he is a bear and it'd be a waste of fabric and money just to make you laugh.”

“Silly girl,” He says, unnoticing of the way you freeze, “I would not be the only one finding humor in it. Would it not make you laugh? Would you not look at the bear and think of me?”

You do not look at him as you shift in your seat, reaching into your desk drawers to pull out a small glass bottle filled with amber liquid. You don't bother pouring the liquor into a cup, you simply pull out the glass cork and take a large swig of it. Solasti liquor is much different from its wine, it is bitter and burning— like swallowing a handful of splinters that taste of smoked chocolate and earth. It's disgusting but it's enough to get you drunk. You force down another gulp of it, hoping you could blame the burn in your chest on it rather than his words and you smack Paul's hand away when he reaches for it curiously. This would put him on his ass in seconds. “I would rather not look in the face of bears and see you. Leave me something else to remember you by.”

Paul hums as if he doesn't hear you, taking another sip of his water-down wine. “Do you remember the first time you spoke to me? You called me a boy.”

You roll your eyes at his avoidance. He has done it a hundred times since he figured out it got on your nerves the most. “Yes, I remember that time well enough. You answered me then.”

He smiles then, his lips stained red and his cheeks rosy. “Command me to answer you and I will.”

Your eyes narrow, you know he is drunk. You both are but his drunkenness makes him bold instead of the mess he was last time. Perhaps it's the watered wine that saves him, that keeps him limber limbed, that makes him bite his lip at you. You, despite yourself, look away first. “You are drunk, Paul. Sit down.”

He doesn't move to sit, he only tilts his head considering. “I could command you.” He says softly, not cruelly, not even to brag. He states a simple truth that almost escaped your mind, “I could command you to do whatever I wanted. To act on all the feelings you hide.”

“You forget yourself.” You reply steadily though your traitorous heart pounds. “You stand in my home, you will not threaten me.”

“It was not a threat, My Queen. It was… it was…” He can not find the words, so he shakes his head frowning. “Before, you called me a boy. A pretty one. But no matter how pretty I am, I am not a boy.”

A snort leaves you, bitter sounding but it matches well with the scowl forming on your lips. “And a bear is a bear no matter its suit. A willow will weep with or without eyes and you, Paul? Are a boy with or without a crow-”

The first thing you register is that you are falling. Your chair is tipped backward by a sudden force. One moment you are sitting upwards, staring at Paul the next your world is slated— twisting, wet, and reeking of alcohol. Your hand had swiped across your desk in surprise sending your precious liquor spilling. The second thing that comes to you is pain, your head is the first thing to hit the floor, just barely cushioned by the pillow attached to your chair. There is a foreign weight crushing you. It is warm and it smells of wet woods and the sea. The third thing you realize is the feeling of Paul's lips on yours. His hands on your cheeks, pulling you closer to him— you gasp, desperate for the air that had so suddenly escaped your lungs and Paul breathes into you. His tongue glides across yours and he tastes of fruit, of grapes, berries, and of salt and blood. He had busted his lip in his frenzy to kiss you and he takes pleasure in the subtle violence.

You want to kiss him back but it is too much. Your chest aches under his weight, your head getting light from all the air he steals and then corrupts between his lips. You push at his chest, once, twice and then he goes easily, pulling away from you to take a deep breath of air and you take a moment to do the same. When you gather enough to make your head steady, you meet his horrified look as he gazes down at you.

“I’m sorry, stars, I'm sorry–” His hand goes to the legs of the unturned chair and he pulls it towards him. Your world is once again shifting as he pulls you upright and a heat shoots through you at his show of strength. He hides what must be a beautiful build under his clothes, muscle, fat, and organs all sculptured to be perfect and you want nothing more than to see him bare. He licks his lips once the legs of your chair hit the ground, blood smearing with the action. He takes your silence as rejection, he takes your pause as shock and it truly crumples his wanting expression. “Your grace–”

It is your turn, you decide, to silence him. With more grace than he did, you lean forward slowly and lick the blood from his lips.

It is a mess from there. Paul moves quickly, he presses his lips fiercely against yours, moaning when you bite on the wound on his lips. His hands drop to your bare ankles and he smiles when it causes a breathless laugh against his lips, he moves his hands– past your bare calves, pinching when you nip at his lips again and then he is at your thighs when he freezes. He pulls away from your lips, his head falling lightly against your chin and you press a kiss to his forehead. He hesitates at the heat he feels, only for a moment then he raises his fingers, swiping curiously when you don't stop him.

You stifle a gasp into his hair and the sound sends his cock tightening in his pants. “You are bare?” He whispers. He swipes at your cunt again, his fingers smearing your growing arousal. He pulls away, his eyebrows raised but his voice is a touch breathless, “You planned this, didn't you? Planned for me to fuck you?”

Your thighs clench around his hand and you rear away just slightly, the scowl on your face wobbling at his words. “You forget yourself, Paul.”

“Aht, aht.” He rolls his wrist and his fingers slip, catching your clit almost painfully. He doesn't pinch but he applies a heavy pressure against you that makes your legs jerk out. “You forget yourself. What happened to you calling me your King? Am I no longer yours when I touch you this way–” He begins to pull away and it's almost shameful how quickly you close your legs to keep him there. He smiles impishly, leaning forward to kiss your clothed knee. “Pretty girl, call me yours and I will touch you.”

You glare down at him, “You are mean when you are drunk.”

“And you are needy.” He traces a lazy circle across your cunt with his thumb. “Call me yours and I'll make you cum with my mouth.”

“Stars, Paul.” You push the grinning King away and he lets you. The thought of oral makes you queasy, you've had sex before obviously but not even Áed has been that close to your pussy. The closest he's ever been was with clumsy fingers and prodded and poked. Too used to grabbing and pulling to ever glide and grind. Oral, the thought of a mouth, Paul's mouth on you makes you unnecessarily nervous and you deflect. You would prefer to be fucked the traditional way, fingered even, now that he has given you a taste of his talents.“You are desperate.”

He only hums looking at you carefully but still, painfully amused. “Only for you.” He begins to stand and your heart drops. You watch as he pushes to his feet— stumbling before catching himself on the corner of your desk then he stretches as if he hadn't just spoken filth to you, as if he hadn't just touched your bare cunt and offered to pleasure you with his mouth.

“What are you doing?” You hiss. “Are you truly going to leave me here like this?”

“I do not ask much of you.” He says, “Call me yours and I will be yours, I will touch you now, later, forever if it's what you wish.”

And you cave. There is a longing in his face, a want so deep it seems to hurt him and it's directed at you. For you. If you could, you would bottle the expression and keep it to yourself forever. You cave and you call to him, “My King.” You allow him this one thing, something you denied even Áed. No King but her own should kneel before a Queen and Paul has done so thrice. It is only right you accept him as yours.

When Paul kisses you this time it is softer, his lips press you into yours with an urgency and he wraps a gentle hand around your neck to pull you closer and onto your feet. He grins when you wrap your arms around him, your hands going to his hair to pull him closer to you— he turns you quickly, pulling away only to knock the rest of the items off your desks then he shimmies off his jacket, and throws it over the remnants of the spilled liquor. Then, he carefully guides you to sit against your desk, he spreads your legs and begins to kneel and you stop him before he can get his knees again. “No, Paul.”

He blinks up at you, truly confused. “No?”

“I don't–” You take a breath, your hands in his, pulling him back up and closer, “I don't want your mouth on me, I want your dick.”

He huffs but doesn't stop when your hands slip from his to the button of his pants. “It would feel good, my Queen.” He shudders when the buttons open and when your warm hands instantly grab his cock. You stroke it curiously and he groans, humping into your hands, “You will take it easier if you allow me to prepare you first.”

“It’d take too long,” You say, stroking him slowly, your fingernail drags across the prominent vein of his length, your finger smearing the precum that leaks from him all over his weeping head. “Forget your honor and fuck me, you make things so complicated.”

Even drunk, he thinks about your comfort first. You hate that you keep comparing the two Kings. Paul is not Áed and he is not Paul. They may look alike but they couldn't be further apart and this much is shown when Paul continues to hesitate with his dick in your hands. You give him a sharp squeeze and it sends his hand flying up to wrap around your neck again warningly. He takes a breath, a long one before he sighs, pressing another kiss to your lips. “Annoying,” He mumbles as he leans away from you, pushing your hand away to shove his pants down. You barely catch sight of his cock before he's leaning forward again, shoving his way between your legs. Your breath catches, and you fully expect him to bully himself in but he doesn't, hidden under the layers of your dress, he guides his member with a careful hand and a pinched face. He rubs the head of his dick against your aching cunt once, twice, and then pulls back just slightly to curse under his breath. He does this twice before you're squirming impatiently.

“Paul–”

“Shut up.” He growls. He jerks his hips forward and his dick glides against your entrance, you spread your legs wider and plant your hands on the desk to brace yourself but he doesn't do it again. “You are unbelievably warm and if I just shove myself in you, I will cum before I get the chance to start.” He squeezes your neck again, reminding you that he still held you there. “Be a good girl and take what I give you, yeah?”

He gives you a very quick yet sweet kiss, his hips rolling against you as he does and he positions his dick lower to catch along your entrance. Paul swallows your moans with pleased hums as he just barely breaches you with each roll, it feels good but not enough, you try to force yourself down on his length to just get it over with but he pulls his hips back every time you do. It is stupid that you are missing the roughness Áed carried at this moment, if it was him, his cock would be in you already but if it was him, it wouldn't feel good at all. Paul pushes himself deeper when he catches you lost in thought and you clench around him with a pained gasp. You wait for him to ease up, to pull back his hips and continue his stupid teasing but he doesn't, his hand falls away from his dick and steadies itself on your bare thigh. “That’s it,” He coos softly, pushing himself deeper. You whimper, your eyes screwing shut but he squeezes your throat. “Nuh-uh, you wanted it and I know you can take it. Take a breath, come on, pretty girl, breathe with me.”

He is bigger than Áed, you hadn't quite accounted for that but he is kind enough not to move as you work yourself through it. He just cooes in your before he lets go of your neck for a moment to lick up the length of it, his hand instead groping your clothed breast. You roll your hips, just slightly and he moans against you. “You feel so good,” He almost moves, almost jerks into you but he stops himself. “Feels so fuckin’ good.” His hand is back under your dress, his fingers against your clit, “Fuck yourself against me.”

His words send you clenching, “What?”

“Take what you need.” He urges, his fingers rub against your clit and he grins when you buck down on him, moaning softly. “Take what you need from me, baby, I want to make you feel good.” He rubs his fingers a little faster but all but pulls back and it forces you to chase the pleasure of his dick. You rut against him, your fingers digging deeper and deeper into the desk and your teeth dig into your bottom lip. He's making you work for your pleasure, no matter how much he urges it along with the help of his fingers and cock, your legs shake under your effort but you take a gasping breath when he pulls his hand back and brings it back down against your cunt. You choke out a sob and he does it again, your legs jerk and nearly crumple from under you and he brings it down harder when you let out a whine of his name. You are positive the desk is the only thing keeping you upright.

“Let me hear you,” He urges, his fingers find the little bundle of nerves between your legs again and he rolls it between his fingers. He sees something on your face and his hips pick up their pace, he fucks into rapidly and your desk creaks and groans at the pace. Your lips part in a breathless moan and he pulls from you completely before shoving himself back inside, bottoming out.

“Fuck,” You gasp. You can't catch your breath and he doesn't let you even try, he's moving so fast— one moment he's humping into you, his fingers on your clit, and the other he's pulling you flush to simply grind. The mix sends your toes curling, “fuck, fuck, fuck wait–” One of your hands leaves the desk to press at his chest, something is clawing at your insides, desperate to get out. It is angry as it is wanting, you can't tell if you want him to stop or to keep going but Paul decides for you and he's pushing back against the desk and fucking into you without abandon. When your eyes slam shut this time he doesn't try to stop you, he's too busy burying his head against your chest to see. “Paul, I'm going to–”

“I know.” He gasps, “I know, I know. Give it to me, give it to me.”

And you do.

Paul doesn't think much of his parents whispering when they join him at breakfast. His mind is elsewhere and it has been for the past four or so weeks.

He hasn't been invited back to Somnus. Not by your command nor Áed. He supposes this isn't…bad. There hasn't been a call for his head or a public slandering but he thinks the silence from your end is the worst. He had fucked you, you fucked him. You had hidden him under your desk when a servant came to check on you and he had fingered you whilst you spoke. Then, you had urged him to go home before Áed and his hunting party came back, your face perfectly blank despite the mess of your hair and dress. He's thought of the night countless times and he still can't figure out what went wrong besides the obvious.

Not that he regrets it. Not in the slightest bit, he thinks that was, is, the best moment of his life.

His parents glance at him for the umpteenth time as they whisper and Paul rolls his eyes in annoyance as he butters his toast. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Leto opens his mouth then closes it, giving his son a curious look then looks to his wife who's watching him with narrowed eyes. “You are quite close with Queen Mercer, aren't you?”

Paul freezes. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing bad,” Leto answers before Jessica can. Paul sees his mother suck her teeth and Leto shoots her a look, “Well, your mother thinks it's bad. We are just confused. You didn't tell us about her condition sooner.”

Paul feels a headache brewing. What condition? You were just fine the last time he saw you. If you had anything contagious and deadly, he would have it so he's sure it's nothing like that unless… unless it's something chronic. His confusion must be clear on his face because Jessica is watching him again, this time her look is different as if she is realizing something.

“You don't know she's pregnant, do you?”

It takes everything in Paul not to choke then and there.

alright i’ve seen a lot of arranged marriages with paul and reader is always the one who’s salty about it but what if PAUL was the salty bitch? never seen that before.

reader just wants to make him happy. she’s been in love with him since they were introduced as kids. Paul, however, ain’t about it and he’s all pissy and what not.

The Death of a Star

Summary: Paul thought he could never love you but when a star starts to die, it sucks everything in and in your death, your rebirth, he learns he can.

Warning(s): Cheating! Not the sexual kind but the emotional kind! Toxic marriage, sorta dark Paul, almost sexual cheating, talks of bastards, child birth, violence, arranged marriage, pussy eating, fingering, PinV sex, creaming, use of the voice. Talks of baby making and brief pregnancy mention.

Note(s): I took your ask and shook it all about. And hi, hello, i got this ask basically THREE YEARS AGO! And its been sitting in my docs, brewing, growing longer and longer. This is 12k words. If you want more long fics like this from me and not two/three parters— PLEASE let me know. ALSO, shout-out to @cocoamoonmalfoy bc i bothered her with just random segments of this fic for two years I'm pretty sure 😭 this is so fucking long please don't tell me if there's mistakes im gonna scream.

A little after. (Same universe drabble!)

There is something about motherhood that has changed you.

Of course, there have been obvious changes. You were a girl when you first arrived on Caladan, a girl when they dragged you under the twinkling stars and made you swear to the void you would never stray from your husband. A mere child who wanted nothing more to be happy, to make her family proud, a child who smiled at her husband no older than her and repeated words she truly didn't know the meaning of.

You had become a lady when your husband first laid with you, a woman when the single time was enough to bring forth an heir. It was what your ladies told you at least, bringing a person into this universe was a woman's work and you had done just that. Your son, Oliver Atreides, was born screaming, kicking and crying. The ladies said you were a woman now, covered in sweat, tears, and your own blood but you couldn't bring yourself to agree. You think some parts of the girl you once were resurfaced when they hand you, your babe. You had held him close and wept to him. ‘Oh, Ollie. My little Ollie.’

Motherhood has changed you, yes. It made you harder in spots where you were once soft. But nothing has changed you more than marrying the Atreides heir, Paul.

Once, you had thought he would've, could've, loved you. A child's dream, you realize now. An arranged marriage could never bring forth love, not when it was put in motion by scheming parents who thought of a future long after they were dead. Your marriage to Paul had made sure your family's name would never fade into obscurity, your parents had gotten your weight in jewels and coin’ a thousand times over, your marriage had meant everything to them. To you. But to Paul, to his family?

You had been a punishment. The closest and prettiest broodmare. His parents had thought it would stop his wandering, his rebellion in loving a savage girl who lived planets away. You had looked similar enough, curly hair, brown eyes and brown skin, they thought you enough to quell his hunger. But one can not simply trade swords, sand and love for silk, stars and a willing cunt. They never stopped to think how this would affect you, how his anger towards them, towards the universe would slowly turn to you.

Paul never hit you, never yelled and, somehow, this was a fate worse than any death.

Paul seldom spoke to you. You could count on one hand how many times he looked at you in the past four years. For four years, you had raised your son with the echo of his father, a shadow you caught out of a corner of your eye. You knew he made time for his son, the boy never kept these things a secret, the man dragged his son everywhere and anywhere, they rode horses together, danced and painted. In your eyes, he had gathered all the stars in the sky and displayed them for Oliver and left you in the dark. You both raised your son, never in the same room, never speaking ill of each other or to each other. It was, is, a cruel existence.

“Mama,” Your son's voice is a whine, he pulls at your hand for your attention, letting his body go limp in the opposite direction trusting you wouldn't let him fall. “‘M hungry.”

He's not hungry, you think. He had just eaten an hour or so ago, snacked a few minutes before. He's bored, his coloring forgotten in his effort to bother you and that somehow, worked up his appetite. Ollie whines when you don't so much as move under his effort, you keep your arm locked, your fingers gently wrapped his smaller brown hand. Still, you relent, caving just a bit as you think back to all the times you went hungry in childhood because your mother was worried for your figure. Sure, he wasn't hungry but he was willing to eat. You rather him eat something now than him having an unhealthy relationship with food in the long run. “Yeah? What do you want, Bubba?”

He brightens, drawing closer to you but never letting go of your hand. “Can I haves pie?”

You give him a look, wiggling your fingers in his grasps, he giggles as the tips of them dance under his chin and curls further into your space. “It's ‘can I have’ and no you may not.” You shush his annoyed whine with a kiss to his forehead and you stand from your chair, picking him up as you go. You sulked long enough, motherhood never ends and now your son wants attention and you are eager to give it to him. “But, you can have a sandwich. Do you want turkey or–”

“Can I haves–” Oliver interrupts excitedly then pauses, starting again just as excited. “Can I have the jam one? The one grandma gives me?”

