rejectory

[rejectory]

Their mile radius shivers a three on the Richter scale, clinking pocketed coins. Something seductive collects in Homelander’s Achilles’. They crack off the ground like thunder.

He accounts for Beck’s density on the fly, knee astride knee. They pinch into a jigsaw in all the right places.

A moment of truth for all voyeurs. Homelander, half-lidded, watches Beck’s cheeks vacuum like any good blowjob.

Nothing?

He turns it up a notch. The air gnarls into an ice shard shower. The Empire State Building whistles by. The world is a supersonic shitsmear of color.

Well?

He sprays them through a dense cloud of birds, punching blood and pillow fight feathers to the other side. Just like getting paintballed in the dick if you’re an under-the-counter Super class.

Tut...

... tut. Cookie-cutter won’t cut it.

Maeve couldn’t even take it. She’d start to split up the shins and gasp, and he’d poke them after, and she’d yelp and be all widdle baby-trapping weepy eyes.

That always got him going.

The thing about Homelander is, well, he doesn’t need to breathe.

Sandwiched, they pirouette around a helicopter about this close to getting Beck shredded to confetti. This is where Homelander’s chin starts to vibrate.

This is where necks start to snap.

He squints a little.

Only Stormfront had the stomach for it and didn’t gag it up on touchdown. But Stormfront——’s off the board. No hard thinking about her ugly melted facefuck or, Jesus, his feelings on and off the matter, WOULD YOU STOP, head.

They land rowdily. A drag of red has swaddled Beck up.

Homelander lets go to see if, dot-dot-dot, he Bambi-staggers.

BECK, DESPITE THE MASS OF HIM (YEAH YEAH WE GET IT HE'S FUCKING TALL AND HUGE AND A BIG BOY), FALLS HARD INTO HOMELANDER'S ORBIT. He stares at the hero-god with big brown eyes, waits for his next move. The pictures probably look great. Homelander's biggest fan gets a chance in the big leagues.

(Human insides melted to what in a grocery bag when Homelander floored it?)

Look, don't worry—Beck's made of stronger stuff than me, than you. I don't think he'll shit himself or break a femur. I don't think. This is new territory for us both. (He's so excited! I'm fucking terrified.)

"Ready for—?"

TAKEOFF, I assume. He screams; the sound is lost.

#vitalphenomena #HOMELANDER. #yuge brown oglers

[rejectory]

@nightmarefuele *

No drugs, he warns the healer. She’s dog-faced, with so much hair. Seeing his teeth but not reacting, she decides to keep her jugular and listen.

The rats soon find the only way to force his men out of sight is with the heads off on either side. They stop, too. Two of each remain, one per corner.

Feyd-Rautha’s movements slide, delayed unlike when he’s fresh awake. Sweat has broken out under his arms, drizzling off his nose.

He clenches up in build-up as the healer pinches at the fabric slashed with Mua-Deeb’s gift. She peels off: Feyd-Rautha’s cut muscle flinches into rocklike relief. His breath roils the blood ocean of it, stuck and barely fixed on itself by an unfinished clot. Harkonnen meat isn’t so easy.

He makes a noise of almost pleasure. He strains:

‘ Little mouse. ’ And swallows.

Something as small nibbles at his mind. Strange, the tomb cool off the walls here like a chunk of seabed insulating from the crusted heat aboveground.

As if, the nibble tells him, the rats are a reservoir richer than they pretend.

‘ I can, ’ deliciously, ‘ smell you. ’

#nightmarefuele #FEYD-RAUTHA.

[rejectory]

❛Yes, you can.❜

Yeshyoo can, Janine-style when M.M.’s doling out patience left, right, center from all the way down his asshole to get her to clean up the supe doll mess off his fuckin’ kitchen counter like a big girl. The fake hair gets in the soup, Christ. Don’t even get him started on the Starlight glitter.

Just how big’s up to her to show 'im.

