#embracing abjection
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genuinely the #1 most helpful frame shift in terms of both not feeling like shit about myself & developing more robust sociological analysis was throwing out the idea that health is good. set it on fire, shred it to scraps, toss it in the wood chipper, compost that shit: i am sick and that is not a bad thing to be.
& then, as follows the work of mel baggs (z”l), everything else unravels. there’s nowhere else for assimilationist impulses to go. being queer is a disease? being fat? being non-normatively sexual? being a drug user? great. anoint me the patron saint of contamination. suddenly everyone has to have a stronger argument than (their) dis/ease; everything falls apart after your “yes, and?”
especially because once you begin to pick at it – why do you want me to want to be healthy, anyway? – the answers are all the same. to work, to make someone else money. to have healthy white babies who will do the same. to peddle the ultimate eugenicist fantasy, that of eternal health in heaven, to everyone around me so they will do the same.
of course, this exposes the shallowness of many leftists’ arguments, too – stop telling me capitalism is a cancer or landlords are parasites or homelessness is an epidemic. stop relying on sound bites that are entirely founded on the assumption that there can be no good in my body. only then can we talk about real harm.
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my queer ancestors were really onto something when they wrote about becoming if only briefly the utmost of the thing you are afraid of in order to no longer be afraid of it huh.
#working on a poem & it’s like. hallelujah everyone else has already said this#embracing abjection#you are the result of the love of thousands#why not take me now as i am?#mac.txt#highposting
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c!Sam, Pandora’s Vault, and the Abject
In light of the recent c!sam lore, I wanna ramble about something that’s been on my mind a ton recently, which is that all the stuff that plays out during the imprisonment arc (and its aftermath!!!) reminds me so much of The Abject, which is this theory of psychological horror that basically claims the impetus behind much of what we call horror is the breakdown of our understanding of where the Self ends and the Other begins. I realize this already sounds wack but so is dsmp as a piece of media so like, hear me out.
Sam demonstrably struggles with issues of control and autonomy, and especially with understanding himself in relation to them. But also, interestingly, a secondary definition of the Abject concerns the recognition of desire: when the individual's relationship to its objects of desire (id/the Other) and of representation (ego/the Self) breaks down in a way they find too disturbing to confront, horror is elicited.
I don’t think it’s a crazy stretch to say that c!Sam is a character who is constantly teetering on the brink of confronting the Abject. He prioritizes his job as warden over everything else in his life (there’s so much text evidence for this idek where to start) because being the warden is an important outlet for him. It’s a role he steps into that, over time, helps him understand himself - not in a way that’s necessarily accurate, but in a way that is agreeable to him! Sam’s relationship to his object of representation (being warden) is supported and maintained via the structure of the prison itself: the existence of a prison necessitates the existence of a prisoner (without which, the prison is just an empty building), which in turn necessitates the existence of a warden (someone to guard the prisoner.) Pandora’s Vault is a place where Sam’s worldview makes sense and his life has meaning and purpose.
The “breakdown” stage happens whenever Sam is forced to confront his object of desire, which is of course, control over the prisoner. Sam wants to control the prisoner at all costs (again, so much text evidence idk where to BEGIN). Sam tells himself that the warden is necessary for protecting the server, but ultimately his words and actions show that his true motivation is not protecting others, it’s controlling the prisoner. During Daedalus, all it takes is a couple days in the maximum security cell for Sam to start panicking and questioning his own actions/worldview, because suddenly the roles of prisoner and warden are reversed and c!Dream is forcing him to experience a small fraction of what dream experienced under Sam’s watch. the reversal is horrifying because the thing that gave Sam’s worldview structure and meaning (his role as warden in relation to both prison and prisoner) is being turned inside-out. He is not enjoying the Abject, and this is part of why i personally think he doubles down on defending his past actions as warden after dream kills him and lets him go - his only option is to repress.