You're already nodding your head in agreement before he even finishes, a short hum leaving you. You haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, of course, your mind goes to the simple answer: a grape and peanut butter spread, a simple and favorite of yours when you were pregnant with Oliver but then you backtrack almost instantly. Jessica has a taste for the finer, sweeter, things in life. Expensive things. You love your mother-in-law dearly, deeply, but whatever jam she's giving your son is probably from some secret collection she only pulls out for him and with her being off planet, you have no access to it. No matter, you've dealt with worse and Oliver will survive without her expensive jam. You'll just make sure he gets a little something extra with this snack, not a slice of pie but maybe juice… a few candied nuts, even?

You ponder silently to yourself as you leave your room. Ollie talks your ear off— something about his grandfather, about the older man taking him to see bulls and whatnot, you respond halfheartedly, humming in acknowledgement. As you walk from your wing of the estate, servants bow at their waist, greetings of, ‘My lady,’ wash right over you as you pass, you only truly pay mind to the ones who greet Ollie before the greet you, slowing your pace to let the boy twist in your arms and greet them happily. A talker he is, curious and somewhat loud, the various servants respond just as eager to him as he is to them. It's an endearing sight and you find yourself smiling as he converses, a smile that quickly falls at the sound of a familiar name calling out to you.

“Lady Wife!”

Your eye nearly twitches at the title. You dismiss the servant with a dim smile and Oliver squirms out of your arms to rush to his father. You hesitate to turn and face him but having your son out of sight so close to him makes you a bit nervous, you turn only to pause. Paul kneels before his son, running a delicate hand through the boy's curly mass of hair, his green eyes sparkle as he smiles at his son. He pokes at the boy's chubby stomach and smiles wider, brighter, when Ollie giggles leaning into him. He looks handsome today, more present than he ever was for you. His hair looks clean, freshly washed, glossy and swept out of his face— you've grown so used to him wearing ridiculously fancy suits that seeing him wearing a tunic and a simple pair of pants sends your mind blanking.

You only realize you're staring longer than you should when Duncan— has he been standing there the whole time?— clears his throat. There's a slight humor that dances across his face when he sees your own mortification but it's gone quickly as he bows his head towards you, your name leaves his lips in a pleasant, near whisper as he regards you, “Where are you off to?”

“The kitchens.” You answer, smiling when he cocks his head in a silent question. “Not for me, Ollie is hungry and I was going to make him something.”

Paul makes a noise from the ground, a grunt but doesn't rise nor pull away from his boy. “We have servants for that, Wife.”

“And there won't always be servants, Husband.” You reply harsher than you intend and Paul's widen eyes snap away from your son to you in shock. You look away before your eyes can meet and they fall to the other guard by the mens' side. He's tall, taller than Paul but not quite as tall as Duncan; his dark hair is pin straight and slicked back but there are a few strands that purposely, stylishly, hang in his face. His eyebrows raise slightly as he watches you take him in and he puffs up under your gaze. He squares his shoulders, shifts his feet and folds his hands behind his back and when your eyes meet again, he gives you a wink.

Oh, you like him.

You huff a laugh, “Your name, soldier?”

“Emmett, My lady.”

You wave a dismissive hand, “Please, you may call me my name. Only my husband ever calls me Lady.” Duncan snorts and Paul doesn't respond, doesn't care to. He stands and your son is in his arms, still talking but in a whisper. Odd. “I haven't seen you around before, promoted recently?”

Emmett's lips quirk into an easy smile and his lips part to answer you but Paul steps into your line of sight and interrupts him. “I am going to visit a friend, but I must stop to visit my mother first. Oliver wants to go.”

Your brow dips. Your husband, Paul, didn't have friends. Not one. His words not yours, he has his parents, a guard and an advisor; Duncan and Gurney. He has you, his wife and even then you hesitate to describe yourself as much. Your mind racks itself for information and then it finds something. A sand covered, golden skinned, something.

It's been two weeks since he's stepped out on you for her. Two weeks— nearly three, he almost broke his record.

You will yourself not to be sick but the sudden bout of nausea is harsh, hot and it sends a bile creeping up the back of your throat. Your heart can't seem to decide what it wants to do, it tries to thunder— to pound its way out of your chests but it trips, stutters and damn near stops at the idea of him bringing your son to see that woman. You clear your throat and try not to scream; are you not good enough? You have wept for the man before you, bled and produce a fucking heir to continue his legacy. And yet…

You clear your throat again, you can't help it. Years of training fly straight into the sun. You know how to read, to cook and manage estates, you know how to hold a sword and parry a strike, you know because you were trained. Rigorously, endlessly. But it still leaves you unprepared because no one ever, ever trained to be emotionless in the face of the person who was supposed to love you the most. You were married off young to another young person for this very reason, the time spent together as you grew older was supposed to grow your love, to nurture it so by the time you were both older you would be an united front. An unshakable unit.

You wish you could throw the pieces of your marriage at all who thought it was a good idea. You want to roar; is this what you wanted? Is this the front you dreamed of? But the training, that god-damned training kicks in and you steel yourself. For the sake of your son. For the sake of your sanity. “Oliver has lessons he can't skip.”

Paul makes a face and your boy whines in his arms, “I'm sure he can afford to miss one, he's just a boy.”

Your nails dig into your palm and your lips pull up into a humorless grin. “You said that last time when you took him riding. Again when you said painting would be a better lesson. He has missed too many lessons, boy or not, he is a future leader and it is good we do this while he is young.” You unclench your fist and soften, just slightly as you draw closer to your husband, to the boy who pouts at you in his arms. You extend yours and he goes easily, much to Paul's dismay. “Come on, sweet boy. I promised you a snack, leave your father to play with his toys.”

Paul watches you leave with thin lips, his teeth clenching. He doesn't have to be smart to see the insult when you bare it to him unabashedly. Even if it wasn't directed at him, he is offended on her behalf. He lingers in his spot for a moment longer, stewing in a petty anger— how is he ever supposed to try with you when you hate everything he loves?

Duncan calls his name and when he looks at the man, there's a deep frown on his face. The look of disappointment is something he's familiar with, it's an age-old argument between him, between his parents, between her about how he treats you. Well, not you but your feelings. Duncan won't say anything about it anymore, not when he knows he won't listen, not when he knows the exact words Paul will say back to him.

'What of my feelings? Why do I have to suffer in a marriage I did not want— a marriage I protested the very idea of? I gave the family an heir. The least they can do is let me finally be happy.'

The two men look at each other and like always, Paul is the first to look away. He turns on his heels, his shoulder colliding with Emmett's who still stares after you instead of watching the tense moment before him and his oldest friend. He storms down the hall, his steps sure but fast, Paul runs from it all. From his responsibilities, his power, from you. Paul always runs.

Emmett lets out a whistle— he and Duncan linger behind their fuming ward— and Duncan raises a brow at the sound. Emmett smiles, dipping his head in your direction, “A proper one that one is. Real easy on the eyes.”

Duncan's brow drops, annoyed. “She is to command you.”

“Trust me, ser. I'd do anything she asked.”

Duncan resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's not like Emmett is the only one to fall for your looks, he has had to rotate multiple guards because of it— most, if not all, of them never tried anything other than looking but he couldn't bring himself to listen to all the vile things they said and when they tried touching, well. You could handle yourself just fine but Duncan doesn't deny the enjoyment he gets from acting on your behalf.

Still. Still, there are ones that you enjoy. There are some he can't send away and he pretends it doesn't bother him. It's the game, the chase of it all, he sees how you blossom under the attention, his attention. Sometimes, he sees it. The flickering lust in your eyes when a pretty soldier leans in real close or when he cradles your face. But you aren't like your husband, not like Paul because you never give in and while Paul has been stepping out on you for years, this small streak of rebellion only started up a few months ago.

Duncan shakes his thoughts clear and then swallows his annoyance. It goes down like shards of glass and lemon juice; he can't send Emmett away, not yet. Not when he's good at what he does and not when you blossom under his attention. He settles for indifference, a dry indifference as he mutters. “She’d eat you alive.”

He ignores Emmett's cheeky reply of, “Stars, I hope so.”

“How is she?”

Arrakis smells sweeter than he remembers. It's hotter too, the sun set a few hours ago but the heat still clings to the air, to the sand that's almost uncomfortable to sit on. He sucks it up though because it feels like home and the sight is as pretty as it is familiar.

Said sight shifts when he doesn't answer, the fire light is gold against her face and her eyes are sapphire jewels in the night. Her fingers move quickly, steadily as she weaves her basket. Two bowls sit before her, one bigger than the other filled with a liquid that isn't water but safe for enough to handle and thin pieces of wood, the other bowl is filled with beads made of rocks, wood, bone and whatever else the carvers deemed bead worthy. “Muad'Dib,” She says and when he still doesn't answer her, she snaps. “Paul.”

It's enough to pull him from his thoughts, he blinks at her then he frowns. “She’s fine. I tell you the same thing every time you ask, I doubt it will change.”

Chani pauses in her weaving. “You told me she was sad once.”

He had. It was an off comment from years ago, when you cried and cried, and cried. Back then, it was rare to see you dry-eyed, rare to see you outside your room but you had gotten over it. You are fine now, you don't cry, you don't shout or pitch a true fit like he's seen other women do. You're just… fine. He thinks of your face when he told you he was leaving, that practiced control but the twitch of your lips giving you away. You were angry, maybe. But not angry enough to lash out, you were okay stewing in it. And that was fine. To you, to Paul. Everything is fine.

When Chani sees he isn't going to reply, she sighs again. Her fingers start to move again, faster than before and Paul tries not to be awed at the sight. She's a master at her craft, something he so rarely sees nowadays, “Nevermind.” She says and before he can speak, she asks, “How is Oliver?”

The smile that falls on Paul's face is easy. “He’s wonderful. His studies are going well– his tutors say he's picking up reading faster than I ever did.” He looks away from Chani and plays with the fabric of his pants, “I wanted him to come today.”

The thin piece of wood between Chani's fingers snapped. She looks up at him, her blue tinted eyes furious, “No, Paul.”

Still, he tries, “He would love you. If she only gave it a chance–”

“Do you hear yourself?” She hisses and he flinches at the tone. “You want to bring another woman's child to me? Do you hate her so much that you'd go this far to disrespect her?”

“I do not hate her. I could never hate her she is the mother of my child–”

“She is so much more than that.” She snaps. “She is your wife. She is the keeper of your estate, she is a person, a woman, you continuously hurt by visiting me.”

Again. It is always that argument, always the flag they throw up, the sand they throw into his eyes. It's always you, you, you. Why can't it never be him? Why can't he ever think for himself? Want more for himself? Paul shifts where he sits, “You wouldn't understand.” He whispers. Chani wouldn't, couldn't, get it. She's not him, she has never been in his place, she has never loved him as he loved her, she just wouldn't get it.

There is a certain fury that settles on Chani's face. It is thunderous, all consuming, a lightning storm that threatens to strike him thrice over and then, it clears. Faster than he can blink and she's standing, throwing the rest of her weaving into the fire. “Grow up, Paul.”

And he's at a loss for words. “What?”

“Grow. Up.” She says again, as if she hasn't said something world tilting. Paul feels like his chest is collapsing, like the sand around him is starting to swallow him whole. “I have put up with it for years. You complain about things not being fair to you.” She shakes her head, gathering all her finished baskets and her bowls of beads. “You complain and complain and complain. Do you see where I live? Do you see what my people have to do to survive? What do you know of struggle? Of suffering? You cry and whine about loving me, about caring for me but having to suffer a fate of never having me. I am not an object to own. I am not a prize to wave in your wife's face.”

She looks at him then, her face grim, haunting in the fire's light. “What do you know of suffering when you are here with me and she's alone with your son? What do you know of pain when she bled to produce an heir for you? I love you, Paul. As a friend, always a friend. Only a friend and I can't just sit here and pretend like you aren't ruining lives over petty childishness. Go to her, love her, see her as she is.”

“I–” Paul stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping to reach out to her. “I can't– do not do this to me, Chani– please, do not do this.”

Pity. There is only pity on her face. “Go home, Paul.” and she leaves him. Standing alone in the Arrakis' desert, surrounded by sand, stars and the sweet smelling wind, Paul begins to weep.

It is hard to play dumb but…

“Higher, my lady…”

Emmett's voice makes you shiver slightly and you all but let yourself relax in his warm arms. They circle you, his hands on your elbows raising and steadying the bow in your hands. You force yourself to let your fingers shake and smile when his hands leave your elbows to hover over yours. He slides a forefinger over the back of your hand before it hooks under your wrist and holds the bow true. “Release.”

Whoooosh! Thunk.

The arrow misses.

Emmett lets out a polite laugh, his breath brushing against your ear and it's enough to make you bite your lip. If playing the role of the defenseless noblewoman was enough to get him this close, you think you'd do it all the time. “You’re laughing at me?”

“Not at you, my lady.” He chuckles. His warm embrace leaves you as he takes a step forward, a hand playfully gliding past your waist as he does— he goes for the many missed arrows from the previous tries and shoots you a smile. “At the situation, I suppose.”

“Oh?” You ask, coyly. “And what's funny about the situation, Ser Emmett? My lack of skill with the bow or my streak of missing the target.”

He gathers the arrows, his smile growing a tad impish as he picks up the last as twirls it between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement instinctively— it glides between his nimble fingers, around and under, under and around— Emmett ends the small show with a flip of the arrow, catching it by the small bit of the notch, the dull arrowhead tapping against his lips. “What's funny is… the famed daughter of a very noble hunting family needs help with a bow.” The arrowhead presses into his lip when he smiles, “I heard said daughter used to bring down bucks the size of small shuttles but now she stands before me as if she never handled a bow.”

You tut, annoyed you've been caught but delighted he knew so much about you. “You aren't the only one who can do research.” You say, you move forward with graceful steps, till the both of you are face to face. “Emmett Deacon. That is an old name, you know. But strange as Lord Deacon has no heirs or living relatives besides his wife. Now, it is unbecoming of me to gossip– to listen to the words of those who whisper behind backs but… but I was, am, curious about you, Emmett.”

This close, you notice his eyes are green. They are far darker than the eyes of your husband, Duncan or Jessica. Emmett's eyes are the color of the forest after a thunderstorm; when everything is still dark near black underneath the clearing clouds. Emmett grins at your closeness, his eyes glinting, promising some type of mischief. “Careful now, my lady.” He teases, his voice light despite the subtle redness creeping up his neck, “You walk a dangerous line, some men would take offense to what you are attempting to imply.”

Carefully, you pull the arrow from the man's grasp, your lips quirk up in a humorless smile as you take a step away from him. “Attempting, Implying? Make no mistake, Emmett, I know what you are.” You give the man your back as you face another untouched target. Mentally, you thank yourself for having the thought to scatter them about the training area before approaching Emmett under the guise of needing guidance. This target is much closer to the door, just a few paces to the right.

“Do you?”

Suddenly you are warm. He is pressed right up against you, his hands on your hips pulling you flush against his body and you barely bite back a shiver as you right your posture as if he wasn't there. His breath comes out ragged, fanning against your ear and he holds you so tight he scrunches your silks. Emmett is pretty as he is eager for you, desperate almost. It is not what you usually go for but the men you usually do go far were always so hesitant, reminding you of your husband or the ever watchful Duncan. Emmett fears neither, it makes you like him more but you are not an idiot, Emmett Deacon doesn't exist outside of the Atreides Castle. Lord Deacon has no legitimate heirs, only bastards, hundreds of bastards he refuses to recognize unless they make a name of their own. There is no Emmett Deacon, only Everett Brightwater. Son of a working mother and elder brother to a handful of other siblings.

But in the Atreides castle, the castle of a bastard, those types of things tend to go overlooked. Most like to forget that technically, Paul Atreides was born out of wedlock, that he was legitimized by the former Duke Leto— it is a story all bastards wished for, what Everett wished for. Pity it is you, that always seems to take a fancy to them.

“I have bedded a bastard before, Brightwater. Void-forbid I don't recognize the touch of another.”

The sound that leaves the man is downright sinful, a ragged gasp and his hips damn near hump into you. “And you have made heirs–”

“A singular heir, Oliver has no siblings.”

“But he could,” He rolls his hips against yours backside again and you bite back a grin, “I could give you–”

The door opens and it startles you. Your fingers slip from the bowstring and the arrow is sent flying, hurtling towards the target as Emmett rips away from you like he's touched fire. Your husband stands at the door, his eyes red rimmed and looking downright furious. His eyes never meet yours, staying trained on Emmett who looks everywhere as the arrow hits its mark. Bullseye.

Emmett's voice is choked as he speaks, “Congratulations–” His eyes flicker over to Paul for a brief second as he rasps your name. It makes your heart nearly jump to your throat as you blink absurdly at the man but he pushes forward, inclining his head as Paul prowls closer, “Your talents amaze me–”

“Leave.”

Emmett pauses mid sentence, he blinks once then nods, his lips set tight. He says your name again, lower, sweeter, then his dark green eyes cut to Paul as he gives a shallow bow. “Your liege.”

He is out the room faster than you can blink and it draws a scoff from your lips as you turn to face your husband. “That was rude.”

That makes his face twitch. Like he wants to scowl or even pout down at you but can't decide which one to choose and it settles as a sneer instead. “Was it, now? I walk in on one of my men pawing at you–”

The laugh that leaves you is sudden and sharp, “You are being ridiculous.”

“He was all but humping your leg and you let him!” He hisses. Then takes a breath to blink and shake his head, “It is disrespectful, my son is only paces away–

“Oh, that is disrespectful?” You ask. Your blood is boiling, your heart thundering in your ears. How dare he throw your son in your face? The very boy you put to bed alone, hushing his cries for his father. The very same boy that spent the day talking about his father and his mysterious friend that he insisted Ollie call an aunt. “What about you trying to take my child to see another woman?”

Paul flinches then, just barely, but keeps the sneer on his pretty face. “That is different, you know that is different–”

“What of all the times I've found your letters to her? All the times you've left me for her?” You press, “All the birthdays, my birthdays wasted alone waiting for you, all the anniversaries? What do you know about disrespect, husband?”

He is silent, silent but staring, gaping, trying to muster an answer he knows he can't. But it is strange, odd, that he hasn't tucked tail and ran. In the rare arguments that seemed to happen between the two of you, he'd spit his poison and then choke on yours; floundering for a rebuttal before escaping to his wing of the castle and yet… he still stands before you, unmoving. Then, he speaks. He whispers, “I am sorry.” He clears his throat, “I am, for what I put you through, for everything but I want better for us, I want–”

“She finally did it, didn't she? She finally turned you away?”