Sometimes he holds her by the shoulders doin’ it because he can’t make his body get it just yet, that she’s too old for that—almost, he says to himself every year, almost. Like he’s doing to Hughie now.

M.M. kneads his traps out to the shoulders.

❛Hughie.❜

This is exactly the time. Butcher’s poisoned snowglobe’s cracking in the glass. How far through it Hughie’s got the balls to see’s all M.M. wants to know right now.

❛Why the fuck is you still here, brother?❜

As if it's that easy. If it were, none of them would be here; but the fact is that they are, bound to a man they can’t stand and yet can’t seem to tear themselves away from. They’ve all gone through this. The push and pull, struggling, buck wild, fighting tooth and bone to get away, only to come crawling back like loyal dogs.

The thought only fuels his rage, but M.M. isn’t letting him go and fury at such levels are unsustainable. Hughie still can’t get loose and whatever is giving M.M. his strength endures; then, he says it again, right in Hughie’s ear: “fuck him.”

Hughie’s face twists. He stops fighting. The hands that had been wrestling with M.M., nearly ripping through his t-shirt, still, fists closed tight, clinging. He wonders how long this fierce embrace can last before M.M. will eventually push him away.

“I can’t.” It comes out, small and strangled. “I don’t why, but I can’t. I can’t.”

#awkwardcourage #M.M.

[rejectory]

@petitsdieu: “What are you smiling at?”

When is a prisoner a prisoner, slithers Uncle in the damp wrinkles of Feyd-Rautha’s brain.

When he’s bladeless? No.

When he’s thirsty? Come, now.

When he’s otherwise wanting?

‘ Your ‘men.’ ’

And their chains, up to his forearms, the honor. It suggests he makes their bowels empty. What do they do in battle, then, but run like mice for their holes?

He killed two through the mouth for trying to stuff him in here. The third had all the luck they’d lacked, so slopping much of it as if Feyd-Rautha himself had blinked at just the opportune moment.

He’s sprayed red now from the neck down.

‘ What are my charges, princess? ’

When others think he is, certainly.

#petitsdieu #FEYD-RAUTHA.

[rejectory]

He’s split-atom awake to how Feyd-Rautha sucks him in. He almost believes him when he tries. It runs him at voltage, Feyd-Rautha’s jaw muscle leaping with a pulse, like a bite in the making.

For a breathtakingly hot flash, he’s afraid.

It disturbs him to find he thought he’d forgotten how to be.

Heady, Paul’s tongue sticks in his mouth, so dry it could be someone else’s. His exhale is hardly audible for how emptying it is.

Resisting the Voice is an ache. Its trammel is a boot on the neck—Paul had tried, not knowing he could genetically, and all he got for his efforts was a vessel-bursting migraine that felt like the end of days.

Do Feyd-Rautha’s knees hurt with the weight of him? Greatest of them all. Slayer of the drugged.

He pulls out, fattening Feyd’s lips. He watches the tongue shimmer like liquid. He backs away on a step. Another, that tears the string of spit sticking the tip of him to Feyd-Rautha’s starving mouth. Vacant again, like the rest of him.

His calves bump. The back of his neck skates with an untold whisper, and he sits down on Feyd-Rautha’s bed with a lewd splay to his knees. He sounds removed to his own ears.

❝Come finish your job.❞

Too—

Inky and unsmooth between sweat glands. Paul is crawling his discs like dead-of-nights and secret boy moans he's too sweet to say

—what?

(I was there because I am. I was your hand touching you.)

Feyd-Rautha dips on a white-nerve fizzle─Liar.─and frustrates nearer. Enough dip in Paul's hip bones for all the eyes in attendance; his mouth is full with the revenge clot between their unborn intersection. Atreides feels wrong. He feels like the invert of a witch's crib dream and Feyd-Rautha's hand spasms on the wraith-feel of daughter hair.