Another definition of the Abject is “a place of immemorial violence where meaning collapses,” so i’ll leave y’all with my final thought on the subject: for Sam, the Abject is his own desire to control the prisoner. But for Dream, the Abject is the Pandora’s Vault itself. It’s the place where Dream was forced to confront the fact that he fucked up, that his trust in Sam (a former friend) was dangerously misplaced, that the person he thought would protect him is instead enabling his torture, that he may never escape the prison he designed himself. And he designed it to be a home! He wanted the prison, it exists because Dream wanted it! And now, post-jailbreak, it occupies this liminal space: at once a home and a hell. If that’s not the Abject, i don’t know what is.
#and the difference between c!dream's vs c!sam's reactions to the Abject#is that dream embraces it and returns to the prison to reclaim it as the home it was always supposed to be#whereas sam represses it and doubles down on his worldview#claiming that his actions were justified and the ppl he hurt should just get over it#lmfao sorry guys#dont ever take me seriously#this shit do be driving me to madness tho#dreblr#cawesamdude#pandoras vault#dream smp#dsmp#dsmp analysis#goddd i hate hashtags#cdream#cdream meta#dsmp meta#vault duo#daedalus arc#csam armchair psychoanalysis#yes i deserve to be mocked#this is about characters not content creators
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good mornings throughout the travel
[ID: Two comics of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun Maximum. The second is underneath the read more.
The first is in four panels and follows Vash and Wolfwood through hotel rooms. First, Vash and Wolfwood exit adjacent rooms, and Wolfwood has sparkles floating around him as he exclaims, “Rise and shine! Ready to go?” Vash frowns, displeased, and says, Urk— Good morning to you too.”
Next, they’re in a room with two beds. Wolfwood is awake and fully dressed. He’s sitting on the bed and smoking, back turned away from the viewer and he says, “Wake up already, sleepyhead.” Vash sits up with his eyes still closed and yawns before saying good morning. After that, they’re sharing a bed, and Wolfwood gets up and says, “Morning, sunshine. Time to get up.” His body shadows Vash from the sunlight. Vash is still lying down with a blanket draped over him as he mumbles good morning.
Finally, they’re embracing in bed, both shirtless. Sunlight shines on them, but their contact allows their shadows to drape over their faces. Vash smiles, kisses the top of Wolfwood’s head, and says, “Good morning, Wolfwood.” Wolfwood sleepily says, “Mph, g’morning, needle-noggin’,” snuggling into on Vash’s shoulder. End ID] ID CREDIT
TRIMAX Vol. 10 Spoilers under read more // bonus comic
[ID: The bonus comic starts with Vash asleep in bed, fully clothed with his hair half-black. Someone says “Good morning,” and Vash says, “Morning, Wolf—w...” He trails off as Livio, holding a plate of food, stares with abject shock.
Livio says, “I’m sorry.” Vash, smiling but sweating, says, “No, it’s my bad...” Livio repeats, “I’m sorry.” Vash says, “Geez, stop apologizing,” and cuts off Livio’s “I—” with a “Good morning, Livio.” Livio quietly mumbles, “... Good morning...”
Vash sits up from the couch he was sleeping on and looks down, thinking, “... That’s right. I won’t wake up to you anymore... I have to get used to that...” End ID]
#vashwood#vash the stampede#nicholas d wolfwood#trigun#trigun maximum#i just think. when theyre traveling for a long time together#sleeping in the same inns sleeping in the same rooms potentially as they get closer#realizing they dont need to pay the fee for 2 bedrooms if theyre comfortable fighting back to back#realizing they dont need to pay the fee for 2 beds after one night of being forced to sleep in same one since all the 2 beds rooms ran out#and being comfortable with it - and then after their feelings are shared#realizing theyd rather sleep and rest peacefully next to one another#and wake up slowly and enjoy the mundane while they can#i drew ww waking up first bc i dont imagine he sleeps much tbh. i think vash is a light sleeper too and more often than not#and vash goes to bed just bc he knows if he tries to leave ww would follow him#i also think vash never had someone stand guard for him before even if that isnt what he wants out of ww to do. but knowing that ww is#there means that he can actually sleep peacefully without worry that someones going to drop on him immediately. i think he'd get used tothat#and ww -- as he opens his heart more to vash -- gets comfortable staying in bed a little longer#sleeps a little better -- especially when they start to share a bed bc there's a warmth there that he can't help but cave into#bc he hasn't had that in a long time.#ruporas art
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Knives Dance (Part III)
Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader
Summary: It was hard to have a prose summary so here are some bullets of what’s happening in part 3
Baron Feyd missing you + heartfelt reunion
Feyd being totally infatuated with you
SCIENCE!!! and POLITICS!!!