He doesn't respond and that's an answer all on its own. You cast your bow aside, not caring how it crashes against the floor and your quiver soon follows. “You’re pathetic.”

You don't look at Paul as you go.

Duncan stands beside you.

It's nothing new, of course. He is always there, whispering into your ear, a guiding hand on your back or teasing Ollie who was usually on your hip.

It's been nearly two weeks since the incident in the training room, since Paul came to you saying he wanted better for your relationship— nearly two weeks since you almost allowed Emmett to fall under your skirts and Duncan no doubt knows this by now and yet, he stands by you.

You're sitting on your bed with nothing but a thin sleeping shift with Ollie curled up into your lap as you gently twist and braid hair away from his face and Duncan watches, his eyes trained on your steady hands. Then, quietly, he speaks to not stir Oliver.

“It’s going to be cold tonight.” He says lightly, his eyes pulling away from your hands, letting them trace over the way the fabric hugs your form.

You don't look up as you finish a braid, using the tip of your nail to section out another braid, a distracted hum leaving your lips, “It is always cold, Duncan. It's Caladan.”

“It doesn't have to be.” He says and he hates how you pause when he says it, he hates the way his voice grows tender for you so he clears his throat, unwilling to unearth something you both ignore daily and plasters a teasing grin on his face, “Shall I call for Emmett? He is rather eager–”

He barks out a laugh when you toss a throw pillow at him, twisting out of the way before it even hits him. “Damn you.” You curse him despite the smile playing on your lips, “Speaking like that to your lady could be considered treason, you know.”

“Maybe on Somnus.” He teases as he slinks closer. He pulls the stool from your vanity and plops down on it next to you, his smiling falling just a bit as he asks, “How are you?”

“Fine.”

He levels you with a look that you don't meet, continuing to part and braid through Oliver's hair. He reaches forward then, to pull your hand free from the boy's hair and simply hold it— to command your attention towards him as he whispers your name, “I worry about you. Truly. I– Paul has told me what he said to you.” He holds your hand tighter when it jerks in his grasp, he searches your face, his eyes soft. “And it was cruel. You waited for him for void-knows-how-long and he comes to you when you finally search for another.”

Stubbornly, you purse your lips and force your eyes away from him. “I don't care.”

“It is not my place to call you a liar.” He says and it's almost automatic, years of training resurfacing as he searches for the right words. “But as someone who is close to you… as someone who cares for you, I think you do.”

You pull away and he lets you, your hands returning to Oliver's hair almost nervously. The boy doesn't even stir, “Your concern for me is endearing but it is misplaced.”

“Don’t shut me out.” He says, his voice tight and it makes your eyes slide back to him. “Your pretty words don't fool me, I know you. I see you, you have been miserable, you have suffered and it is okay to acknowledge that. It is only you, your sleeping boy and I in this room, you do not have to pretend.”

“What would you have me do, Duncan?” You ask, a touch incredulous. “Would you have me pitch a fit? You'd have me disgrace the Atreides name because what– my husband wants to be a husband?”

“I would like it if you cried.”

You flinch back, “What?”

“You haven't cried in years.” He says. “Oliver was born and you haven't shed a tear since, you have not mourned, you haven't grieved.”

“Those are the same things.” You start frowning at him. “Besides, I am a mother, a Duchess to a growing empire. There are whispers that I could be Queen, what do I have to cry about?”

“Everything.” He answers, his voice true. “Yes, you are all those things and more. But you are also young, you may be a woman now but you were a girl when you were wed.”

“That doesn't matter.”

Duncan looks at you like you've grown a second head. “It does matter. The very concept of your love was crafted for you before you ever got the chance to make it yourself. Do you like laying down and taking it or is that what you were taught? Do you like that he walks all over you or were you told to accept that?”

Your hackles rise before you can even stop yourself, “He is your lord.” You hiss, “Watch your tongue.”

Duncan throws his hand out, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You defend him and call him Lord, you do not call him a husband because that is what you are taught.” He lets his hand drop, “When I was your age–”

“You are not that much older than me.”

He continues like you didn't speak. “When I was your age, I experimented. I built my ‘love’ from the ground, I know how to kiss, how to fuck because I have done so with enough people to know what I like. That is not something that can be taught.”

You flush at the topic, imagine Duncan in such intimate situations would not be a… first for you. There were many lonely nights in your marriage and your mind often wandered. It was natural, of course, Duncan is kind. He is strong and sweet with a silver tongue, it is only natural that your mind went there when your hand traveled between your thighs. It was only natural that you had toyed with him out of pure boredom and curiosity. Moans of his name often left your lips when it was his turn to keep your room guarded. You had left your door cracked, catching his wandering eye once or twice as you… reached your peak. For voids-sake, you are quite certain Duncan has seen you in some state of undress more than Paul has and has not once mentioned it to you, has not tried to close your door or turn his head. Duncan has stood beside you for nearly six years, watched you for the same amount of time. You know you could say one simple word, a plea more than a command and it'd be just as damning and he'd be in your bed.

And yet…

You clear your throat and shake your head. Ollie jolts in your lap but doesn't wake, turning a curling deeper into your warmth. You steer the conversation back on course,“What does this have to do with me crying?”

“You were young when you were married.” He says again, like he truly doesn't understand why you don't get it. “You were young when you had Oliver, it was scary. Traumatizing, even. No one prepared you.”

“Yes they did, my parents, my tutors even–”

“Did you even get to say goodbye to the girl you once were before you were ripped away from home or did you bury her– throw her into this fucking sea the moment your engagement was announced?”

When you don't answer, he makes a noise— it's nearly a scoff but it sounds much too pitying. “I know you.” He says again, “I know that you hurt. I see it in the way you carry that blasted bow— it is all metal and wrong because your planet crafts from wood and vines. I see it in the way you hesitate at dinner because you want a second helping but the teaching of tutors or maybe even your mother told you it was unladylike. I see it when you look at Oliver because you were only a girl when you had him–”

“Do not.” You interrupt weakly, your eyes darting to your son. “I love my son.”

“I know,” He agrees. “You love him more than life itself, I'm sure, but it does not negate the fact that your family, this family, was okay with a child having a child.”

You swallow once, twice, then you blink hard. There is an odd pressure building up in your head, a pounding behind your eyes. You open your mouth to respond but your lip wobbles unsteadily. You struggle to find your words, your breath leaving you unsteadily— pinched as you try to control yourself and Duncan only smiles soft and sad. His hand resting on your knee, he speaks. “I’d have you cry.” He says again, “For the girl you lost, for the woman you became. Cry because you are a mother, a good one and you do it nearly alone, cry because you can– because it's okay. Over spilt milk or broken glass, cry because it feels right and it's a start.”

“And then?” You murmur.

Duncan shakes his head, “I can not teach how to feel better.” He says, “I can not teach you to forgive. I can only give advice— guide you through your tears. I want better for you, My lady. To give Paul a chance, to see if his word is true, if you truly want to stay in a place that caused you nothing but grief.”

“What could I do?” You ask and it hurts to hear how helpless you sound to your own ears. “If I don't want to stay, what would I–”

And for the first time since this conversation has started, Duncan hesitates— then, much quieter than before he begins to speak, “It was Leto who granted your marriage, while your parents drafted the contract– he was the one who allowed it. Therefore, if you were to go to him– if you were to air every grievance you have with Paul, tell him of all the cruel things his son has done to you… he could void your marriage.”

You shift, pulling your son up your body, cuddling him close and Duncan follows the movement.“ But what would happen to me, to Oliver?”

“Nothing.” Duncan answers. “You are the one approaching Leto here. You are the injured party and if you were to separate, you'd get half of the Atreides… well, everything.”

“What?”

“It is an old tradition.” Duncan explains quickly, “It went by many names; dissolution, annulment, divorce. You'd get half of everything– if not more, you'd get to keep your status as Duchess, you'd probably have enough money to build your own castle free and far from all of this.” He sighs. “You’d get to decide if Paul even got to see Oliver–”

“I cannot do that to him, he loves his son–”

“You are the injured party.” Duncan stresses, “It would be your choice, all of these would be your choice. I can not tell you what to do, my lady. But if you were to ask me, I'd cry first. At least once.”

And despite all the training saying otherwise, you let one tear fall. Then another and another and a–

Duncan lets you cry, his hand finding yours as you begin to curl around Ollie and bless the void— the boy doesn't so much as stir— and you sob for the first time in years.

The next few days are… odd.

Paul tries, you give him that. He is there before you wake, lingering just outside your door with Duncan by his side. He greets you with a smile, a kiss on the hand then he offers you his arm— it varies where he leads you. Sometimes it's straight to Oliver, the boy wakes with a big grin and messy hair delighted at the sight of his parents together and other times, he leads you to a hidden alcove; a well furnished cave on a cliff side overlooking Caladans’ main sea. These moments are often spent in silence— you eat a bit and Paul watches you, you spend more time pretending not to notice then actually enjoying it but it is… time spent together and that is good, you think.

Today, however, is proving to be a bit different from most. You eat as you always do, you watch the waves crash on the rocks, you count the seconds between each of your husband’s blinks and take little glances at Duncan when the man sighs whenever Paul clears his throat. He always clears it,you find, a nervous habit only ever shown amongst close family or friends and most times, nothing would follow it, Paul would fall back into silence and the both of you would eat then go back to the castle.

Paul clears his throat and you look at him curiously because that is twice within a minute and as much as you detest him, you wouldn't want to see him choke and when you do look at him, he's fumbling with a bundle of grey cloth wrapped in twine, “Oliver,” He starts, soft and unsure and it makes you strain to hear him over the sea. “He says you like these so–” His fingers are slick because of his nerves and it takes a minute or so for him to unravel the twine but once he does— he places the cookies on the table and slides them towards you with a smile.

You look at the oddly shaped balls and smile— they are obviously handmade. They're big, clumpy and some even sink in on themselves, a few have seeds on them burnt and crumbling but seeds nonetheless and it gives you some pause. Your eyes flicker up, past Paul to Duncan who is giving the cookies an equally puzzled look. This isn't lost on your husband who frowns— he looks between you and Duncan and his brow dips, he fidgets with the edge of the grey fabric, then the skin around his nails, “What?” He asks a bit louder than he should, “What is that look?”

Your mouth opens to answer then it closes just as fast. Paul is trying. You remind yourself that he's spent much of the marriage away from you in his own universe, he wouldn't, doesn't know much about you. He is trying and so are you, trying to give him grace— he has given you cookies, as ugly and deadly as they might be, they are made by his unskilled hand and you can't help but appreciate that.

Duncan, though, is not you. “Were these made with sunflower seeds?”

Paul continues to frown, looking up at the man. “Yes, why?”

“Ah.” Duncan starts, his voice flat as you instantly push the cookies away with the butt of your fork. “Your wife is allergic.”

Paul turns red. From the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes— his mouth drops open and he founders, a choked apology starts to leave him but he only gets as far as, ‘I'm–’ before he stops because you aren't cursing him out or banishing him away from your sight. Hells, you don't even move from the table, you just watch him carefully, your eyes dancing across his face and he wishes that a sun– any one of them, explodes and spares him from this experience, from this life.

Sadly, no exploding sun spares him from this. There is no blistering heat or quick death, just your searching eyes and your cool words.“You wouldn't know.” You say simply, smiling and Paul is shocked that it holds no maliciousness. “Ollie seems to have tricked you because these are his favorite not mine but… I appreciate that you thought of me.”

“I–” He's still red, still choking on his words but his mind spins as multiple things fly through it; he can't be mad at his son because he would have pulled the same trick on his father, he is embarrassed, incredibly so because he had almost killed you because he did not know of a simple allergy but Duncan knew. He is your husband and he didn't know.“Forgive me.” He breathes, pleads.

For once, he wants you to be mad at him but you only frown, your hand carefully intertwining with his. “You didn't know,” You say, “We are… we are only beginning to know each other. We have much to learn. You didn't know and that's okay.”

Paul nods but his head spins. Duncan knew. His green eyes meet his trusted guard and he frowns, he then notices your closeness— even though your fingers are locked with his, you're leaning back towards Duncan and he is standing as close as possible to your chair. You both are sharing the same air and it is not like you and Paul who sits across from you with only a hand connecting you both. You breath out and Duncan inhales– shifting somehow closer, his lips twitching when Paul obviously catches the movement. Paul thumb strokes your hand and any negative feeling that was starting to build melts away when you smile at him, he pushes Duncan from his mind as he refocuses himself on you, a smile of his own forming.

“Well,” He starts and his voice is still shaky from the embarrassment. “Besides sunflower seeds, is there anything else I should be aware of?”

Paul doesn't know how he never saw it before. The warmth in your smile, the light in your eyes. Paul had begged for a Sun to end him, blind to the star burning bright promised to him. These years of neglect had not dulled your shine, your heat— you glow and Paul thinks he'd happily go blind if it meant staring at your light forever. “Well…” You start, smiling wide and warm.

The two of you spend the next five hours talking, laughing and trading stories of food illnesses to embarrassing ones from your youths.

When Duncan is called to Paul's study, he already knows for what. Emmett pesters him with endless questions but the Brightwater man quickly falls silent at the mention of your name, he pales and Duncan clicks his tongue when the bastard excuses himself from the room.

To think you thought that man was bold. You thought him brave and uncaring, Duncan pretends he does not hear him emptying his stomach into the toilets. He knows the man fears he'll lose his job and Duncan does not bother to reassure him.

The route there is easy, quick. It's as if he blinks and he is there, pressing up the door and taking a step inside. Paul is sitting, facing a large window that shows Caladan’s raging sea. The waves crash on the beach's shore and drag the sand out with it, the sky has grown dark since your outing with your husband— a storm raging in the distance. A storm raging in the man in front of Duncan.

“For how long?”

Duncan doesn't bother trying to play stupid, he doesn't sit nor does he take a step further in the room. “Does it matter?”

Paul turns just as lightning strikes the sea. His eyes flash and Duncan is taken aback at the rage that is there. He doesn't not flinch away from it, he bares the storm that spills when Paul speaks. “She’s my wife, Duncan. My wife!”

Duncan blinks. “I am aware.” He then looks away. “She is aware of that too. It is by her hand only that I haven't landed in her bed.”

Paul stands, he is shaking. Duncan is his friend but this— he smoothes a hand over his face. His eyes sting but he does not cry, he did not do so when he caught the beginnings of something with Emmett so why would he cry now? He looks at Duncan and his heart clenches. Duncan is his friend. “And if she said yes–”

“In a heartbeat.” Duncan answers. He is cruel in his honesty but he doesn't care, Paul has been crueler with his own and he can't help the smile that twists at his lips. “Castle Atreides would be filled with more bastards than you, Paul.”

Duncan does not flinch. Paul in all his anger and crashing tides has made his way across the room, his blade to his neck and drawing blood. The cut stings, bubbles with his blood and Duncan doesn't not break eye contact. He has hid his love for you long enough and this is freeing, Paul would not kill him. He knows that because Paul is a trained soldier, trained to kill and his blade shakes against his throat. “You will leave.” Paul says and his voice is shaking. There is a tear threatening to spill from his eyes. “You will leave and you will not return until I call for you.”

Duncan's heart drops. “What?”

“You will not come when she calls.” Paul continues. “And she will call and you will not answer. Not for her not for Oliver. Do you understand?”

Duncan searches his young master's face for some kind of tell but Paul is serious. The blade presses closer and when Paul opens his mouth, it is The Voice that leaves it. It is hundreds of voices all at once, it is his mother's, it is his fathers and it is yours. The commands sinks into his brain, pulling at flesh and his eye twitches as it forces it's will deeper. He is being sent on a mission, he is being sent to Arrakis. The voices dig deeper and there is a dull alarm that coils around his heart, Duncan hopes Paul will not take his love for you away. His lungs tighten and the blade is pulled away from his neck as he falls into a kneel before Paul who still commands his existence. He is to forget this. This confrontation, this moment of insecurity and rage, he is to forget why he never wanted to leave Caladin in the first place.

Please, please, please. He begs when the voice doesn't fade, there is terror building in his blood but as soon as it grows it is wiped away by The voice, by the soft whisper of your voice. He is to bring Deacon's bastard son. The voice fades and Duncan is gasping, clutching at his neck and his fingers slip in his own blood. Paul stares down at him, his eyes blank, the storm raging on behind him and Duncan remembers… nothing. Just his mission.

He pushes himself to his feet, surprised when he stumbles. His blood flows dark and Paul doesn't look away, a thin lipped smile on his face. “You slipped.”

Duncan knows that's not right but he can't bring himself to question it. Paul is moving away from him, back to his desk and fixing his chair. “Best to prepare for your departure and send Emmett to me when you see him.”

Duncan knows his way to Paul's office and he knows the way back just as well. But today, he couldn't help but get lost on his way. He has a headache brewing.

You like to believe you do not know who cries more when Duncan leaves. But Oliver stops crying within an hour, distracted by his grandparents and pulled away for a mini adventures and it is two weeks later when you burst into tears because you think you've smelt him.

It is embarrassing, unladylike but Duncan had told you he had wanted you to cry more and Paul took it in stride. Duncan had been your foundation for so long so for him to be sent away, you are left crumbling but Paul is there and more than eager to get to building. At some point, he had snuck his way into your rooms— he had wide eye amazement as he took in everything, the plants that climb their way up your walls to your blankets and how much thicker they are than his. Paul had smiled when he saw despite everything, you still favored his colors– your house colors. You and Paul sleep together but not sleep together. Your mornings had become shared, whispers and giggles shared the first time you both woke up together— you and Paul had talked into the night, Oliver curled into his side and his hand running through his son's hair.

Still days later, you find waking up next to him, your husband hasn't gotten old. Paul clings to you when he sleeps, he's incredibly warm and you find you no longer need your blanket when he wraps around you in the night. Emboldened by his soft snores, you pull away gently, taking him in the soft morning light. You brush a soft curl from his face and he frowns in his sleep, it strikes you just how pretty he is. He's the makings of every Prince you ever read about growing up, blessed by luck and kissed by beauty and all that. He nuzzles against your hand with a sigh, his frown melting from his lips and you realize you want to kiss him.