He gets a thigh in the real, plush as foreigner girlhood. He constricts without room, he takes more, deeper, his lip screws up on something proud. He fleshes out how Atreides likes it for the hundredth time again without choosing.

It's being mauled without the rules on. It's being exploited and honored

humiliating.

It's fire zipping up the concave bowl of his middle, hiding out hooded under a ribcage pat-down.

He'd go gooey on the way he sees those noble fingers snapping off. Toothpicks strung out necklace-far. His eyelids go like seizing moth wings, lights out, Atreides

Teeeeth.

Feyd-Rautha clenches down somewhere outside time where Atreides is a mind yolk away. The snake one of them fish-hooks, swallowing nothing on something, updown updown. Dormant in his gums; but getting closer.

I want you to not like it.

#nightmarefuele #PAUL.

[rejectory]

He can hear her.

Curious, ❝None, then.❞

That won’t save her the choice remaining to be made. She can defer this one last time before he calls it weak will.

He has time folded once over like a note in his breast pocket. He can fold it again and again to a thick and frequent the in-between spaces. He alone can travel them and get lost for weeks at a time without so much as too sticky a blink in the real world.

His haunching gives the shape of a sit not of here and somewhat off. His knees are still injured. His undereyes thrum dryly with the sting of insomnia. All that, but his stillness alludes he’s above hurry to relieve any of it.

He should condole at her loss. The should is half urge, half what was learned into his tongue by way of decorum. It makes no difference now to think him ill-mannered or not.

What gods apologize for being? Wryly, wryly does he think that.

From her mouth to her eyes Paul goes, same as his used to be under the chandelier of midday. So much has changed.

He breaks skyward, darting a look to the petrichor looming an hour off.

Not daring but intrusive instead, thought-like the way of hers, Paul paths his longest finger along the streambed of Hara’s—hold still—forearm until the artery-shadowing trickle is collected up to her wrist. He rests a heartbeat. It loosens around his press. Knuckle projecting, he fingers her palm to scoop around the chunk next to the knife.

He takes that as well, under his tongue.

He stands up and has turned his back before he speaks.

❝You’ve done all you can here. With me.❞

And walks.

❝Bahh— ❞, more sound than word, it puffs from her cheeks first. A sotto voce voice follows. ❝Seulement de loin...❞

People do not know her, they contrive her. What Hara has he invented?

She waits on his glacier pace as she would with any fauna. With the same amount of stretched patience. Albeit, confused by it all. He’s frustratingly orphic.

He wears a hazy veil. Still, still...

Attention to the hand he uses to take. Her sugar phosphate backbones underneath his fingernails. However long it took to wash him clean of the blood that bedded there, base pairs of her remain. Good as spite.

She was not afford the same. No slipstream, no clean. Her skin will knit over his wound perpetually. Partially aware of print and imprint, despite how little she looks. He ruins her in the same way he's left Belarilia acropolis in ruins. He percolates deep.

Leastways, he didn't bleed into her.

A metamorphose of gaze. A licentious eye lingers— gushing fruit, following the drip of it as it honeys his manus. He eats gold and for the first time he looks Divine to her. Dulcet sound. He licks, too.

Too caught to cease. But not too caught to think:

Sickening. Disgusting. Me.

Another segment pierces the space between. Nectar rolls her wrist like rivers, mimicking her radial vein paths. Hiding in her inner elbow. She would like to hide, too. There's squeeze to her lungs. She can't tell which way she pulls.

They seed and pulp not dissimilarly. They drip the same.

#petitsdieu #PAUL.

[rejectory]

#my dear lads if i speak #♡ — IT’S LIKE LYING TO GOD.

[rejectory]

he's watching patrick's mouth shape it and realizes, i don't wanna know you for the rest of your life.

he forces that on him. boiling, pre-match kind of ill, art muscles himself on top, beating miles a minute in his throat.

he goes to backhand him on-the-court unthinking.

patrick climbs off, sits up.