Rabban being pitiful
Reader being a badass
Feyd vs Paul on Arrakis (what will happen? You’ll never knowww… [unless you read this chapter **wink, wink, wink**]
Warnings: Violence, blood, death (woohoo)
Word Count: 10.3k (whoops… I went typey-type)
A/N: I wanted to say a sincere thanks to everyone who's read Knives Dance up to this point. This series is some of the most fun I've had writing in a long, long time. Sending lots of love your way :)
Part I | Part II | Part III
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Stirring gently in his bed, Feyd recoils slightly as the light from Giedi Prime’s black sun hits his eye line through the wall of windows that separate his bedroom from the private balcony that overlooks the cityscape. He extends his arm to your side of the bed and runs his hand languidly across the surface, feeling the cool, silky sheets under his fingertips. His heart feels heavy in his chest, and he lets out a low growl of frustration into his pillow. It has been a long three weeks without you.
You’ve been off-world on a visit to Youra to see your father and bring back equipment for the laboratory you’re constructing on Giedi Prime. He knows that he doesn’t have to worry about your safety because he insisted on a full Harkonnen security detail accompanying you, which should have put his mind at ease, but he’s laid awake each night since your departure, staring at the ceiling and trying not to think of disasters befalling you during your travels. One night it’s asteroids colliding with your ship, tearing gaping holes in the walls, and sucking you into the vacuum of space. Another, it’s an ambush by an undiscovered society, hellbent on killing alien peoples for sport. Perhaps a novel virus wiping out the entire population of Youra and you with it in a matter of days? No farfetched scenarios were off limits when Feyd allowed his mind to wander.
The foreign feeling of loss due to your absence has not only plagued him with anxiety, but allowed Feyd to slip into a state of abject melancholia. None of his old vices have come close to fulfilling him, let alone make him feel much of anything. Watching his servants cower in fear or making foreign ambassadors quake in their seats wasn’t giving him the same gratification as it once had. Even hearing the roar of the crowds in the arena didn't given him any satisfaction. Everything had felt unbearably pedestrian. The only thing that brought a smile to his face was the thought of having the other half of his bed full again and listening to your tranquil voice. With every passing moment, he’s yearned for the life you had built together on Giedi Prime to resume.
Your mornings together were simple and easy. They were a time when he could always experience a drop of serenity within the political quagmire he’d gotten himself into since assuming the title of Baron. He’d wake up with you already in his embrace, your head laid delicately on his chest. He'd listen to your soft breathing and savor the way your limbs would entangle with his. The image of you blinking your eyes open to look at him with the special glimmer of affection reserved just for him never failed to make his heart flutter.
Overtime, Feyd noticed you had been taking very well to Harkonnen dresses, which you now wore more often than not. He had the best seamstresses on Giedi Prime make and tailor custom outfits for you, though he didn’t expect you to always wear them, knowing how important your heritage was for you. Nevertheless, you continued to grab one of the black gowns from your shared closet for your daily tasks and tell him with a smile “I’m Baroness Harkonnen now. Shouldn’t I dress the part?”
Before leaving your quarters each day, Feyd always took the opportunity to take your hand in his and bring you in front of the floor length mirror in your shared closet. With his hands around your waist, he would pepper gentle kisses from your cheeks down your neck, whispering in your ear “you are a vision today, my Baroness.” You'd always smile and blush bashfully in return, returning his kisses in kind. Moments like those when it was just the two of you had become one of his favorite parts of the day.
You made the meetings, filled with diplomats groveling to win his favor, bearable. How he loved to watch you as you sat on the grand Harkonnen throne beside him. You never failed to command the room with your head held high. Power and dignity seemed to drip off of your being and fill every room you entered. You were truly worthy of the title of Baroness, and with every passing day and every interaction, there was more and more for Feyd to admire about you.