You pull your hand away out of pure embarrassment, flushing hot. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you try to reason with yourself. He's your husband— the father of your child, he's touched your naked body before, he's kissed you before but that was years ago and all of that stopped the moment you fell pregnant. You haven't ached for such affection from him in years yet here and now, you wish you could press your lips to his. How embarrassing, you simper trying to pull further away from him but Paul's hold is ironclad, he curls around you tighter, his legs sliding between yours, his hands settling on your back. “What are you doing?” He murmurs, “Where are you going?”

You thank every star that's ever existed that he doesn't open his eyes. He keeps his eyes clamped shut as if protesting the morning sun and he completely misses your fading flusteredness. “Nowhere.” You answer, trying to relax in his touch. He's drawing patterns against your back, trying and failing to lull you back to sleep. He's just so close and it was easier to ignore when you're too tired to be flustered. “I wanted to give you space.”

Paul frowns, blinking his eyes open. “Don’t want space.” Then processing what he said, he offers you a timid smile before he rolls away to yawn and stretch. “Sorry, that was…” He shakes his head and doesn't bother finishing what he was going to say. He gets out of your bed with another stretch, his bones cracking and your mind flounders, rushing to think of a reason to keep him in bed— you never thought a day would come when you wanted to keep Paul near you. Your mouth moves before you can think and through and—

“Oliver says he wants a sibling.”

The moment it leaves your mouth, you're clapping a hand over your lips in pure, unfiltered embarrassment. Paul is still frozen mid stretch, his eyes wide and his cheeks completely pink and you wish a moon would come crashing into the planet and take you out in its destruction. “What?” He asks, his voice is strangely pitched. His arms drop as he turns to face you.

“Nothing.” You say and your voice is a squeak, your mortification growing. What are you? A blushing virgin maiden? You should have stood your ground, repeated what you said proudly but you're suddenly… shy. Your heart is pounding and you pull your blanket up and over your head, “Forget I said anything.”

Paul says your name and you ignore it, pulling the cover tighter and it's a sight that makes Paul's heart soar. His lady wife is shy before him, it is a welcome change that has his own heart skipping delightfully. He can't help but tease you, he says your name again as he rounds the bed, he drags it out, stretches it across his tongue and you shiver under the blanket. His hand touches your covered leg and you jump and he laughs, sitting at your side. “My love,” He starts and he says it like he's sure of it, like you are his only love. “Can you repeat that?”

“No.” You hiss and it pulls another laugh from him. He pulls the blanket from your face and he is smiling like he's never smiled before, his peachy cheeks dimpling.

“Oliver wants a sibling.” Paul repeats and you purse your lips nodding, Paul's smile only grows. “I knew that already.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oliver has always wanted a sibling.” Paul starts casually, shrugging. “But if he told you and you told me that means– you've considered it.”

Your face flushes hot and you go to pull for your blanket but Paul puts his weight on it, stopping you from covering yourself. So you deflect, your lip pulls up in a halfhearted sneer, “I was making conversation. I was trying to be polite.”

Paul hums, slow and soft. “You thought it proper to a conversation by asking me to fuck you?”

You blink rapidly, your mouth falling open in shock. “I-I wasn't– I w-wouldn't–” Paul is smiling and you swallow. “You’re teasing me.”

“A little.” He murmurs, his eyes are searching your face. His hand raises from your blanket and you brace yourself when it caresses the length of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “I wouldn't mind.”

Your tongue follows the path of his thumb out of instinct and when it sweeps across it, you swear you see your husband’s eyes flash. “Mind what?”

“Another child.” He says. “Sleeping with you.”

You're nodding and suddenly Paul is on you, his lips on yours as he cups your face to drag you closer. You are clumsy, unsure with how you kiss him— it's been years you remind yourself but Paul is so much more confident, he kisses you and it's nothing like the ones from years ago. Those had been pecks, his lips on yours to shush your moans as he humped into you, it all felt professional— a duty he had to perform but this, Paul is kissing you. It is all tongue, teeth and lips, he's eager with his nips and how his tongue drags across yours but he goes at your pace; or at least he tries, you whimpered and the kiss quickly grew messy— wet as he wraps his tongue around yours and sucks. It's an odd feeling and it pulls a startled moan from you. It is years of programming that has you saying it, your hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt, “Husband–”

“Paul.” He urges, his voice a touch desperate as his hands begin to roam your body. He's squeezing you in places you've never been touched before, his hands tickling up your sides— pushing your nightgown up. You are bare beneath them and Paul lets out an appreciative groan at the sight of your pussy. He barely looks up when he says, “Call me Paul when I touch you like this, please.”

You swallow and nod, you have to ask. You have to know. “Paul, did you ever–” Your voice breaks and you can hear how small you sound. “Did you touch her? While we were together?”

“No.” He says it so quickly, you're blinking but his voice is serious, he doesn't falter but his hands still. “I would never do that, not even if she offered.”

You take a breath. “But you left, Paul.”

“I know.” He murmurs, “I’m sorry. Will you let me apologize?”

“You already–” Your voice catches as he bends, he kisses his way down your body, hot opened mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging across your flesh. Your stomach clenches when he lowers and presses another kiss to your mound, uncaring of the hair there. Your legs try to clamp together but he is quick to keep them apart, his eyes meeting your frantic ones, “You don't– you never–”

“I’m apologizing.” He says simply and then his mouth is on you. There is nothing shy about the way his tongue drags through your folds, he licks and licks, and licks till he's drooling— he's making a wet mess out of you, his tongue dipping in and out of your fluttering hole as moans spill from you. Your legs tremble at the side of his head and you barely catch his eye roll as he pulls your thighs close to his head. He groans when they clench around his head and he licks his way back up to your clit and sucks hard, slurping loudly. Your back arches from the bed, a shrill shriek of his name escaping from your mouth, his head bobs with each suck, his tongue dragging and swirling hard against your dripping core.

“Oh, oh-” A curse he's never heard before explodes from you and your hand is carding through his hair and pulling closer to your cunt. His nose digs into your flesh and he lets out a puff of air before he flattens his tongue and shakes his head, your hand was keeping him centered enough but it loosens when he does this, flying to your mouth instead to muffle the squeal that leaves you. He keeps his mouth on you as he looks up, taking in your teary eye expression— your eyes meet and Paul can barely hold back the smile when he teases a finger against your slit. You moan, arching down towards it and it makes his nose grind against your clit as his finger slips in easily. You're incredibly wet and you would be embarrassed if Paul wasn't the one to blame for it, you could barely tell what was your own arousal or his spit at this point.

Paul presses another finger into you and it goes just as easy as the first, his fingers gliding against your clenching, wet walls. His fingers prod and rub and when they hook against a spot that has you twisting away from him, Paul is fighting to keep your hips from bucking wildly. “That’s it.” He encourages, his voice husky. His fingers bully a spongy part inside of you, pressing and rubbing as his other hand moves, his fingers rubbing tight, hard circles against your clit. It's an awkward position but Paul doesn't seem to care, his wild eyed look is trained on your leaky cunt and the way it clenches and flutters around his fingers. You smack at his hands because something is brewing— your stomach coiling right. He rides the waves your hips rock to, a crooked smile forming on his face. “That’s fucking it, so pretty like this.”

You cum and you swear you've gone blind. You've touched yourself before, you've made yourself cum before but this— this is something completely different, your back is arching off the bed, your moans are choked to a stop as you try to force air to your lungs. Your legs clamp shut but Paul keeps pumping his fingers inside of you, he's cooing like you're something precious and he's riding your high, his hand matching the twitching of your hips. You wheeze his name, your chest heaving and it is only then Paul pulls his hand from you, his fingers wet and creamy and he slips the digits into his mouth with a soft moan.

You're blinking up at him, your breath rattling in your chest and Paul meets your gaze unabashed, his fingers leaving his mouth to rub a soothing pattern in your thigh. “Are you alright?”

You quickly realize Paul can't help but do that. In the next week, Paul pulls you into every dark corner he can find. He'd drop to his knees, his mouth finding your cunt like it was home and he'd licked you till you were quivering, creaming all over his face and pushing him away. Paul licked your cunt like a man starved and again, you quickly realize with an odd twinge of fear that he loved it. Loved your legs clamped around his head, loved his nose buried in your scent at its source. He loved it so much it took nearly another week for him to bend you over his desk and actually fuck you.

“Oh, f-fuck!”

The office is filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the squeaking of the desk moving forward. Paul has a hand splayed over the curve of your back, keeping you bent over as he rolled his hips into you. You're moaning, cursing really and it makes him twitch inside of you. He loves when you act like anything but a Lady and when you're clenching down on him, choking his dick and soaking his thighs, he thinks he might lose his head. Still, there are guards who roam the halls outsides, servants that go about their duties and you are just so vocal— his hand slips over your mouth and though he knows the damage is done and the outside world has probably already heard your sounds, he feels possessive; he wants to keep your moans and whimpers to himself. He used the hand over your mouth to pull you up and flush against him, groaning when you clamp down on him, fucking back on him without abandon.

His knees nearly buckle when you begin to set your own pace against him, one of your hands holds his hand over your mouth, your nails digging into skin as your other hand flies to your stretched cunt. You're so wet your fingers slip and mess their mark and Paul feels your frustrated groan vibrate against his hand as you try again, your fingers finding your clit and you rub furiously little circles against the sensitive nub. Faintly, Paul thinks you touch yourself a little too rough but you're tightening up on him and Paul moans, you feel so good. Better than his hand ever did and, his hips meet yours— it's almost frantic, animalistic in the way he fucks into you and when he cums, he shakes, a moan spilling from his lips as he continues to roll his hips, fucking his spend back into you and try to get you to finish.

And you do, you always do because Paul refuses to stop until you do. He could be shaking from pure overstimulation and he'd still fuck into you until you're creaming on his dick, his fingers, his face. Later, he tells you that he's glad you don't squirt. You had hit him on his shoulder, tried to hide your face from his lecherous gaze but he had cupped your pussy with a grin filled with heat, “You’d wash away all my work if you did.”

You had hissed his name in warning but Paul was already slipping his fingers back inside of you and you were mortified with how your body just accepted them.

Your recent… couplings had not gone unnoticed by the people of the Castle. While your ladies had more tact in asking you— your Father-in-law and Jessica were not. You had been tending to Oliver at dinner, trying to coax your son into eating his vegetables with Paul watching fondly at your side, his arm curled around the back of your seat.

Leto had cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as he watched the two of you warmly. He has been the more accepting of the recent change, greeting you both with a grin or a chuckle whenever you two stumbled into the room disheveled. “Would it be remiss of me to assume I'll be getting another grandchild soon?”

Paul snorts into his cup of wine, the red liquid spilling across his front and you are no better, the fork holding Oliver’s broccoli shakes and the vegetable falls on the boy who instantly whines in disgust. You are quick to clean him, apologizing in a coo as your face warms, you look anywhere but your in-laws and Paul takes charge. “Father–” He began, his voice warning but Leto showed his palms with an easy smile.

“I’m simply curious.” He amends, Jessica is deathly silent at his side, watching the conversation with an odd look in her eyes. “The castle hasn't been baby proofed since Oliver and I wanted to know if we should start–”

Oliver, hearing his name looks to his grandfather to you with excited green eyes. “There’s a baby?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, your face warm as suddenly everyone turns to look at you. “Well, yes but–”

The adults at the table all sit straighter, Paul's hand curls tighter against the back of your chair. “Yes?” He repeats a touch breathless and you risk a glance in his direction, and he has once again gone pink in the face. Your lips pinch and you look away, it is much easier to admit this to a child, your son, rather than his father.

“Yes,” You begin again, your voice strong but soft, a hand smoothing over his curly little head. “But the baby won't come for a number of months, Ollie.”

Oliver makes a face. “I’ll be five when it comes.”

Paul from your side lets out a watery laugh, his arm leaving your chair and settling on your shoulders. “Yes,” He replies, “You’ll be an older brother, Oliver.”

That has the boy smiling, he turns back to his grandfather already babbling about all the things he'll do as a big brother and Leto is smiling so widely, you think the grin might split his face. Paul uses it as an opportunity to pull you from the table and out into the hallway, his hand shaking in yours.

“Paul, I'm–”

He silences you with a kiss salted with his own tears. You return his kiss a touch confused and he lets out a puff of laughter against your lips. “Do not apologize.” He orders, leaning away, “Do not apologize for making me a father again.”

“I wanted to tell you differently.” You say, your heart pounding. “I wanted to wait another week just to be sure– wanted to surprise you.”

Paul is grinning, teary eyed and peachy faced. “I am surprised.” Then he's kissing you again.

Inarizaki's Kansai Dialect

Japanese Dialects are split into Eastern and Western, with the Standard Japanese dialect being Eastern (Kanto region) and Kansai region dialect being Western (eg. cities of Osaka and Kyoto, and of course Hyogo prefecture- where Inarizaki is from). The pitch, tone, and stressing of the sounds is different from standard Tokyo Japanese so you should be able to hear the difference in how the Inarizaki members speak even if you don't know any Japanese.

just in case yall didn't know, Suna is the only member on the team that does not use Kansai dialect as he was scouted from Aichi prefecture, so he basically just speaks in the standard dialect

Some linguistics of the dialect that may or may not be heard in the show:

"ya" ending vs the standard "da" ending.

Kore kirai ya. vs Kore kirai da. (I hate this.)

the use of the "h" sound instead of "s"

Han vs standard san (honorific suffix, not really used anymore)

Negation suffix "-hen" instead of the standard "-nai".

Taichou kanri dekitehen koto, homen na. vs Taichou kanri dekitenai koto, homen na. (Don't compliment him when he's obviously not taking care of himself.)

verb "oru" vs the standard "iru".

Dareka ga mitoru yo, Shin-chan. vs Dareka ga miteiru yo, Shin-chan. (Someone's always watching, Shin-chan.)

verb "temau" vs standard "teshimau"

Naitemau yaro! vs Naiteshimau darou! (You're gonna make me cry!)

Negation "suru" verb becomes "sen" instead of "shinai".

Ki ni sen dee. vs Ki ni shinai yo. (Don't worry about it.)

Some words that are different in Kansai dialect:

Honto becomes Honma (really)

Sodane becomes Seyade (thats right)

Nande becomes Nandeyanen (why)

Totemo becomes Meccha (very)

ii becomes ee (good)

"aho" means stupid in Japanese, but apparently in the Kansai dialect calling someone an "aho" is actually a compliment?! (even though it has the same definition)

Overall, I could watch the Karasuno vs Inarizaki episodes a hundred times just to listen to Inarizaki's dialect and how different it sounds to the rest of the characters in the entire show.

Although Karasuno speaks in the standard dialect (which isn't very strange since Miyagi is a suburb close enough to the Kanto region), theres a few lines here and there where one of them says something using the Tohoku dialect (the dialect that would be used often in the rest of Tohoku, such as Aomori).

(I especially like Kita's voice, thank you Nojima Kenji.)

MINORS DNI 18+

JASON TODD claims he doesn’t want your drama, that he’s got more important things to worry about than keep up with you. He makes sure you know he thinks you’re crazy, and that he’s onto your lying ass making things up and fucking with his head. He tells himself he’s not into insane women, girls that drive him crazy, chicks that key his motorcycle for talking to other people… but guess who turns up at your door late at night trying to fuck that bipolar pussy?

a little bit of dinner in my life

a little bit of mah boi by my side

a little bit of spaghetti is all i need

a little bit of gay luigi? is what i see

a little bit of pingas in the sun

a little bit of pootis all night long

a little bit of lamp oil here i am

a little bit of rope makes me your bombs.

So I started watching dungeon meshi...

bay windows appreciation post. i love bay windows

there are 2 kinds of mangaka when drawing: the ones that hate woman and the ones that love woman

And, guys...

i think ryoko kui really loves woman.

mehndi?

pairings: diluc, xiao, childe, neuvillette x gn!reader (separate)

content briefing: fluff, kissing, lowk jealous!xiao lol, cw//allusions to cheating in childe's (nothing happens lmao reader is just being a little silly), suggestive in childe's part, lovesick genshin men :( (neuvi omg)

a/n: idk why i got so carried away for childe... the melusines are sick and tired lmao. lowkey desi/arab coded reader but applies to any and all if you're open to the concept!

synopsis: as a sumerian diplomat to your partner's nation, times come where you have to return to your homeland when certain duties call. this time, the akademiya scribe and acting grand master (and more importantly your former classmate and good friend), had sent you a short letter requesting your presence in the city. al haitham, ever so meticulous, had noticed some inconsistencies in the liyue-sumeru trade reports and needed your assistance to rectify the issue.

your most recent visit was two months ago, when you returned with an auburn flower painted into the palm of your hand (courtesy of nilou), fascinating your boyfriend greatly. you'd forgotten about the scene, especially in your rush to pack…

so when he shyly asks if you’ll get it again…

if there’s anyone who understands the saying, “duty calls”, it's DILUC. 

that being said, it doesn’t mean he’ll miss you any less… 

his ears colour scarlet, looking away as he asks, ‘do you think you’d have time to do your mehendi this time?’

you grin, eyes crinkling fondly at the conscious effort he made to pronounce it correctly. ‘we’ll see, ‘luc.’ And that was enough consolation of your absence for him, because he’d do anything to see the enchanting art on your hands again. A compensation of sorts, he thinks to himself, miffed. Despite never having seen something like it before, it was so inexplicably you, a simple, dainty extension of your heritage that made him fall for you even more, if that was even possible. 

you open your palms to him, every space that could possibly be painted on is covered in intricate designs of mehndi. ‘there’s a surprise for you in there, if you can find it.’ he pulls off his right glove, tilting his head at you curiously. 

he holds your hands in his, with the care of handling handcrafted terracotta, and searches through the patterns, his index finger tracing along. ‘that tickles,’ you mutter, squirming as an involuntary smile pulls at your lips at his determined expression. he tightens his hold just a tad at your words. ‘is that better?’ he hums, smiling faintly as he continues in his ministrations. 

he stops in his tracks, his breath hitching, and if his cheeks burned anymore he was sure he’d burst into flames, rivalling his vision. there it is, his surprise, along the side of your left ring finger – his name, in beguiling cursive. you’re struck with the urge to kiss him, when he beams so brightly you’d think wedding bells are tinkling, and he buries his face in your palms, bashful. 

‘i love you,’ he says softly, voice muffled by your skin. your smile widens, endeared, leaning down to try and meet his eyes as he avoids you, pulling your hands further towards him. ‘i love you too, ‘luc.’ 