"that's fucking clear, man. you can rub that shit in for the rest of my life."

then, crueler than he has the right to be, "guess it's the only time you've actually beat me, huh?"

#jupiter3 #ART.

[rejectory]

Is he letting her win?

"Hey! What the fuck was that?"

fuck, she's brutal.

he misses this one, grunts out an ungentlemanly "fuck! focus!"

#jupiter3 #TASHI.

[rejectory]

❝I know.❞

Almost like Gurney’s old name for him, that. A diminutive for something clawed. Once you let it in your bed at the risk of its true sort, it’s playing the fool with your own aches or dying one. Paul can’t fault her—it’s the first human thing a person learns to do.

He’s had his fair share.

Thousands of moons on moons ago, cats were sacred. Godheads resided therein: superstition, effigies, religious righteousness. Killing one precipitated a curse.

Maybe that’d at last pose a challenge.

❝You have a beautiful place here.❞

The half that remains, winched up cloud-high above the commoners gazing idolatry. That, and jealous eyes. Careful of those. They see an empty trophy, a vessel to be climbed into. The missing contents make it no less difficult to stop looking before they try.

Paul agrees.

What did she pray? For him to be delivered from evil? Not many hope to make him laugh anymore.

He’s disappointed in Hara despite having arrived with no expectations to come up short of.

Off the blade edge, the sweet waits as if independent of a culprit, but she’s the one holding the knife and forcing Communion on him. To see if he’ll flinch from it or for her own fun.

Paul has it dangle for as long as how worthy she deems her offering. She thinks honestly of it. Well, then.

The juice and shine weeps down his thumb before he bites it through. He hum-sighs. A tic shy of disbelief webs between his eyebrows at how good he’s forgotten things could taste. He’s not had real food at all until now. His body convinces of this lie.

❝Which of your brothers do you prefer?❞

He licks clean between his fingers.

Ledges on oceanic feeling, when he lowers. So she gives, again.

❝I prayed for you.❞

Not to him. She’d only pray to a lover. But She thought she’d only submit to one too. Her boundaries transcend themselves. She can only realize the ways in which she can open, after she opens. Rarely before, even rarer during.

And which God answered her? And why does it feel like the wrong one? The sickest, funniest of the bunch. It's likely whatever God half lives in her.

Her skirt gathers, bunches at the knees, and makes a basket for bulbage out of her lap. There's not many left to ground — but Paul sits like a blight to earth, he misbalances with all his dead-soaked fingers.

She does still hold the dagger, it only differs bodily. Its aim is not like it should be.

She takes the mirabelle from him. Replaces it with a bulb. An exonerate for one. A mercy by a new name. Maybe. In this light, Paul looks like he was just a boy yesterday.

With a pairing knife, she cuts into the fruit in the squeeze of her hand. The sharp end in her direction. The blade pecks at her thumb as it slides, but doesn't break skin. She's done this countless times before. She tosses one segment to the dirt. The second cheeks her.

The third segment she offers on the glittering flat, to Paul.

In the back of her eyelids, she pictures pushing Paul into a blue lagoon. Does a mus swim? Does a lune float? Would he drown or wash?

❝Odd. I think, I'll miss his grotesque, little offerings most. Dead mice and birds and such. Sometimes, still twitching with life... But he was just an animal, he did his nature. It was hard to stay upset with him.❞

Cubbie's acts of care extended far from feeding her in his way. He'd curve her bed around her head. And she let him be what he was. Not a pet, an equal. He came and went as he pleased.

He always came back ( not this time ).

He would have ran from Paul.

He would have sunk his teeth in if he saw how she withered and screamed between the boyGod’s knees.

He would have died either way.

❝I called him Cubbie.❞

What shall she call the Man that remains now...

Your Majesty— a placeholder.

#petitsdieu #PAUL.