In private, you took to training together, where he would bask in your shared might. With every blow he endured from you, all he could think about was that he, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, was the only person alive to witness you so animated with ferocity and passion from battle, as all others who have seen you this way have been slain and buried. Sparring sessions between the two of you almost always ended with you both on the floor, limbs entwined and chests heaving after one of you would get the best of the other and take the opportunity to pin the other to the floor.
At the end of the day, you'd always assume your position on the balcony in a flowy, white nightgown. With a gentle gesture, you’d beckon him to accompany you while you observe your shared domain, watching the shuttles flying through the gaps in the dark architecture and the stark white floodlights passing over the cityscape. He’d hold you close by your waist and whisper sweet nothings into your ear until you start to shiver from the evening chill, at which point he’d tug at your waist to take you back to the bedroom to retire for the night. Every day, Feyd was falling deeper and deeper into you, and he’s loved every moment.
Bringing himself upright, Feyd stretches his arms and stands up, walking over to the closet. Across from his sets of Harkonnen formalwear and battle gear, your gowns are neatly hung. Half of them are the sleek, black Harkonnen designs he had made for you. The other half are gorgeously vibrant Youran gowns. He sighs, imagining sharing one of your moments again in front of the mirror like always, but alas, you are not beside him. Once he’s dressed, he emerges from his quarters and is met with a nameless servant.
“Good morning, Baron,” the servant says, bowing deeply and trying not to give Feyd an excuse to kill him. “I am here to inform you that we have received a signal from the Baroness’s craft. Her arrival is imminent.”
Hearing those words, Feyd turns on his heel toward the landing docks, dismissing the servant who heaves a sigh of relief because his head is thankfully still connected to the rest of his body. As Feyd walks the halls, his pace quickens, feeling the anticipation rise in his chest. People bow and salute him in the hallways, but he doesn’t pay them any attention. He’s too preoccupied with his thoughts of you; he can already smell the aroma of rainforest flowers you carry around with you. The thought that he’s so close to having you near again nearly drives him mad.
When he arrives at the landing docks, the fleet of Harkonnen vessels is already touching down. As he hears the machinery’s loud whirring die, the ramps of all the crafts to meet the floor. Lines of Harkonnen soldiers file out first, each soldier with weapons in arms. The steady pulse of their synchronized footsteps echoes through the space with perfect adherence to Harkonnen military standards is satisfactory for Feyd. The commander in front barks orders, and the guards immediately step into formation, making an aisle that extends between Feyd and the craft closest to him.
He is at a loss for words when he sees you walk down the ramp. You are undeniably gorgeous in Harkonnen clothes, but you look positively ethereal in the Youran gown and golden headdress that adorn your body today. Instead of shrouding yourself in the cloak you’ve worn in the past to hide your weaponry, you’re wearing a traditional dress reserved only for Youra’s utmost nobility. Layers of sheer, olive and cerulean fabric flare behind you to create your dress’s skirt out from under a ribbed bronze and mahogany corset. Seeing how it’s cinched your waist and accented your silhouette, all Feyd wants to do is hold you and drag his fingers up and down the length of your figure.
Through the abundance of delicate golden chains that are symmetrically draped over your exposed shoulders and chest, Feyd can see how the corset and the off the shoulder neckline cradles your breasts in a way that makes him feel lightheaded. The entire skirt of the dress is decorated in dazzling embellishments and the characteristic Youran golden thread that Feyd has come to love on you. The fabric of the train seems to flow like water behind you as you walk.
The high front hemline of the gown that ends at your upper thighs gives Feyd a good look at your legs, the lengths of which are delicately wrapped in the thin, tan ribbons from your sandals. The crosshatched pattern of the ribbons allows him to see just how beautifully your legs are sculpted from years of training and exploration. The sight makes his mouth water. He is truly breathless gazing upon you, his Baroness.
You return his affectionate gaze and call his name excitedly, reaching down and bunching up your skirt in your grasp before breaking into a run between the lines of Harkonnen guards. Your footsteps are the only noise reverberating throughout the area. Before he even realizes it, Feyd’s running for you, too. As you approach each other, he extends his arms out to you, and you leap into them, wrapping your legs around his waist. As he lifts you up into his arms, he spins you both around as you nuzzle yourself deeper into his hold.