‘how long will you be gone?’ XIAO turns to look at you from his perch on the balcony, watching you pack after you’d denied his help, before dismally turning back to the moonlight. you stifle a giggle at his sulking demeanour – if he had cat ears, they’d be flat against the top of his head; wallowing in his melancholy. 

‘a week, maybe less. al haitham and i work efficiently well together so the work might be done quicker than i’m thinking,’ you answer with a small smile, absentmindedly rolling up your socks. he makes a face – a small scowl that you don’t see with his back turned to you – at the mention of the scribe. ‘why can he work with you but i can’t come with you?’ he mutters petulantly. 

‘you know how much i’d love your company, xiao,’ you tilt your head kindly, reasoning with your adorably envious boyfriend. ‘but you’re not my protector alone, you have the people of liyue to keep safe, dear adeptus.’ he huffs quietly at your point, before turning to face you again, shifting his body to sit against the rails. 

‘then…will you do something for me?’ ‘anything,’ you roll a tunic, glancing at him fondly.  

‘you know, the designs you returned with last time?’ he begins, eyes trained on your palm. ‘you mean mehndi, right? want me to get it done again?’ he nods quickly, neck turned to look away from you as it slowly flushes crimson, his ears burning. 

you return in less than a week, as promised, spending a day in leisure after your work was done to participate in recent festivities. 

‘xiao,’ you say his name, summoning him as you settle onto the edge of your shared bed at wangshu inn. he appears comically fast, looking dishevelled. ‘you’re back,’ he breathes, his smile small. 

you open your arms, and he falls into them easily, sitting beside you. ‘although, i did stay over a day longer,’ you tell him, apologetic. ‘but for good reason! different communities in sumeru celebrate their own kind of festival of lights at different times of the year. like the lantern rite in liyue.’ he perks up from the crook of your neck, curious as you continue. 

‘they were celebrating deepavali in gandharva ville, and tighnari invited me to come join them,’ you show him your hands, smiling at him. ‘as promised,’ you say gently.

his lips part, eyes trailing over every crevice of your palms and wrists, hesitantly reaching out a hand to touch, like they’d wipe away any moment. he looks up at you, wide-eyed, when he sees his name across your inner forearm, at the top of your wrist. 

‘so my protector could join me,’ you tease, grinning, before he sways forward, pressing his lips to yours before you can see his ruddy cheeks.

so when he seems so oddly happy to see you leave…

is he cheating on you?!

‘so when do you get back, milaya?’ CHILDE questions, following you around your apartment as you pack your things for your travels and stay - to him, this was normal behaviour; to you, it was his tenth question in the last three minutes. 

despite your annoyance because you're stressed, and he isn't really helping aside from tailing you like a shadow and probing you with his quizzing, your breath catches slightly at the nickname. (you could be dating for years and he'd still have that effect on you, but never to let him know because he'd never live it down.)

when you'd told childe about your sudden business trip, promising that it wouldn't take very long, you'd expected his usual lamenting and sorrow, not…him grinning at you in anticipation. does he want me to take long, you think to yourself in dismay, your inner conscience pulling a horrified face. 

‘be sure not to rush so you can take time to, you know, hang out with your friends! you must miss them – especially that girl you mentioned last time, the artist – ni-something? nilly?’ 

‘nilou.’

childe’s mind is elsewhere, for once not noting your slowly darkening mood (usually he has the countenance of a spy, mostly when it comes to your upset). the second you mentioned visiting sumeru, he remembers the last time you went, and returned with the prettiest little tattoo on your palm, refusing to let go of hour hand for hours as he traced the design.

‘is it permanent? the henna?’ he sounds adorably curious, occupied with pressing gentle kisses to the tips of your fingers. you fight back a smile, warming at the sight of his cerulean eyes on you. ‘temporary, unfortunately. i’m not that good at doing it on myself,’ and you let out the laugh you’d been holding back when he frowns, drooping visibly, before perking up when you comb your free hand through his hair, expression fond, and he flushes. 

‘maybe i could learn?’

he doesn’t know why he’s so captivated by it, but something about you being adorned in your culture was alluring. he’s going to miss you terribly, he knows, weeping and throwing himself over the chaise and wasting away his days despondently until you return, but it is a soothing comfort to wait knowing that you’ll come back with a gift, seen as such despite being adorned on you (which makes it all the more a present), so he kisses you goodbye as he sees you off at the harbour, trying not to be as dejected.

you worry your bottom lip between your teeth on the way back, a few days earlier than you’d told your boyfriend you’d return. your mind returns to how he didn’t even shed a tear at the pier – you’d expected your dramatic boyfriend to almost flood the port like last time (he really has a knack for raising your standards).

his few letters had mostly probed about your days in detail, asking what you were doing, who you met, but talking about his own few and far between, and your suspicion had only grown. you know your boyfriend is easy on the eyes, and his flirtation comes so effortlessly to him in a way that has the people of liyue swooning (he doesn’t even realise it with how engrossed he is with you). it would cause him no struggle to find someone…else – someone better?

when he meets you at the harbour to pick you up, he presses his lips to yours as fervently as he can without the millelith escorting him away for excessive pda, his hand at your nape. ‘missed you, milaya,’ he whispers into your mouth, ‘–so much.’ 

he pulls away, grinning at you, before flipping your palms in his hand, sulking when he finds them blank. he looks up to complain before his words stop in his throat, eyes falling to the nilotpala lotuses on your collarbone, extending its stems and leaves outward and down the collar of your shirt, and his gaze darkens. his hand wraps around your wrist (gentle, always so gentle), pulling you in the direction of your apartment as his free hand lifts your bags easily. 

he pulls you into your shared apartment, dropping your luggage as he locks the door, before caging you against the wall between his arms. he leans down to meet your wide eyes, and you back away a little as your stomach flips. 

he ghosts his lips over yours, peppering up your cheek before dragging down your neck, humming when he reaches your collar, tugging it down just a tad, the mehndi lotus petals curving into the dip of your skin. ‘did your friend do this one too?’ he asks absentmindedly, kissing the spot before nipping it lightly, soothing over it with a teasing grin when you tug at his hair in warning, your breathing shallow. ‘’ts pretty,’ he looks up at you, eyes hardened to cobalt and half-lidded, his lips pulled into a lazy half-smile. 

you exhale sharply – he wasn’t asking if you’d stay longer so he could meet with his paramour; he just wanted you to have time so he could see the art on you again! (he’s so obsessed with you it’s actually stupid that you’d think he could even look at anyone but you). your heart stutters at the realisation as you push his smirking face away timidly, before your mind clears. 

‘you asshole if that bruises–’

so when you get a letter from his subjects…

as the iudex of fontaine, NEUVILLETTE is a busy man, and sometimes (most of the time) the work cut out for him rises to arduous levels. the only thing that made the wearying paperwork bearable was you. you, who would quietly bring a chair and organise his papers the way he likes it, sometimes filling it yourself methodically, perfectly, if it was within your scope of knowledge. you, who would bring him macarons and pastries at random, and pull him out of his office at meal times to eat together. 

you, who would brew tea to enjoy together at moments like this, when his head throbs from a headache as he presses his forehead to his desk, and he misses you terribly. 

the bushes outside the palais mermonia have grown ears, one would think. they’ve become the commonplace meeting spot for the melusines, the small creatures clustered together in shrubbery as they secretly discuss their worry, staring up at the heavy grey clouds, threatening downpour that had been continuous for the past two days.

that brings them to today, gathered once more as they draft a letter to you. 

‘dear partner of father,

we thought it would be fit to let you know that his state is very bleak and desolate, and he is concerningly not leaving his office very often. this is not meant to worry or rush you, but do you think you could return…as soon as possible? do you know how much longer your duties will take to complete?

p.s. we know father would never expect a present from you, but from our side we humbly ask of you to return with a treat, since we know how much he loves gifts from you. 

regards and sincerely,

the fontaine melusines’

you sigh heavily, ghosting your fingertips over the patterned paper, worrying your lip in concern for your boyfriend. 

reading the letter over your shoulder (nosy), al haitham huffs, a rare smile on his face. ‘we’re on the last report, i can finish it on my own,’ he turns to face the files once more, monotone voice taking on a teasing lilt as you narrow your eyes at him. ‘are you sure?’ 

‘go ahead early, so you can get that treat of yours.’ ‘haitham!’

two days later, a knock on the door brings neuvillette’s head up from where it is surrounded by piles of files, articles and reports. ‘come in,’ he calls, weary, expecting another melusine urging him to eat. 

instead of the small, long-eared souls he’d expected to see, the door opens to you. he stands abruptly, the stacks sliding to the floor and scattering loose leafs of paper onto the floorboards. 

‘mon cœur?’ he stares at you, wide-eyed in surprise, the tips of his pointed years carmine. if it were anyone else, you’d think they weren’t happy to see you. but this is your neuvillette, and the immediate stop of rainfall as the clouds give way to clear blue out the window, and the subsequent chirping of the birds on the sills speak volumes. 

he makes haste, meeting you in the middle of his office before hesitating, and you nod gently at him. he gathers you in his arms, soft and warm against the firm planes of his hold. he cups your face in his palms, kissing you deeply, a clear message of i missed you passed into your breath and into your heart. it beats rapidly against your sternum, swelling with promise to take good care and spoil your sweet, tenderhearted boyfriend. he parts from you reluctantly, breathing your scent in and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. ‘did you have a safe journey?’ 

‘i did, i apologise for taking so long–,’ he shakes his head quickly, and you laugh lightly. ‘and since you liked it so much last time,’ you push up your sleeves, showing him your forearms. he gasps quietly, azure gaze following the tawny trail of lumidouce bells, rainbow roses and romaritime flowers drawn into the skin of your forearms and the back of your hands with artful precision, vines connecting and curling around them beautifully. his heart warms at the thoughtful gift - sumerian culture imbued with his in mind.

a rainbow spreads through the sky outside, the melusines letting out a sigh of relief, patting each other on the back for a job well done. 

kryscent '24 do not repost, translate or crosspost

animated dividers are by @cafekitsune (ilovethem sm omg, its a blessing, tysm for making them)

Wild Flowers and Full Moon - Hodo Nishimura , 1940s-50s.

Japanese , b . 1910s- ?

Woodblock , 10 x 15 in.

is tracing reference bad? maybe. but not if you add enough extra muscles to your new werewolf girlfriend.

Bangs + Hair clips = visible foreheads

Thinking abt being Shoto’s s/o who keeps up a ton of hair clips around the house. Constantly using them on their own bangs and such. Constantly using them on Shoto when he’s got his bangs in his face. Flashforward to moving in together and all of a sudden Shoto just has constant access to this hair clippy collection. And he just takes them and does his own hair when he gets up to leave for work. Him showing up at the agency with cutesy tortoise shell berets and sparkly resin alligator clips. Makes him and his poker face only mildly less intimidating to employees and the press. Makes citizens and the press go crazy bc come on guys it’s hero Shoto with cute little hair clips and now his beautiful forehead is exposed and those heterochromatic eyes are no longer hidden behind the bangs. And eventually you start complaining about how you hair clip numbers are dwindling down in that drawer bc he also is accidentally using and losing them on patrol. IMMEDIATELY there’s a package at the door of you workplace with the hair accessories in bulk. The poor delivery boy out of breath handing you a note that says: sorry love, I lost your hair clips. I fixed the problem, permanently. XOXO - Shoto

only to open it up to find a gazillion of your favorites and you’re looking at this poor boy who’s keeled over by the water jug flipping the card in your hands, “is there a reason my fiancé couldn’t wait until he was done with patrol to send these over? Or at least send the order to our house?” seriously the poor errand boys at Shoto’s agency are always running across town and dropping things off for you. You’d never understand it. The young man huffs, sighing after guzzling a bottle of water, “said you’d ask,” he heaves, “it was on company deductibles.” You hum confused and gesture to the chair in the lobby, to which the guy practically crawls to. When Shoto gets home that evening he’s walking into the front door with that darling little quip of a smile, which usually means he’s incredibly pleased with whatever mischief he’s just invoked. And you’re sure he is. “I heard you received your package, love. I’m sorry for taking so long to rectify the situation, but it won’t be a problem anymore. And- I think you’ll like the outcome.” You’re standing in the kitchen just staring at your fiancé because y’all’s bedroom has about 10 more even bigger boxes of those hair clips. You start breaking into laughter as Shoto comes over and holds you, rubbing his hands down your sides, “Sho- oh my gosh- I can’t believe you went through all the effort of phoning them and becoming an official sponsor just to replace the ones you’d lost on patrol!” You’re wiping tears away from the corner of your eyes, that was such a flabbergasting surprise when you walked home to see a dozen more boxes by the front door. Which immediately instigated a Instagram search to find that yes, indeed, Shoto had officially announced that he was going to sponsor y’all’s favorite brand. Shoto grins a dazzling smile as he huffs out silent amusement, “Darling, they’ve already got our names on the frequent buyer list. And- my fans have been posting like crazy about it. The last step was to simply ask.” You laugh again, followed by a punctual snort from Shoto. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then another as you cup his cheeks onto his forehead. “Well, I suppose this is a practical one. Unlike the last one which was born out of spite.” Shoto pouts, “You and I both know that the company didn’t have permission to go use that clip.” You reach a hand to playfully brush dust off his shoulder, “I guess the five weenies ad had it coming - although it is a bit awkward signing the slip for those delivery boys. But seriously, Babe, can we at least adjust the package size? It’s been nearly 6 months now.” Shoto raises one perfectly shaped white eyebrow at you, “It wasn’t impractical last night, now was it?”

Stage Names

Hey, if you never hear from me again it is because I got lost getting to/from my hotel room and am now trapped

I’m honestly not sure I captured all the twists and turns

Reverse fae au Ghost Words: 5.5k Rating: M (Minors DNI) Tags: Ghost x f!oc, fae!oc, Ghost pov, slow burn horror, magic, time loss, stalking, predator/prey, dubcon/noncon, manipulation, panic attacks, piv sex, gore, erotic cannibalism(?), Ghost's family lives, Ghost is in therapy too bad it's not gonna save him, (debatably) bad end Summary: Simon Riley saves his family, so why does it feel like he still lost them? Years later he sees a woman in a bar, one he can't seem to shake. a/n: thank you Ghost for infecting my dreams a year ago, I'm going to destroy your life now <3

Simon Riley stands, blood soaked, in a little apartment in the heart of Manchester. His chest heaves, panting as he stares down the beaten and broken body of his former brother in arms. Washington is dead on the black and white tiled floor of his family's flat. His blood pools under Simon's feet, and Simon tips his head back, eyes squeezed shut to avoid the overhead light, as he draws in a sobering breath.

"Simon," His mother breathes, "What did you do?"

He’s not the oldest, but he's the man of the house. He's supposed to protect his family from anything that would hurt them: his father, Roba, now Washington, someday maybe even himself. "My job," He tells her over the sound of his own frantic heartbeat.

-

Ghost stands at the bar while the rest of his comrades laugh. Their booth in the corner is full of jokes and gentle prodding. He checks his watch, fishes for one of the pills in his pocket and swallows it dry. These new SSRIs Beth's doctor has him on are helping. The nightmares aren't as bad, he's feeling things again. The days are long but they're not interminable, sometimes that's all he can hope for.

He glances over his shoulder at the men in the corner booth. Price claps a hand on Soap's shoulder as Gaz grins. It's warm over there, a family away from his family. He wishes- no, he's too greedy. He's happy with what he has, with the life he's built for himself. At the price of only one life he thinks it's well worth it. He should visit his mum while he's back in the UK, take advantage of some of the leave Price is always hounding him about. He's only glad he was able to convince his little family to move closer to base. Mum was hard to convince, but after Washington… It's hard to sleep knowing there's still blood rotting under your kitchen floor. Joseph didn't need to grow up watching people avoid half the kitchen.

“Jus’ a wa'er,” Ghost tells the bartender, “‘nother round for those sods though.” He nods back at the 141. He should grab something for the kid while he's got time. No sense being the favorite uncle if he can't spoil the bugger. Never mind he bought a whole house just so the kid could have a garden to play in.

“That's sweet,” a voice coos at him. Ghost glances left, following instinct to fix his gaze on a woman at the end of the bar. Despite the low lights and crowd she's glowing, in her element. Pretty, Ghost thinks, and sort of… pink. Her lips, anyway, are pink when they curve into a smile. He turns back to the bar, must not have been talking to him. And why would she be?

“You have a big heart,” her voice husks in his ear, her hands trailing down his back. He swats at the buzz, like shooing away a gnat and turns to look at her. The space behind him is empty. She's still at the other end of the bar chatting with someone, her pink lips moving in a dull hum of conversation. There's something about her, something that prods at the back of his eyes, like an incessant alarm blaring. She doesn't look dangerous, but then again the pretty ones never do. It’s the fuzz, he thinks, he must be tired if the edges of her are starting to get blurry, he’ll grab the next train after this round. The bartender sets three pints and a glass of water in front of him, and Ghost is forced to look away from the woman. 

“Cheers,” he nods to the bartender, setting a few notes on the bar and grabbing the glasses between his hands. No trouble getting them back to the table, people are too eager to jump out of his way. Although he's not sure if it's because of the mask or the size of him.

Ghost passes pints to waiting hands, nodding along as Soap gives his best impression of a joke. Gaz shakes his head, but his smile speaks volumes. Price keeps his eyes on the door despite his relaxed posture. Really all of them do. Even through the squint of laughter Soap and Gaz’s eyes scan the room, always on guard for a potential threat. It's strange, Ghost pulls the seat out and doesn't feel the need to glance over his shoulder. He angles it on instinct, but his eyes touch the men he’s with rather than the crowd. It's the first time he hasn't felt like jumping out of his skin with his back to the door. Must be the new meds working.

“Give your mum my love,” Price tells him and Ghost is forced to bring his attention to his captain.

“‘oo said I’m goin’ ta see my mum?” He replies, fingers itching against the cool glass.

“Ya always run off the see ‘er,” Soap chides.

“I think it's sweet,” Gaz chimes in.

“S’why I like you Garrick,” Ghost leans back in his seat, “ya stay outta my business.”

“Doing my best sir,” Gaz grins, clinking his glass against Ghost’s.

“My job to know your business,” Price smiles, leaning against the table.

“What's Mactavish's excuse then?” Ghost jokes, eyeing the scot. Soap balks, presses his hand to his heart like he's offended.