[rejectory]

Though he’s not a healer, he wants very much to fix all that for her.

He’s thick all over; his cells are slowed down from conserving. He’s almost reluctant to sweat now. The desert has a way of making gifts of strange things.

It’s only been days to the body and he doesn’t want to share. And yet, ❝I can’t remember what it was like.❞

The before of being here. The curtain rains, sinking down the sea to the rocks and being able to see his feet. His dear stone gardens of dewy mosses.

❝The memory escapes me.❞ There are so many new ones, unhappened yet, that stampede it with the panicked urgency of a child bleeding out. He should help.

He’s watching Echo’s body compensate for the wound by a hair of tension deposited the opposing way. Rashly, Paul decides on a shortcut. No sooner than, his instinct reddens, warning of what might snowball.

So be it. He won’t have her be the boiling frog just to get where his visions say he should.

Without him, Paul thinks, I’d be dead, too.

❝He,❞ Duncan, ❝would do this move,❞ Paul mimics, teasing its offbeat dance. ❝Double grip.❞

He’s asking without asking. You?

The name of her missing comrade brings a smile, albeit small, to her face. "Did he?"

Her voice drips with a mixture. Maybe distaste for Duncan talking about her at all, or surprise he ever bothered.

"He'd know best, considering he picked my sorry ass up and brought me to your father a thousand moons ago," she offers freely. It settles: fondness. "Without him, I'd still be there."

And there is worse than here, even if their aimless walk to a conjured destination from a dream may lead nowhere.

Again, she can give him the basic answer: she doesn't know. She never checked, never wanted to. But his mind has always been insatiable. Echo knows better.

"My father left when I was young," she forces herself to say. "He wanted to serve under the Harkonnen to be ahead of the curve a lot of us saw coming. My mother... hopefully dead somewhere."

No use sugarcoating it.

"Caladan was a heaven that didn't seem possible to someone like me. I used to spend hours outside during storms just to feel rain that wasn't always cold."

#galaeus #PAUL.

[rejectory]

He doesn’t listen.

❝Do you hate this?❞

The devotees circling prayer outside of his chambers, being away from her sietch. Their? Sietch.

Him.

He wonders what her eyes would look like without the spice. Never-ending like his father’s. The deep of caved-over sand, the wet kind to be dug out. Pupils like Shai-Hulud’s mouth.

He slurs Old-tongued something half-dead and coiledandtangledandpremonitory

Paul’s tongue is fat in his cheek from all the pain that needed killing. His brain, sponged through, sings with it. He’s... tilting. She’s too far to touch.

❝Chani—❞

@rejectory said: [ NURSE ] for chani to tend to paul while he's recovering from injuries. 

THE   DOOR   TO   THE   EMPERORS   CHAMBERS   REMAIN   FIRMLY   SHUT        —        just   beyond   them   a   healer   whose   tongue   had   finally   loosened   enough   giving   minute   detail   to  one.   if   there   is   satisfaction   for   the   taking   chani   cherishes   nothing,   denial   was   a   bitter   pill   to   swallow.   the   air   is   heavy   with   spice,   the   concoction   made   to   lessen   pain   discarded   by   his   bedside,   she   hisses   into   a   bowl   of   wrist deep   wasted   water.   how   much   had   usul   given?   who   had   taken   without   permission?   the   unanswered   question   draws   a   palm   to   press   against   his   cheek,   he   asks   for   you   sihaya,   and   the   asking   had   turned   to   restlessness.           ❝        you   must   rest,   usul.        ❞        her   voice   tastes   like   caution   and   arrakeen   has   been   made   aware   their   mahdi   heeds   but   one.   she,   desert   spring,   spice   blue   eyes   ever   keen.       ❝        how   can   one   heal   if   they   do   not   abide   such   a   simple   rule?        ❞        there   is   fresh   cloth   meant   to   bind   his   wounds,   and   she   picks   it   up,   her   hands   white   knuckle   tight   ringing   liquid   free.        ❝        lay   back.        ❞

#s1hayas #PAUL.

[rejectory]

he does, for the second that he’s uncomfortable.

for the other that he’s angry. the third, sad.

❝she’s my wife.❞

"ah, fuck!"

just like when they were teenagers.

patrick scrambles, rolling until he's on top.

"watch it, man."

#jupiter3 #ART.

[rejectory]

She’s as bold as any of them. Not only because Paul hasn’t felt living earth underneath in as many moons as it took his Mother to carry Alia to the full. He’s as swollen as her, a pink lump down his throat instead.

He’s afraid it won’t have him after what he’s done. How silly of him, he thinks. How close to home.

It says, his stare, I might—or I might not. Past blades of grass, snaking, thinking her name, Paul eyes lengthwise the grave he helped create; the need for it. Princess, remover of sins,

seizer.

There were enough Haras for every Missionaria-sown fable: more than a seed, less than a peach pit. Each was deficient in her own way. None of them took. You need more than a pretty name to survive Fremen word of mouth before writing comes along.

She still has the dagger.

She doesn’t mean to attempt and won’t. She’d like to. He’ll survive today and every monotonous tomorrow to come stacked like tree rings on the cut-through.

She looks more pained than she did not knowing how many of her family still lived.

He’s off his footing for once. The Path blurs if he squints at just the right angle. Yes, He kneels—blasphemous to his own, what his people have built around him. In the relief of it, he feels his age and not a moment heavier.

The fruit in his hand’s heart-soft. Anywhere else, it’d mean time to eat. Here, who’s to say.

❝Do you pray?❞

The Tleilaxu salve he shut her with pearls on her naked belly. Has she looked close enough?

When it etched, it etched Paul’s fingerprints right into her skin where they applied. She could access what remains of the atomic warheads on Arrakis if she cut them out of herself in petals and fit them over hers.

The Jaguarundi hadn't arrived for his nightly visit. She knew his fate then. Finds him eventually in the place near where they met. Half alive and end-staged.

She feels the full weight of her maiden name when she has to finish what The Emperor started. Uses an altruistic dagger and feels as waterless as Paul felt to her vermilion zone.

This sicks her more than seclusion. In a way, it's the same.

Lays with Cubbie for awhile.

She doesn’t want to take care of herself after.

𓆩♡𓆪

She soaks in saltwater, washing dirt and dead ash alike off. Until the urgency of limited time reminds her aching belly to move on.

Pirouettes in clay — but there is no grace in which she attempts to reach herself wholly... holy.

She dozes off. The cave keeps her wet.

She resoaks again. Resurfaces her usual clean; orchid essenced, silked self. Predominantly.

𓆩♡𓆪

She’s come back to complete. ❝There was.❞

The grave lengths more than half of her. Bulb after bulb, she plants. Vanilla orchidaceae surrounds. A symbolic mausoleum to only her.

❝I had to help him to the thereafter.❞ Her voice embittered and bare. She does not know where to put her contusions down. Hurts her own mouth to hold it.

Glances past her shoulder to Paul. Dew grass eyes linger ( see how the falling sun bleeds across his face, punchy reds and oranges ). Moonbeam sears her twice as sunburn.

She watches him. Cubbie liked eating what he's plucked, too.

She's feeling too much to find a singular one to name what's brimming her. Emotions wave her. She softens in a breath, out.

❝Come.❞

She beckons with body for him to join on the ground. Still, watching him.

#petitsdieu #PAUL.

[rejectory]

none of that stings. none of it fucking does anything to him. it would if he looked more closely, but he doesn't, so it doesn't.

he could have his guts out and stewy'd try to dog-walk him by his small intestine. that's stewy. he'd bend him over and say he's not gay or some shit, right in front of the jury. kendall needs that frankness—stewy's the only honest person left in his corner, and half the time he doesn't even think he's fully there.

two-way street.

so he hits stewy with the fuck off side-eye.