“Ahm yer best mate, ah cannae care about ya?” Soap says, doing a truly impressive impression of puppy dog eyes. Ghost snorts into his glass and shakes his head. It's easy to fall into this rhythm with them. The few people in this world he can trust, the few people who understand what it means when he says he has people to protect, people to get home to. Fighting the bad guys to make the world better, so he never has to see his family look at him like that again.

Ghost’s fingers tighten on his glass, splintering cracks running under his hand. Soap settles a hand on his shoulder and he takes a breath. Fine. He's fine. Anger is controllable, his emotions are controllable, he’s not ruled by fear anymore. He repeats it like a mantra. He lives, he takes another step forward and he lives. Soap pats his shoulder twice as his grip loosens.

“How's that new girl you're seeing?” Price asks, the false nonchalance sold for everyone else in the bar but no one at the table. The therapist, he doesn't need to add. Any direct acknowledgement of it, of the pills, tantamount to a discharge. Ghost is grateful, truly, the Price fudges his paperwork, for all of them.

“Be’er than the last one.” His answer earns a nod, a smile.

“Right, well, won't keep you from your family,” Price sniffs, “but I expect you in for morning PT at 0700.”

“Rog,” Ghost nods, finishing his glass and pushing back from the table, “Gonna enjoy sleepin’ on a real mattress.” Gaz grumbles into his pint while Soap glares at him. Ghost smiles, and gives a short two fingers wave before stuffing his hands in his pockets and heading out.

The walk to the tube station is short. The street lights break up the darkness, the moon a thin sliver overhead, and the air is just at the edge of crisp. Spring is starting to break into summer. He always misses the stars when he’s in the city, misses the pinpricks that fill the sky in the desert. It feels too romantic to mention to any of the guys, anathema to the image he’s created. There are parts of him that still don’t feel like they fit, pieces he’s still trying to find in the wake of everything. It’s been a good few years and Ghost still can’t call himself whole, but he’s trying.

He texts Tommy from the train platform. It’s late, but neither of the Riley boys have ever been heavy sleepers. His phone buzzes with a message before the train arrives, Tommy letting him know he’s got a spare key. Ghost huffs a laugh, the hand in his pocket pressing fingers against the jagged teeth on his key ring. He sends a thumbs up, and switches to one of the stupid color games his mum convinced him to download. He’s just cleared level 1506 when he hears laughter drifting down the steps of the platform. 

A glance back, his phone closed as his shoulders draw back to attention. Old habits die hard, you can’t take the military out of the man. He relaxes minutely seeing the woman from the bar. She hangs off her friend’s arm, smile wide and eyes glittering. His brows draw down, a sharp pain hitting his temple. There’s a moment, when she opens her mouth to speak, that he sees the  peaks of sharp teeth. He turns away, presses the heel of his hand against his eye, trying to clear some of the fuzz away that seems to be infecting his vision. He glances at the woman again and finds her eyes boring holes through him, unblinking and unafraid of being caught.

Ghost holds her gaze, the fuzz tingling at the edge of his vision, black creeping into his periphery. His ears ring, and the train rushes to the platform. He turns to move out of the way of the doors, to check which line this is, and his ears pop. He winces, must not be used to the tube after such a long deployment. He slips onto the train, taking one of the open seats. He watches the doors close, and the train moves from the platform, the woman tips her head and he feels something pitch behind his ribs. It feels like avoiding a proximity mine, hearing the explosion behind him and knowing he dodged something big. He pulls his phone out to give the next level a go.

-

Ghost is woken up in the morning by a four year old not even a third his size jumping on his chest with enough force he almost thinks he’s taken a mortar round. Only to hear the fit of giggles that follows him tossing the little bugger off of him. Christ. Ghost drags a hand down his face, feeling the scratch of stubble as Joseph climbs over him. Tommy walks past the guest room door, and then backpedals to raise a brow at his brother.

“Thought Beth took ‘im to daycare already.” Tommy flips one end of his tie over the other and tugs the tail through the knot he’s made.

“Guess she’s got me babysittin’.” Ghost grumbles, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Joseph drops down to sit next to him.

“You mind?” Tommy asks, peaking in the dresser mirror to adjust his tie. Ghost shakes his head.

“Long as ‘e doesn’t.” Ghost scratches his chest, glances at Joseph who stares at him. Little shit grins a gap toothed smile and Ghost pushes him sideways onto the mattress. More giggles as Joseph kicks at him and tries to escape his iron grip.

“Daddy help!” Joseph shrieks, earning a hum from his father and a grab from Ghost. The kid is hauled against Ghost’s chest and then grabbed around the ankles to hang as Ghost stands from the bed.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Tommy tells him, patting Joseph’s stomach. Ghost follows him out of the guest room, swinging the kid as he goes. “Mum’s at her club today, and Beth’s got an event tonight.” Tommy says, half talking to Ghost, half talking to himself as he grabs his bag for work, “pub later?”

“Don’t see why not.” Ghost rumbles, lowering Joseph to the carpeted floor. The four year old kicks his feet at Ghost’s hand and rolls towards his father. Tommy’s quick to scoop the kid up with a grunt of effort.

“Gettin’ too big for this,” Tommy grunts, earning a hug around his neck and a soft ‘I love you daddy.’ Something about the scene aches behind Ghost’s ribs. A glimpse at the life he isn’t supposed to have, the broken cycle that he never thought he’d get out of. Maybe he got too far out of it. “‘Ow long’re you in town?” Tommy asks, setting Joseph down.

“Few weeks.”

“Welcome to stay as long as ya need.” Tommy pushes his kid towards the living room and Joseph wanders off to play. Ghost snorts.

“‘S if it isn’ my ‘ouse.”

Tommy grins, and holds his fist up. “Drinks on me then.”

Ghost bumps his own fist against his brothers with a smile. “I’ll ‘old you to that.”

Watching the kid is easy. Keeping a hold on him? So much harder. Being on leave gives Ghost a great opportunity to cement himself as favorite uncle. Which means taking his nephew out. Ice cream, playground, new loud toy that’s sure to piss off his parents. Swear to God this kid needs a leash though. Joseph’s little hand leaves Ghost’s big one as he sprints off down the street after something. Ghost swears loudly and makes his way after the booger. 

“Joseph,” He calls after the kid, his little head bobbing down the street, “Come on you little shit.”

It’s not busy, but there are enough people still dragging their feet from lunch to be a nuisance. Ghost’s never lost a target before, but most of his targets have at least three feet of height on Joseph. Someone bumps his shoulder and the sharp swear Ghost throws at them costs him a second of sight. His eyes dart back to the street and Joseph is gone.

The fear that grips him is unlike any he’s ever felt in the battlefield. It seizes his lungs, holds his ribs tight so he can’t take a breath. His eyes dart around for Joseph, for the little red jacket the kid insisted on wearing, the striped trousers, he can’t find him. A brainwashed soldier, and four years of Tommy’s parenting, Joseph could survive all of that, but one day with Ghost and he’s gone.

Ghost’s breath comes short, his eyes nearly vibrating with how quickly they scan the area. Red coat, striped trousers. Red coat, striped trousers. Red coat, striped trousers.

The walls may as well be closing in on him. Dirt rains down from the sky. The coffin closes. The jaw bone digs into the palm of his hand. The worms and beetles crawl over his skin as he digs and digs, suffocating on the dirt that’s still loose in the grave. The road breaks into an open square and he stands watching the parade of people that filter through it. It’s open air, so why does he feel like he’s suffocating? 

He turns to look towards the road he just came out of, the buildings seem to wave and curve in towards the people walking its path. Back towards the square. The shops feel closer, the store fronts opening like mouths to lure in an unsuspecting child. Red coat, striped trousers. He eyes the fountain, the couples that sit on the edge of it unsuspecting that the shallow water could drown a kid Joseph’s size. Strangers brush past him, eye him, their coats and rushed steps might hide a squirming victim.

Ghost’s hand grabs a passerby by the arm, his fingers tight as he turns manic eyes upon the man. The older man startles, his eyes darting over Ghost’s form, obviously frightened by this sudden confrontation. He lets him go, his attention returned to the square. The man hustles away from him, his hand gripping the space on his arm where Ghost had grabbed him with a wince. Not that Ghost notices, his mind too focused on the thing he’d lost. He takes a step further into the square and the people in it part like the red sea.

Red coat, striped trousers, and a flake.

He breaks the surface of the water, his eyes landing on Joseph as a woman crouches next to him. She pushes his hair back, glancing around at the crowd as his nephew bites into the vanilla soft serve. Something hurts, pushes insistently, behind his eyes. It needles at his brain, scratches at some old wound. It doesn’t matter, nothing matters but making his way to his nephew. Damn everything else.

The woman glances up at him, her smile splitting her face, wide and toothsome. “Such a big heart.” She coos. The ringing in his ears grows louder with each step, louder and louder until it’s deafening. It hurts. A man passes in front of him and Ghost all but throws him out of the way. He scoops Joseph up off the cobblestone, pressing his forehead against the kid’s temple. Joseph squirms, his ice cream falling from his hands and down onto the ground. 

Ghost heaves in a breath, squeezing Joseph tighter against his chest. Christ he thought he’d lost him. The pressure seems to stop the kid from complaining about the lost ice cream, pushing instead against Ghost’s chest to be released. Ghost transfers him to his hip and checks him over, any cuts of bruises, a single hair out of place. He straightens the red coat, pinches his cheek, tips Joseph’s head to kiss the top of it. 

Almost lost.

“Where she go?” Joseph asks, twisting in Ghost’s arms. 

“Scared the shit outta me,” Ghost huffs, ignoring the kid’s looking around in order to take him back up the street. See if he sets the little man down until they get home.

-

The house is empty when Ghost wakes up the next morning. There’s no patter of little feet, no shout from Beth that Tommy’s going to be late, only the smell of coffee filling the kitchen. There’s a note letting him know who will be back when. He tugs it off the fridge and crumples it in his hand to toss into the kitchen trash. He’ll go back to base, look over some paperwork. It’s tedious work but at least it passes the time. 

Ghost sits on the tube, tapping at the bottles on his phone screen. It’s nearly empty, a few stragglers making their way into work, a few people heading home from long nights, and Ghost. The train stops at its next station. The doors open, there’s a slight pressure change, Ghost glances at the few people that board and goes back to his game.

A woman sits down beside him.

He doesn’t look up, but he does scan the rest of the train. Open seats galore. She crosses one bare leg over the other, the tip of her heel bumping his leg. If she expects him to move she should have sat somewhere else. He keeps his legs spread wide, his elbows on his knees as he taps away at his phone. One bottle filled with pink liquid sparkles upon completion. He stalls looking at the rest of the bottles, the colors mixed together in varying degrees. His mind pulls different possibilities, different patterns.

A manicured finger taps at his screen, one bottle upending into another. Ghost glances at the woman as she presses close, her eyes fixed on his screen. She doesn’t look at him, her finger tapping again and again as Ghost watches her eyes move. Long lashes and full cheeks. Pink lips. He winces, jerks away from her as her nail digs into his thumb. 

“Oops,” She blinks. 

Ghost looks at her, his heart feels like it’s about to pound out of his chest, his eyes ache like he’s attempting to focus on too many things at once. There’s a splitting pain in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut with a grimace and watches the colors pop behind his eyelids. He can’t control his breathing, it feels erratic, his brain is too focused on systems that should be involuntary. He forces his eyes open again, stares at his reflection in the window across from him. The woman beside him sits prim and proper reading a book three seats away. 

He can still feel her pressed against his side. Did he hear her move? Feel her move? There was no change in the air, no movement, no shifting, her warmth didn’t fade, her pressure didn’t fade from one moment to the next. She was beside him and now she’s not. His eyes watch her through the warped glass. Her reflection wavers, changing with the rattle of the train car. She flips the page in her book, tips it to read in the low light. Romance novel, Ghost notes. 

A glance down at his phone. Blood is smeared over his screen, streaked in fingerprints smaller than his own, his game boasting a completion trophy. His thumb is red, the congealed blood no longer contained to the shallow wound just below his nail. He raises the digit to his lips and cleans the blood with his tongue. 

Eyes bore holes into the side of his head, but when he looks at the car everyone seems to be minding their own business. It makes his skin crawl. The tension in his shoulders tightens. 

Ghost scratches his nail against the blood drying on his phone screen. His blood, dragged by an unfamiliar hand. 

The train pulls up to his station, and he stands. Phone locked and pocketed, he glances at the bird again before departing. She doesn’t look up from her book. 

His head is pounding as he steps out into daylight. A migraine, it must be. He hasn’t had one of these in a while, still as debilitating as the last one. Maybe he should go home. Ghost turns to head back down the stairs, he’ll text Price and let him know he couldn’t make it. He bumps into someone. Hands settle on his chest, holding him up, steadying him, and then-

And then they sink into his chest. Soft hands push past his ribs, push into his skin like dipping into water, his flesh non newtonian to the hands that hold him. His eyes hold the woman’s, as her fingers wrap around his lungs and squeeze. No. Not his lungs, his heart. Her fingers grasp his heart, holding on tightly, reverently. She presses close, her chest against his, hands releasing to continue their path through him and wrap around his spine in some sick impression of a hug.

“You’re lonely,” She breathes, “I can fix that.”

-

Ghost hands the guy at the gate his ID and waits for him to check the ledger. It seems to take ages. The man even radios Price to be sure he has the right man. When Ghost does finally get through the gate the migraine that had been building on the train is in full force.

His fingers hardly make a dent in the throbbing at his temple. The sound of footsteps drums against the inside of his skull. The blood pounding in his ears makes him queasy. His stomach flips, and he nearly upheaves his breakfast. Price catches him by the shoulders. Chill drips down his spine, mint fills his nose, then ginger. He swallows the magic his captain presses into him and sets himself right again.

“You broken?” Price asks, the low rumble of his voice just touches concern. Ghost drags his hand over his eyes, glaring at the recruits that scurry past the two of them. 

“No sir,” Ghost swallows again, and feels the sting of ginger creeping up into his nose, “Must’ve-”

Price grabs his face, his thumbs pulling at his cheeks, inspecting the whites of his eyes. He tips Ghost one way then the next, inspecting him. His eyes narrow, and Ghost resists the urge to swat his hands away. Ghost doesn’t pretend to understand his captain’s inspection, his mannerisms. “Magic”, “witchcraft”, he’s seen the jars that line Price’s office, read the briefs the military keeps redacted beyond legibility, and it still feels like bullshit. Until Price gets his hands on him.

“I got somethin’ on my face?” Ghost asks when Price has been quiet too long. His captain’s lips have drawn tight, and lets him go. 

“What’s the date,” Price forgoes answering him. Ghost frowns but indulges him. Price mirrors his frown.

“By how much?” Ghost fills in the gaps in Price’s frown.

“A few days,” Price sighs, “Your mum called.”

“What’d you tell ‘er?”

“Nothing I can’t deny later.”

Ghost nods slowly. He can’t- the last thing he remembers was getting off the train, then making his way to the gate. Not unusual, he’s walked the route enough times he can shut his brain off, but it’s all black. He can’t remember a single part of the walk. He feels over his jaw, he’s shaved recently. A few days? His family knows better than to ask about his work, he’ll just tell them he got caught up in paperwork and crashed in the barracks.

-

It’s not a nightmare, Ghost knows that much at least. There’s no blood, no cramped space, no pain. There are soft fingers carding through his hair, humming. The pillow he rests his head on shifts slightly as the woman above him leans over him. She smiles, her fingers tracing over the scar that cuts through his brow, and down his crooked nose. The light overhead is soft, the air warm on his skin. Her hair halos her, casts strange shadows over her face. 

Ghost raises a hand to cup her cheek and she leans into the touch. He feels lighter, his chest, his limbs, the tension melted away under the careful touch that drags over his skin. Something sharp and teeth gnashingly dark batters against the back of his mind. It scratches behind his eyes. 

“They don’t understand, do they?” She asks. Who? Ghost wants to ask, but his tongue feels like lead. She drags her finger from his hairline to his chin, and back up, and back down. His head follows, nodding along with what she says.

“They never will,” She pouts, and Ghost’s brows twitch, “Poor thing.”

“No,” He manages to unstick his tongue, the scratching behind his eyes is growing more insistent. Ghost turns his head to look at the room, his cheek touches skin. So he’s on her lap. He takes a breath, something soft and floral filling his nose. It bursts pink and fluffy in his vision, clouding what he sees. The room feels fuzzy, he can’t focus his eyes. Dreamlike, he supposes. 

“I understand you,” She breathes, “you love with blood in your teeth.” She moves his head, turns him to look at her again. “I could love you, and you’d never be lonely again.”

His eyes focus on her face. Pretty, electric. Her eyes are too bright, her lips too perfectly carved, her skin looks like glass, she shines with some magic he’s never seen before. She’s fuzzy when he blinks. His heart clenches tight, his grief washing over him. He wants to see her again. It feels consumptive, like a fire burning through him. To love with blood in his teeth, to cut his lips on a kiss, to dig his hands into her thighs and carve his name into her, what bliss that would be.

“Stay with me,” She bids. Ghost swallows, she turns to kiss his palm, he forgot he was touching her. Her skin feels like it’s melting into his, she clings to him. Her lips part and he feels the sharp scratch of her teeth against his palm. The pain shudders through him, lights up the dark howling thing locked in his mind. 

She purrs as his hand wraps around her neck. Possessive, wanting. Blood in his teeth, he thinks to himself. Blood on his hands, on his kitchen floor. He can still see the look on his family’s faces, the horror, the fear in their eyes. Scared of him.

He’s just like his father.

Ghost jerks awake in the barracks. The spartan walls, painted in an attempt to seem more homey than the bare stone. The mattress is familiarly shitty. He drags a hand down his face. It’s dark. When did he drag himself away from the mountain of paperwork that had made its way onto his desk?

He sighs, pulls his knees up to rest his elbow against them as he scratches his head. His dream is already fading from his mind. Not that it made much sense to begin with. At least he wasn’t back in that damn flat. He’ll call his mum in the morning, let her know he’ll be home for dinner. She must be worried.

-

It’s still light out when Ghost leaves base. His back is killing him. Hunched over papers all day as Price piled more on isn’t his idea of a good day at the office, but shit needs to get done. Price had been looking at him strangely all day but hadn’t said anything. When he’d finally snapped at him to either say something or close his eyes, Price had threatened him with insubordination. It felt hollow, but the weight of it settled over his shoulders heavy enough to keep him from snapping again.