❝no AI.❞ no roman junk, either. he doesn't need his basket bro jerking off to a deepfake of his own dick. ❝i left the taking of people's jobs to hollywood. mine's a free market economy.❞

just like, she's not my girlfriend. well, in his mind, she is. to the public, she is. but stewy shouldn't eat it up like it's a planted rolling stone headline. that doesn't sit right. kendall——- is still expecting him to see through to something that's not even there.

❝here's my pile,❞ the mount everest of presents. by the way, ❝take your time adding yours. only assholes are fashionably late.❞

now, what's that here in the "press room"? staring at 'em neon-bright right next to connor's shitting-bag headline?

STEWY HOSSEINI, KENDALL ROY'S BEST FRIEND, FATHER OF NONE

GOES TO PRISON FOR RUNNING UNDERGROUND SEX RING

ken grins. he had them take out the 'human trafficking' part, then put it back in, then take it out again. would've ruined the vibe. not that he's too pussy to go epstein.

❝when'd you, uh, have the time?❞

he might even have spotted her before kendall does: two people connected by an embarrassingly public fucking lapse in their otherwise impeccable taste. they can acknowledge it in each other like billionaires acknowledge each other's embarrassment over a million dollars on their wrists for something as mundane as telling the fucking time. a little bit inelegant, sure, but who if not them could afford the eccentricity? the illusion only works so long as you don't openly address it.

                   ❝ i know naomi pierce, ken. ❞ deadpan, delivered from above even while kendall's arm is pulling him down. kendall's not the pulse-fingering innovator he thinks he is -- even less so in the social realms than in the world of business. ❝ people really don't like being seen with you, huh? ❞

                   he's smirking, amused because he gets it, but he can tell ken's top-of-the-world birthday-boy buzz is precarious. someone's not taking someone seriously. so he decides to steer kendall away, leaving his wounded ego for someone else to deal with later. ❝ c'mon. show me around your weird fucking art gallery before your girlfriend comes back. i hear there's ai-generated ro-ro nudes? ❞

#rvolving #KENDALL.

[rejectory]

hot-cold-

-hot again when he’s slid down on.

Paul feels a tumor bump on his slack-jawed enjoyment—of Feyd-Rautha’s thoughts, always—this one shaped like a name.

The back of Feyd-Rautha’s throat nuzzles. Paul imagines his tonsils slicking in on his tip, something to be felt but never seen; certain intimacies. He gets wetter there in the felt dark—gulped, even if his cousin would have meant to deny.

Just an effort more and Feyd-Rautha’d nose his lap. He’s a tick feeding.

Paul doesn’t dwell. He squirms: Feyd-Rautha’s cheeks bubble. He rubs head-on, thighs hard, hair-trigger aware Feyd’s bite is right there but toothless for as long as the Voice holds.

And once It doesn’t—an hour, two, a week from now—for as long as he likes himself like this.

Indiscriminate parts of his fingerbellies have been desensitized. From Shai-Hulud’s yoke to Reverend Mother’s infant potions, and to plain sand. Feyd-Rautha ought have felt them while they were still pebbles. Creamed nightly and silk-slippy for a lord’s worth before he’d touch himself at night.

He’d have gotten taunted for it, no doubt. Gotten his fingers broken for it. He screws them in as they are, greasy with body heat. He dips back in deeper with an old truth, that a snake’s jaws should have no limit to their unhinging. He wants to see.

This name. It’s dear at a distance. Paul’d rather not breach. He’s - -overstretched on Feyd-Rautha. His eyes feel sheened over. They may look it, for all he cares, but he’ll repay the sentiment if it’s the last thing he does.

As if he’s right there in the synapse spark, a sunk finger, in Feyd-Rautha’s thinking as it happens. Paul dyes the chain structure. He does it almost politely. So softly that one might question, for but a second, if the onrushing thought is one’s own or from the outer:

You’re my pet.

He falls off Feyd-Rautha’s eyes to his lip. His belly hitches. A fever climbs him up. He can smell himself on the air.

Feyd-Rautha is flooding out of his own mouth when Paul pulls half-out just to dig back in. He slobbers everywhere, collecting in Paul’s hungry, smearing hand. He thumbs underneath the stretch to feel how his cock slips.

Mumbled like it’s a defect the great Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen has, ❝Too loose.❞

He can see Atreides better from down here. His purview's hook-snagged open by corners like his mouth; for a suspended moment he collects Atreides' stutter breathing and it comes back up one wobbly sigh— one body, stick-little, outlined hard on wrestled rhythm, on Rautha tasting him into the now.

Centering here in his v and a pulse up his spine is plenty punitive. Feyd-Rautha catches the jaw crack down molting bones. On Giedi, young, the sick makes you die. Everything too-white clean until it's not.

He's earning something this way that is his already by right. A hand. More.

Feyd-Rautha muscle-pulls back down to the ledge he glares from— curled in his middle bug-plastic. His too many legs are veins out of skin, airlocked. He bleeds white puffs, he bleeds amphetamine.

He doesn't gag. Paul is big enough, but not for that. Behind both ears scratches up a leg-thumping tingle and his lips splinter on the splintering, heavied by a flush of new drool and the newnewnew desperate for his soft palate, even after it gets there. Paul feels like a virgin again.

Feyd-Rautha frays up static-hot at his tips. Two firsts. There's something holy to that, isn't there, Atreides?

Leave the vision-soup to mua deeb and his rituals and his drugging. Feyd-Rautha doesn't bother into that peek once he has it. He knows what he's here for.

He chokes his fist down like he has does will Atreides' girl-pretty head and tugs back on the girl-hand fighting with his skull, making space for his tongue in the filled socket of his mouth. It's like ripping and setting a joint over and over, again and again— but slow. Bathing him this way should be so violent. Did pet Chani know?

Feyd-Rautha might've killed him good a ritual or two ago if he'd known the good emperor would try so hard not to cry.

#nightmarefuele #PAUL.

[rejectory]

Soon as he realizes he’s not the only one with a front-row seat to the hummingbird doubling of his heartbeat, Steve unlinks and has at his velcroed torso double-handed. Tries not to look any which way about it. Not the time.

The class might not like what he has to say.

Then again—he’s been better at knowing Bucky. Every time he tries at oiling the familiar hinges, he somehow misses the actual rusty points.

❛Insanity plea.❜

He manages to only cringe a little. He doesn’t have it in him to honey down the way for the medicine. This is what he got out of Tony (Ross by proxy, the goddamn president by arrogant extension) after weeks of snarling like a dog, threatening to quit, you name it.

To his credit, Stark took it like a man.

❛Probably televised.❜ You up for that? ❛Tony’s got the best attorneys on this coast.❜ Which means on the other as well.

It’s been a week of fitful sleep. He’s just tired enough that legal action causes less of a reaction to his gut than Steve’s touch does. On better days, he might crack a smile— no, scratch that, his lip is twitching up now. On better days, he’d crack a smile that wasn’t so pitiful. 

There's no unfit if they want it enough. “Anything can be broken down and rewired.”

He’s been through this before— not down to the dirty details, but the bigger picture is the same, isn’t it? Take a puppet, use it well, call it security. 

What a damn cynic he’s turned into. His mother would be wagging her finger, his sister would be rolling her eyes. If he could just explain, give him a minute, understand something: There’s always a fix if they're eager enough to try.

He can't tell if he exhales or if he sighs.

He’s still holding Steve's wrist, fingers curling for a better feel of his pulse. “You got that look in your eye. Wanna share with the class?”

#sxrgeantbarnes #STEVE.