At least he let him go at a decent time. Ghost checks his phone, barely five. So why is the tube station so empty? There’s no one on the platform, and there was no one going down the stairs. Suppose that’s good. When he’d tapped his card it didn’t work, felt like a kid hopping the turnstile, be pretty embarrassing if someone had seen him do that.

There’s a woman on the other end of the platform. She wipes at her face, the sound of her sobbing carrying to his end. Ghost watches her for a moment. Her shoulders shake, and he can just barely hear the short sniffles that come with tears. It’s a strange feeling being the only two people in the station. It doesn’t feel real. The air doesn’t touch his skin, and there’s no sound save for the soft crying. 

“You alrigh’ love?” Ghost asks, his voice booming in the small space. He grabs his head at the sharp throb of pain. The space warps, his vision swimming. He closes his eyes, to try and stem the wave of vertigo that washes over him. Maybe he should have stayed on base, gotten examined. 

Christ what is he talking about?

He opens his eyes with a shake of his head, some of the pain dissipating. He looks down at the crying woman. He shouldn’t have yelled when she’s so close. She looks up at him with watery eyes and sniffles. Her pretty pink lips curve down into a pout, almost comical how exaggerated it is. He’s only ever seen Johnny wield that level of frown.

“I’ll be ok,” She tells him. Her manicured fingers swipe at the tears that roll down her face, “Thank you.”

Something in her voice makes his blood throb, and push against his circulatory system. He feels stuck, like his feet are glued to the platform. He can’t move his head to look away from her. She’s pretty when she cries. That must be it. She makes him want to hold her down and see what else he can do to make her sob and beg.

“You’re welcome,” Ghost mumbles. Hands around her neck, he’d bet she likes that. 

The thought itches against the inside of his skull. 

“Would you walk me home?” She asks, “You get off at -” how does she know his stop? “-it’s not far from there.”

She touches his arm, drags her nails up and down. His head follows. 

-

He remembers Price telling him once that magic is about exchange. You can’t get something from nothing, he’d been told. Which seemed like bullshit. What’s the point of magic if you can’t do the impossible with it. Only human, Price had griped at him, you want a miracle try religion.

“What do you want?” The woman in his arms whispers, her lips dragging along his jaw. His hands grip her hip, pulling her up and down his cock. She feels like a furnace, her soft gummy walls clinging to him desperately as he thrusts into her. Her hands squeeze in his chest, pluck at nerve endings and drag nails down his lungs. It hurts. He tips his head to kiss her. He’s never tasted anything sweeter than the honey that drips from her tongue.

What does he want? He wants to fuck her, and keep fucking her. He wants to hold her in his arms and never let go. He doesn’t want to be lonely anymore, always hovering on the outside of humanity. He wants his family to be safe, to never worry about anything ever hurting them again. He wants to be an asset to his team. He wants to lick her cunt. He wants to bite bruises on her thighs. He wants to melt into her. What does he want? What doesn’t he want? He’s greedy, sinking his teeth into any meal he can stomach.

His teeth press against her throat. He wants to feel her blood between his teeth. 

She’s laughing, bright bubbly giggles that pop against the walls with a spark of something. She pushes him back into the mountain of pillows, her hips rolling against him with a fluidity that feels unnatural. He stares up at her, his skin buzzing with her, his mouth, his teeth aching to latch onto her again.

“Say my name,” She grins, her teeth sharp and her nails cutting.

“Love,” He breathes.

“What do you want?” She asks again.

“You.” Ghost’s heart pounds, his voice feels weak. Damning.

“That’s right,” She tells him,

And rips his heart from his chest.

MVP

PAIRING - bf!Kuroo Tetsuro x Reader FT. akaashi keiji, bokuto koutarou, iwaizumi hajime, kozume kenma, miya atsumu, miya osamu, oikawa tooru, sakusa kiyoomi, suna rintarou WC - 5.6K GENRE - smut CW - running a train, choo choo, light bondage, fingering, dp, multiple orgasms, hair pulling, oral (m!receiving), spit, choking, creampies, praise, go brainless bby SYNOPSIS - when kuroo's dream of getting the monster generation together for an all-stars match finally comes true, you - his pretty girlfriend - decide to thank some of the players who participated.

Your eyes followed the trail that Tetsu's hands traced along his thighs as he settled them on his knees before crouching in front of you. "You doing okay here baby?" He lifted one of his hands and his fingers traced gently down the expanse of one of your arms. You watched as it followed your stretched out limb, tucking under the rope tied to your wrist, tied off to a small ring on the wall, your other arm stretched out similarly in the other direction. "Nothing too tight?"

You shook your head lightly. "'m okay, Tetsu." You wanted to press your thighs together, the exposure from this position sending heat into your center, but were quickly reminded that you couldn't thanks to the gentle straps but firm metal bar between your ankles.

"You're such a good girl, baby." Tetsu's praise caught a whimper in your throat. "You know you can tell them to stop at any time."

You nodded at him, you knew what you were getting into. Knew what you signed up for. But as soon as he left the small room, knowing what you signed up for didn’t prepare you for the feeling of cold hands brushing against your inner thighs and you jumped slightly in response. They weren’t Tetsu’s, the pads of his fingers much too soft. But you didn’t have to guess who it was for long.

“Kuro thought you might be nervous.” Kenma’s voice was drawn out in a whisper, his attempt to soothe your nerves as he rubbed small circles into your skin as he trailed his hands across your bare thighs. “Little jumpy?” You nodded lightly, it wasn’t like you could deny it, you knew he could see the slight shake to your limbs as you stood there, on display. “It’s just me.” His fingers were trailing along your waist now, brushing lightly against your body through the fabric.

“Just a little scared Kenma,” You admitted, it was less worrisome, having Kenma in here, it wouldn’t have been the first time he saw you like this. He’d accidentally walked in on you and Tetsu one too many times. And although he’d never touched you, when he rounded your body, to crouch down into your sights, you weren’t as nervous.

“Do you want me to help you relax?” His hand had trailed along with him, now softly cupping the side of your neck as his thumb brushed against the skin of your jaw. You watched his eyes carefully, taking note of the way they seemed to zero in on his thumb, where it was tracing the outline of my bottom lip. Like he was enthralled by it. You nodded lightly. His fingers were quick to press into the small space between your lips. “Here, get them wet for me?”

You were obedient, parting your lips further for him to slip two of his digits into your mouth. His fingers were cold as they slipped across your tongue, pressing down as they went. “Hey look at me.” You hadn’t realized your eyes had been focused on his wrist until you had to pull them back up to meet his eyes. He eased his fingers to your throat and you couldn’t help but gag, squeezing your eyes. “Shh. Relax.” He kept his fingers there until you opened your eyes again, watery vision as you looked up at him. “There you go.” He cooed, his other hand caressing your cheek as he pressed his fingers a little further.

You whined lightly at the feeling of your drool collecting on his fingers, dripping to his palm. Your legs shifted slightly as you felt a wave of excitement course through you when he flexed his fingers in your throat. Your eyes widened when you realized he’d caught the movement. “Does the thought of your throat being fingered turn you on? Bet you’d be okay if no one even touched you.” You shook your head suddenly, the wetness pooling between your thighs starting to control your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” Kenma laughed a little bit as he pulled his fingers from your mouth, “I’ll make sure you get touched.” You opened your mouth to question him as he rounded out of your sight again, but his wet fingers pressing between your folds silenced you quickly, words turning into a soft moan. “Look, you’re already wet, what are you worried about?”

“Kenma,” you moaned his name as his fingers pressed in slowly. Breathless pants leaving your lips as he pushed in to his knuckles, fingers spreading inside of you.

“Just tryna stretch you out.” You could hear your pussy getting wetter as he played with it. He moved his fingers skillfully, poking and prodding, stretching you as you let out breathy moans. “You gonna relax for me?” He paused as if checking something, “it’s already been four minutes, I’ve only got three left. You wanna cum for me.”

You nodded, the tightening in your lower abdomen already building. His fingers angled deeper, pulling a small cry from your lips. “Please, Kenma, wanna.” You gasped lightly as his fingers picked up their pace, pressing roughly against a spot that was making you see stars. The brush of his thumb against your clit had you jerking against your restraints, a moan falling from your lips.

“Just relax.” He soothes, thumb working at a slower pace than his fingers as he brought you closer and closer to falling over the edge. You tried to ignore the soft shake in your legs as your stomach curled, the constant brushing of Kenma’s fingers driving you dizzy. “Cum for me now.” He muttered softly, sounding as dazed as you felt and your body complied with the request. Your limbs tightened and you clenched around him, whiny moans falling out of your mouth before you relaxed.

Kenma pulled his fingers out and you could feel your own wetness drip to your thighs. “Want a taste?” You nodded your head as he came into view again, holding his glistening fingers in front of your face. “Lick.” You licked a long stripe off the back of his fingers and was surprised when he leaned forward, his tongue mimicking mine on the other side. He parted his fingers, his tongue slipping through and pressing against yours. His fingers slipped down to grip your jaw as he kissed you more firmly and you moaned slightly into the kiss.

He was gone as soon as he was there, his mouth parting from yours and leaving your lips to chase after him. “Tastes good baby. You have nothing to worry about.” He pressed a small kiss under your ear. “Just relax.”

Kenma’s voice was still echoing in your ear as you heard the door open again. The bickering was an immediate giveaway to who the boys were. There was a sound of a smack and you twitched before realizing one of them had hit the other.

“Dumbass! Did you just hit me?” It was Tobio’s voice, astonishment clear within it.

“Pause and enjoy the view for a minute.” Shoyo responded, quieter than he’d been a moment ago.

“Idiot.” Tobio grumbled, and you felt his hands on your hips, rubbing into the joints softly. “We only have seven. We finish early, then enjoy the view.” There were some grumbles from Shoyo, but nothing you could properly make out.

Shoyo’s hands were on your wrist then, undoing the tie to one of my arms before working to the next. “What are you-” you watched his fingers work quickly, confused as to why he was starting to untie you. “What are you doing?”

“Repositioning.” He joked lightly, he pulled your wrists together in front of you, tying them together. Tobio was undoing the bar on your legs, leaving the cuffs on your ankles but removing the bar.

“Come here.” Tobio didn’t give you a chance to react, turning you and pulling you into his chest. Both of their hands were on you, easily pulling you up into their arms. You gasped as Tobio slung your knees over his arms, grip on your hips still. “Hinata, help me out.”

Shoyo’s chest was pressed against your back and you could feel his hands under you. You didn’t realize what exactly he was doing until Tobio’s hips bucked up into yours. You cried out, head falling back against Shoyo’s shoulder as Tobio entered you in one swift motion. The stretch had his name falling from your mouth as a moan.

“Fuck she’s tight.” Tobio’s voice had dropped in both tone and volume. “Shoyo, you gotta feel.”

“Yeah, okay.” Shoyo was mumbling and Tobio had barely backed his hips away from yours when Shoyo jerked his hips up. Shoyo wasn’t as long, but he was thicker and stretched you even more, forcing another moan out of your lips. “Oh fuck, you’re right.” He pulled back and Tobio took his place. “Fuck she feels so good.”

You were at a loss for words, your jaw dropped open, head draped backwards over Shoyo’s shoulder. The boys picked up a pace, one pulling out just for the other to push in. It was dizzying, the constant feeling of being full. Not even a second to breathe. You couldn’t even try to lift your head and they didn’t seem to mind, talking to each other more than you.

“She looks so pretty like this, huh?” You were vaguely recognizing Tobio’s voice as his grip on your hips tightened. His voice sounded strained and you couldn’t blame him, your own voice was strained as whiny moans left your throat.

“You sound like you’re gonna cum, Kageyama.” Shoyo teased, but his own voice was breathy and interrupted by a moan.

“Shut up.” He growled back through gritted teeth. “Of course I am, you fucking feel her, she’s squeezing like her life depends on it. Feels amazing.” Shoyo gave a short laugh. “Act like you’re not.” His irritation at Shoyo was matched with a particularly rough thrust and you let out a shocked squeal, nails digging into your own hands.

“Put those fingers to good use.” Shoyo mumbled, his hand pulling on your wrists and directing your fingers down between your body and Tobio’s. “Rub your pretty clit, yeah? Make yourself cum?”

You nodded along, twisting your wrists to obey. Your fingers brushed over the bundle of nerves and you squirmed, the jolt of electricity that shot through your body making you moan.

“Fuck, yeah.” Tobio mused as his thrusts got sloppier. “Squeeze like that again.” It felt like all the breath was knocked out of you when you felt Tobio pull out just as Shoyo thrusted back in. You could feel Tobio’s cum splatter over your fingers, your pussy, your thighs and, you were sure, Shoyo’s cock too.

“Messy, Tobio.” Shoyo teased, but he was quick to follow, his head barely out before ropes of it landed on your thighs and Tobio’s hips.

“See, now we can enjoy the view.” Tobio laughed as he watched your back arch off Shoyo’s chest, the ginger’s fingers joining yours as he tossed you over the edge. You whined as they let you down, still coming off of your high, legs shaky and bending under you.

“Better down on your knees?” Shoyo asked as they lowered you until your knees hit the ground. You nodded along, dazed from the tingling feeling in your body. The boys left as they came, still arguing.

You were still on your knees when the next two walked in, Keiji was the first to come into sight, but Koutaro was right after. Koutaro’s hands were on your face immediately, always excitable and still high off adrenaline.

“You’re so pretty.” He whined, thumb brushing over your swollen lips. You wrapped your lips around his thumb lightly, tongue swiping at the pad of it and he groaned. “I don’t want you for only seven minutes.” Keiji chuckled and laid his hand on Koutaro’s arm.

“Be grateful for what you get, Bokuto.” Keiji was just as imposing as Koutaro like this. They both towered high above you and you couldn’t help but look up at them with wide eyes. “She isn’t yours so be gentler.” You swallowed hard. Gentler. Not gentle.

“I wanna feel your lips, let me feel your mouth?” He rushed out the question, asking permission hopefully as he looked down at you. You felt compelled to nod your agreement.

“You wanna pull it out for him?” Keiji asked, pointing his question at you. You were nodding as you lifted your hands; licking your lips as you quickly pulled Koutaro out of his pants.

Your thighs clenched at the sight of him, immediately pressing your lips just under his head, kissing the sensitive skin and licking. There was a sharp hiss of breath that Koutaro let out as he stifled a moan. You were encouraged by the muffled noise and his head tilting back. You wrapped your lips around him easily and he cursed as you moved your mouth further down, lapping your tongue along the shaft as you went.

His hand found your hair easily, a small tug pulling a muffled whine from you as you lowered your head more, your tongue pressing against his balls as his cock laid across your face. Koutaro groaned, his head tipping back as you repeated the action. You squeaked when he suddenly tugged on your hair, pulling you back towards the head of his cock.

“Oh baby, please, suck it.” He requested his voice whiny as he did so. It didn’t feel like too much of a request though, definitely not one you could say no to, as he tugged your lips forward. You allowed it anyways, wrapping your lips around the tip and sucking on it.

Koutaro’s hips twitched forward. You gagged as his cock suddenly tapped the back of your throat and Keiji was quick to snatch the wrist that was holding your hair. “Careful I said.” Keiji chastised, helping pull you off Koutaro so you could cough a bit. “Gentler.” Keiji guided your head back forward, slower this time.

You let Keiji set the pace, delicately running your tongue along Koutaro’s length as you bobbed your head. Your hands wrung each other in your lap, twisting in their binds as you itched to reach out for Keiji’s cock as well. You didn’t have to wait for long. Keiji seemed to want to feel your mouth as well. He guided you back again, much to Koutaro’s whining dismay.

“Look, start slow.” Keiji had pulled out his cock, bringing your lips to it, easily pressing his cock between them. He wrapped his hand around your hair with Koutaro’s hand and pulled your head forward gently. You treated his cock with the same care you’d treated Koutaro’s. Tongue lapping at the skin as you sucked.

“Then you pick up the pace a bit.” Your eyes widened in surprise when Keiji’s pull on you picked up the pace. Keiji was careful despite the speed change, careful to mind your gag reflex and he dragged your mouth along his length. “Then you can be less gentle.” He let Koutaro’s hand take over.

Koutaro’s pull on you kept the speed but his roughness pulled Keiji’s cock deeper into your throat. You gagged and Keiji moaned in response. You tried to relax your jaw, letting the two hands in your hair guide you. Desperately, you wanted to feel them cum down your throat. “Ugh I wanna feel her now Keiji.” Koutaro whined and Keiji laughed in response.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He let you be pulled off his cock, smiling at the way you gasped for proper air, spit coating your lips and connecting them to Keiji. Spit strings that quickly connected Keiji’s cock to Koutaro’s now too. “Remember-”

Keiji’s reminder for Koutaro to be gentle fell on deaf ears. Koutaro pulled your head towards him at the same roughness you’d left Keiji’s at. Your gagging started immediately, tears welling in your eyes as Koutaro’s moans filled your ears. “Fuck fuck fuck, feels too good, can’t.” Keiji rolled his eyes but didn’t seem to stop Koutaro once he started to buck into your mouth, meeting it halfway.

Your nails were digging into your thighs and you whined in protest, wondering if this was really the ‘gentler’ version Keiji had requested of him. Your head was dizzy, time lost amongst your focus to keep your mouth open.

“Fuck I wanna cum.” Koutaro whined it and Keiji clicked his tongue in disappointment at the way Koutaro’s grip on you loosened then.

“You’re gonna make a mess.” You squeaked around Koutaro’s cock as Keiji pulled you forward suddenly. His hand on the back of your head bringing your nose to bury into Koutaro’s pubes. Koutaro groaned loudly, a string of curses accompanying the feeling of his cock twitching at your throat. His cum was hot as it slid down your throat.

You coughed and gasped when the two of them released your head, letting you pull back to suck air into your lungs. “Wha-” you coughed again, your voice gravelly from the use of your throat, “what about you?” Your question was directed to Keiji, who hadn’t cum yet.

He chuckled a little bit as he tucked his still-hard cock away. “Out of time, next time.”

He pulled a dazed Koutaro out the door behind him as he left. You were still panting and trying to recenter your vision when the door opened again.

“Iwa-chan it’s our turn.” You heard Tooru’s voice before he appeared in front of you, dragging Hajime along with him. Hajime grumbled something and you looked towards him, you noticed that his cheeks were tinted pink and his eyes wouldn’t focus on you for more than a few seconds. “What did you say?”

“I said this isn’t necessary.” He grumbled louder, locking his eyes on Tooru rather than looking at you. “Let me just-”

“But Iwa-chan.” Tooru drew out the last vowel, pouting at the other man as he rounded his way behind you, out of your sight. You gasped when Tooru’s hand wound around your front, cupping your jaw and pointing your face to look directly up at Hajime. You could feel Tooru’s breath against your ear, letting you know that he’d placed his face just beside your own. “Look how pretty and willing she is to thank us.” You nodded your agreement to the words, finally seeing Hajime’s blush in full view as he looked down at your face.

The forced pout on your lips, put there by Tooru’s hands made his cock stir in his pants and he groaned a little. Tooru smirked behind you, knowing he’d won out. He was quick to pull you to your feet, you shrieked suddenly as Tooru dragged you off your knees and to a standing position.

“The two of you…” Hajime clicked his tongue at you both in disappointment, he shook his head a bit and replaced Tooru’s hand on your jaw with his own. You tried to turn your head when you felt Tooru push your legs open, but Hajime turned your head back forward. “Look at me instead.” He brushed along your bottom lip, pulling on it.

You gasped when you felt Tooru’s cock pressed into you. Hajime pressed his thumb between your lips as Tooru’s hands tightened their grip on your hips. “Oh, fuck, cunt is so tight.” Your eyes rolled back as Tooru bottomed out. “Sure you don’t wanna try her out? Who knows if you’ll get another chance.”

Your cunt squeezed a bit at Tooru’s words, the way he talked over you. Tooru chuckled at your reaction. “Not enough time.” Hajime lifted your chin, to take in the way your face contorted. “You can take him alright?” You nodded dazedly… the drag of Tooru’s cock along your walls made your breathing getting heavier as Tooru kept on. Steady and moderate in pace but nevertheless, intoxicating.

“God you squeeze me so good.” Tooru groaned and he wrapped his arm around your waist, fingers feeling for your clit. The small cry you let out was quickly silenced by Hajime covering your mouth, your muffled noises being swallowed by his palm.

“Shhh.” He mumbled, dipping his head to press kisses down the front of your chest. His mouth easily closed around one of your nipples. You sighed against his hand, your eyes fluttering as you took in the feeling of Hajime’s soft tongue against your skin.

Tooru’s hand wrapped into your hair, gently tugging your head back up, effectively pulling your mouth away from Hajime’s hand. “Wanna hear you.”

You whimpered, hips twitching against Tooru’s hand. Your moans and whines filled the small space. Hajime lifted himself from your chest just as Tooru’s pace picked up. Hajime’s hand took the place of Tooru’s, keeping your head tilted up as you looked at him, pleasure taking over your features. “Ask him for it.” Hajime whispered against your cheek, thumb brushing against your other cheek.

Your head spun, the blush was still on the tops of his cheeks and you were confused about how he could command you and still be blushing over seeing you like this. You panted against Hajime’s skin, feeling your insides twisting up under Tooru’s care. “Ma-make me cum, please.” You pleaded, sniffling as Tooru delivered rougher thrusts.

“Any other requests?” He teased, fucking his cock deeper into you. You moaned the form of his name as his fingers pressed harder on your clit. “I think your cunt has a request.” He groaned and you whimpered under his touch. “Squeezing like it wants to be filled up.”

“Please,” you begged without thinking, body clenching as he fucked you towards your orgasm, “wanna cum,” you babbled, eyes crossing as Hajime pulled back to catch your eyes, “cu-cum inside.”

Hajime gripped your jaw, pinching your mouth open again, fingers pinching your lip, tugging on it and triggering a whine of protest from you. “Desperate, cute.” he muttered, eyes caught on your lips. He kept his eyes there, ignoring the way Tooru’s groans filled the space along with your own noises. Watching the way your lips formed your cries as Tooru pushed you over the edge. His eyes found yours then, desperate himself to see the way your eyes widened when you felt Tooru’s cum flood your insides.

Your body shook as Tooru pulled out, his cum spilling onto your thighs quickly. Your legs shook under you, barely able to hold your own weight. Tooru and Hajime’s hands kept you upright for the moment. A sudden banging on the door caught all three of your attention.

You couldn’t turn to see the door opening, your legs giving out and the boys letting you fall to the floor. You sucked in a sharp breath as your knees hit the floor, your hands barely catching yourself as you heard the mix of voices.

“Times up.” You recognized the accent and you knew who it was.

“Wait your turn.” Tooru snapped back, you could hear the irritation in his voice and it was followed by a quick smack.

“They did.” You watched Hajime’s legs disappear from sight and towards the exit.

“Ya get yer ass outta-hey!” another smack sounded in the room. “Omi-omi he deserved it.”

“Shut up, god.” Kiyoomi scoffed as he shut the door, locking himself and Atsumu in the room with you. “How messy.”

“Hey princess.” Atsumu crooned as he trailed his fingers along your jaw, crouching in front of you. He chuckled as he moved to sitting in front of you. “C’mere.” he manhandled your body easily into his lap. “Y’all stretched out fer me?”

You gasped and whined at the way Atsumu seemed to slip right into you, his cock tapping against your walls. He groaned and pulled you closer to him, your chest easily colliding with his. Your breathing came out in pants as you squeezed around him. He seemed to waste no time, wanting to make the most out of the moment.

You latched on to his biceps as he leaned backwards a bit. “Relax.” Kiyoomi’s voice sounded from behind you, unfortunately having the opposite effect when you felt him tap against your already full hole.

“Wa-wait.” A moan got caught in your throat when you heard Kiyoomi spit, the cold of his saliva hitting against your opening and making your cunt squeeze.

“Fuck, and ya say we’re messy.” Atsumu laughed from under you, groaning and eyes rolling at the way your cunt milked him. “Can ya hurry it up, I wanna feel her cum.” Kiyoomi grumbled something under his breath but before you could try to decipher it, he was pressing his tip in next to Atsumu’s. You whimpered, your head falling against Atsumu’s chest as tears caught on your lashes. Atsumu was hushing you as you did, one hand holding the back of your head to his chest as Kiyoomi stretched you out further. “S’okay, we got ya.”

Your head felt like it wasn’t getting enough oxygen, stars in your vision as Kiyoomi lifted your head from Atsumu’s chest. One of them was talking but you couldn’t hear it. Two different hands wrapped around your throat, both with different owners, only encouraging your brain to shut down. It was the first thrust that brought you back.

The moan you let out was broken and half a sob as the two men worked in tandem to fuck you up and down on their cocks. The pain of the stretch was slowly giving way to nothing but pleasure as they fucked you up into the stars. You were sure that Tooru’s cum was being fucked out of you, coating both their cocks but you weren’t sure they cared.

You could barely focus on getting air into your lungs. Atsumu’s hand moved from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head down to look at his face. He wore a large smirk, enjoying the way that your eyes stayed unfocused, lust blown pupils trying desperately to drink him in. Your lips were parted in a permanent whine.

Tsumu’s thrusts were shallow, his cock pressed against the front wall of your cunt, the friction shoving every other thought out of your head. Kiyoomi on the other hand, his were mean. His cock knocked against the deepest parts of you, gliding along Atsumu’s cock, drawing whines from both you and the other male. Kiyoomi’s grip on your neck tightened for a moment, tilting your head back so you could see his face.

You were fucked out, words that you didn’t even know you were speaking coming out as incoherent babbles. Your body shook and shivered as they fucked you past overstimulation into another orgasm without warning. Your cry was loud and echoed around the room as you fell onto Atsumu’s chest.

Atsumu’s own moans pitched up slightly just moments later and Kiyoomi’s hips stuttered against you. You protested softly as Atsumu and Kiyoomi pulled out of you as gently as possible, the feeling of their cum already present, flooding out of you and down your thighs. Kiyoomi had you turned around towards him in mere seconds.

“Clean me up, yeah?” Phrased as a question but given like an order, you obeyed immediately, tongue falling out, lapping against his soiled cock. You whined at the mix of tastes, Tooru’s, Atsumu’s, and Kiyoomi’s cum all having been mixed around inside of you with your own. You nearly moaned when you picked up your enthusiasm, tongue curving over Kiyoomi’s length, scooping up all the mess you’d left behind as quickly as you could, leaving his cock covered instead in your own saliva.

“C’mon up ya get.” Atsumu mumbled, arms hooking under your armpits, lifting you to shaky feet. He kept you upright and steady, truly the only thing keeping you from falling to the floor as the door opened again. “She’s a li’l shaky on her feet right now.” Atsumu chuckled as you felt another pair of hands mimic Atsumu’s grip, your body being passed like a mere toy among them. You whimpered as your knees buckled under you, but your body stayed upright thanks to the flexing muscles around you.

“Li’l shaky on yer legs there?” You looked up into a nearly identical face, immediately your brain processed that it was Osamu’s arms around you now as Atsumu and Kiyoomi left, closing the door behind them. His voice was slightly deeper than Atsumu’s accent heavier as his hands turned you to properly face him. “Look at this mess.” He chuckled, his fingers scooping the mix of cum from between your thighs. You whimpered when his fingers bumped your clit, body twitching.

Your lips were still parted, panting to breath, when Osamu’s fingers came up to them. He smeared the mix of cum on your lips and tongue, feeding it to you. He sucked in a sharp breath and cursed when your lips obediently wrapped around them and you sucked.

Osamu was the same as his brother in the way that he wasted no time to manhandle you into the position that he wanted you in. His arms hooking under your legs and pulling you up so that your hips lined up with his. Your gasp at the sudden movement only spurred him to move faster, his cock bumping against your entrance.

You bit into your lip to hold your cry in when he bottomed out in one movement. Dropping you down the length of his cock. You were sure that it bumped against your cervix and you couldn’t help but squeeze your eyes shut and whimper at the feeling.

“Easy now.” Osamu cooed in your ear as he repositioned his hands on your hips. The action caused you to bounce slightly and you gasped at the friction, your eyes rolling.

You almost didn’t notice the second pair of hands on you from behind. Fingers, brushing your neck as they unwrapped your arms from Osamu’s. “Share, ‘Samu.” Rintarou’s voice graced your ears just before his face as he tugged you back. You could feel your body leaning back, it changed the angle that Osamu’s cock nudged against your insides and you moaned obscenely. “See, look how pretty she is.” Rintarou’s finger cupped the back of your neck, dropping your body back slowly, your hips staying pinned to Osamu’s. “Look prettier with my cock in your mouth.”

Your eyes widened when you felt Rintarou lower you completely horizontal. You were suspended completely in the air between the two of them. The panic you should have felt disappeared completely when Osamu rubbed his thumb over your clit. Your mouth dropped open in a moan that was cut short as Rintarou glided his cock in easily.

Both men above you groaned when both your cunt and your throat tightened away from them. Their hands tugged on your body, easily finding a jerky pace that was each of them selfishly trying to pull you back to themself. Your body shook in their hold, wet gags and obscent squelching noises from both your filled holes as they used you.

Osamu’s thumb dancing over your clit and Rintarou’s cock blocking your airway had your head swimming, the sounds of their moans and praise coming to you like you were underwater. Words garbled and obscured by pleasure.

You only came back to your senses when Rintarou flooded your throat, pulling out so the last bit of it leaked onto your lips. You gasped in air around the cum you tried to fully swallow, desperate to breathe again. It was only then that you could hear.

“Look she squirted all over you.” Rintarou teased you as he tilted your head to watch the way Osamu continued to fuck into your cunt, eyes focused on how you swallowed him.

“Shut yer trap Rin, can’t cum when yer yappin’.” Osamu’s voice was strained, his jaw clenched as his hips staggered in their pace. You hadn’t even noticed that you had cum, but his chasing of his orgasm had you feeling the aftershocks of yours.

You were sure you were crying, but your mind was too far gone to even mind. You missed the feeling of Osamu cumming inside of you but knew he had when he pulled out and you felt it flood out of you. A string of curses filled the room from Osamu’s foul mouth. He let you down easily, rubbing circled into your shaky legs as he helped you down to a kneeling position, where you were most stable.

You panted, your body shaking and overstimulated as you tried to ground yourself again. You jumped when you felt fingers on your shoulders, your nerves fried and screaming.

“Hey, hey now.” Tetsurou’s voice graced your ears again and you whimpered in response. “Calm down, I got you.” His hands soothed over your hair as he leaned your body against his own. “You okay?”

You nodded, sniffling slightly as his fingers brushed away your tears. “Mm’kay Tetsu.” Your voice came our hoarse, words slurred. Your fingers itched towards him, and his belt.

“Easy,” he chuckled, pulling your hands away and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Let’s get you cleaned up and to bed, okay?”

“What about you?” He was pulling you up into his arms gently and making his way towards the door.

“Tomorrow, baby.” He mumbled into your hair. “You took care of them so well.” He praised, watching as you hummed in response, exhaustion taking your body over. “Let me take care of you now.”

a/n in honor of the launch of the @the-all-stars-network please consider joining us!!!

TAGLIST -

@intergalacticrory @tsukiran @awkwardaardvarkforever @all-in-the-fandoms @mightyknight501 @pearl-blue-musings @qichun @megumuro @s0uldarling @samus-onigiri-stand @seiri-ously @deepenthevoid @starlitsawamura @albakugo @winniethepooh-lover @stunie @little-miss-naill

so what I'm trying to say is

she's my wife of 10 years! and the mother of my children!!! hope this helps💞💞💞

Could you write something fun about Reid dating a Master/PhD student and everyone is like “how could you???” making jokes about how he is the weird teacher that goes out with his students.

She is not his student, she doesn’t even go to the same college he teaches.

Summary: Spencer's new girlfriend happens to be a student, raising questions and laughs from the team members.

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Warnings: None but lmk!

Word count: 645

a/n: I hope this is okay!🫶 also, if you're wondering why I only include three members.. I'd be lying if I said I was only on season 10 of criminal minds and I don't know any of the characteristics of anyone else.....

"I'm not sure, this guy's got a real temper." JJ commented as she read through the case file, her eyes darting from words to the pictures.

Spencer looked up for a split second to look at JJ, but when he did he got a glimpse of a familiar face through the blinds. You were looking around, confusion written on your face as you looked for, what he safely assumed, was himself. His eyebrows furrowed and suddenly everyone's words were going in one ear, and out the other.

"Uh, give me five minutes." He announced to the table, everyone staring at him in confusion as he got up and walked out the door.

"What are you doing here?" He asked as he approached you. You had your hands in front of you that held onto a brown paper bag, a smile on your face.

"You forgot your lunch!" You quickly frowned, holding the bag up in front of you.

"You're supposed to be studying." He stated, bringing a hand up to rub your forearm.

You groaned in response, "I need a break, Spence! I've been studying all day." You whined, throwing your head back.

He moved his hand to the back of your head to bring your face back to his.

"Exams are coming up, y/n." He sighed, "I'm sure you'll do great, but you really need to study." He added, grabbing onto the bag with his other hand.

You rolled your eyes, moving your head to the side only to catch eye contact with every member staring at the both of you. You laughed, amused, but not surprised everyone was being nosey.

He followed your eyes to everyone staring, as he looked back he brought his hand down from your head with a tight lipped smile.

"Fine, I'll go study." You sighed in defeat, placing a hand on his shoulder. He subconsciously aimed his head down, giving you access to his forehead to place a soft kiss.

"Bye, Spence." You smiled, turning around and making your way out the bullpen.

"Study." He called out, causing you to laugh as you walked out the glass doors.

He placed the paper bag on his desk on his way to the round table. The moment he stepped foot inside, everyone watched his with wide eyes.

He hadn't taken in account that when he left, he left the door open as well. Meaning they could've easily heard the conversation without needing to get up and move closer.

"Study? Is she some sort of student? She looked pretty young." JJ asked, being the first to raise suspicion.

When she spoke, everyone else looked at her and nodded in agreement.

"Uhm, sorta. I mean yeah, she's a student.." He answered, sort of mumbled as he took his seat.

"Wow, Spence. I didn't take you for the student, teacher type of guy." Emily teased, amused laced in her tone.

"What are you--?" Spencer attempted to ask, considering you weren't his student, he didn't think it mattered. But his words were cut short from Rossi butting in.

"How could you, Spencer Reid, be comfortable with that?" Rossi asked, genuinely curious, Spencer could tell by the way he narrowed his eyes and leaned closer.

"It's not that weird?" His brows furrowed, and it wasn't. It wasn't weird at all, you met how anyone would meet Spencer. He didn't see how you, being a student was relevant.

"So, you're just the teacher that goes out with his students now?" JJ went on, raising a brow at Spencer, and a look on her face that said, 'Did you think about that?' without words.

"She's not even--" But before Spencer could defend himself, Emily finally decided that they were getting too off track and needed to focus. Which annoyed Spencer, he's being accused of something that wasn't true and now, had no time to defend himself.

reposts and comments are appreciated <3

i lowkey forget that percy's full name is perseus. and like. that name goes so hard. because it just sounds like this mf could kick your ass. like imagine you're a junior in high school and your teacher introduces a new student by the name of 'perseus jackson'. and before you even raise your head to look at the guy. you just know this mf could clock you.

mother hen...

Dainsleif recovery period

fem!bkdk for catnip4lino & bkgizk on twitter ^-^

The Union of Two Houses

Paul Atreides x Reader

Warning: Arranged marriage

Summary: To strengthen the connection between your family and House Atreides, you are to marry Paul.

“Lady Y/L/N.” came the voice from the entrance, letting everyone inside know that you have arrived.

Paul waited anxiously, often looking at his mother as she tried her best to calm him.

Keep reading

not enough stories go for the lycanthropy-as-menstruation angle tbh. sure I see plenty of "time of the month" jokes but there's so much unexplored potential. scatterbrained werewolf feeling cranky and exhausted for no discernible reason before checking their phone and seeing the "your transformation is in two days" notification like "oohh right. the horrors." werewolf girl losing her whole mind trying to excuse herself from a function so she can go transform but noooo she can't just say that's what she has to do because it's "impolite" or whatever and she has to keep making vague excuses with weird euphemisms. werewolf guy having an awkward conversation with an acquaintance who keeps talking about the divine lycanthropic and the mystic properties of the wolf and moon, and like, he's not going to tell them that their relationship with their own transformations is wrong, but for him it's just this kind of annoying kind of painful thing he needs to deal with sometimes? and it feels weird elevating this basic bodily function of his to something quasi religious?