Your grips on each other are desperate. Without a moment to waste, he cups your cheek with one hand as the other holds you tightly by the small of your back. A tear threatens to fall from his eyes as he considers saying that he hopes that you’ve missed him, but the look in your eyes already tells him the answer. This is truly happiness like he’s never experienced before. It washes over him when you finally bring your lips to meet his. His breath is warm against yours as he exhales into the kiss in satisfaction. He feels your hands come up to clutch the back of his head to deepen your kiss and growls hungrily, quickly losing himself in your embrace while attempting to resist the urge to devour you on the spot. His brow furrows when you finally break for air.
“Hello, my love,” you whisper softly, pressing your forehead against his, as if what you’re saying is a secret meant for only his ears. He grins at the pet name you’ve picked for him. “How have things been at home?” Your words make Feyd pause. Were you calling Giedi Prime “home?”
“Everything has been adequate,” Feyd says, kissing you again. “But I do prefer it when my Baroness is beside me.”
“I guess you’re in luck then,” you smile at his words. You rest your hands on his chest, feeling his prominent pectoral muscles underneath his shirt which makes him sigh in satisfaction. You swiftly squash the temptation to kiss him again as you meet his gaze because if you do, you’d never want to stop. Feyd sets you down, even though he’d gladly carry you all day wherever you want.
“My father sends his regards. He’s very pleased with House Harkonnen. He also sends his condolences at your uncle’s passing,” you say, which makes Feyd scoff silently to himself. “I’ve also gathered all I need for the laboratory. I hope I didn’t bring too much back with me. I hope it’s not a burden…” you trail off.
“You could never be a burden. We have plenty of servants. They can handle the labor,” Feyd assures as he turns to one of the closest guards. “Start unloading the Baroness’s things. You know where to take them. Don’t you dare damage any of it. There will be repercussions if anything is found broken.”
“Yes, My Lord,” the guard responds before beginning to bark orders to the others. One by one, the guards disappear into the vessel, and emerge moments later, carrying large wooden crates by the bronze colored handles attached to the sides of each. They all file out and disappear into the fortress, headed for your lab.
“So,” Feyd says, turning back to you. “Home is Giedi Prime now? I wouldn’t have expected you to call anywhere but Youra home. It’s not that I’m unsatisfied that you’ve found comfort on Giedi Prime, but I was surprised to hear you say those words.”
You smile and glance down at the ground before looking back to him, responding. “Younger me would have agreed with you. Youra is my first home and will forever be such. However, my feelings have changed. Home is wherever you are,” you explain, intertwining your fingers with his. At your words, Feyd pulls you in again by the waist for another quick kiss, and he wonders what he did to deserve a wife like you as you both turn to follow your belongings.
Weeks ago, you and Feyd had set aside the largest of Baron Vladimir’s personal recreation spaces to be converted to a laboratory for you on Giedi Prime. You both had celebrated the initiation of the transformation by gathering all the Baron’s belongings and smashing them to smithereens, which was quite cathartic for the both of you. In particular, you loved bashing Vladimir’s pipe and ripping his bathtubs apart piece by piece. The day of eradicating every trace of Vladimir, except for his portrait in the hallway, culminated in you both basking in the warmth of a glorious bonfire, fed by what remained of the Baron’s belongings.
You both arrive at your laboratory. The Harkonnen workers have been very efficient installing the necessary infrastructure in the time you have been away. The room that was stripped to the bones the day you left for Youra is now a proper lab, outfitted with fireproof surfaces, chemical hoods, gas lines, and plenty of storage cabinets.
“Wow, Feyd,” you say. “This is amazing. I can’t believe this got done in the time I was gone.”
“Only the best for you, my love,” he replies as more servants arrive, and you begin to instruct them how to unpack your belongings. Feyd stands back on the sidelines and watches you, seeing the sparkle in your eyes now that you’re able to bring part of your life from Youra to Giedi Prime. Many of the instruments and objects he sees being unpacked are unfamiliar to him, but you seem unphased, perhaps even comforted, by the diversity of items. He marvels at your proficiency with handling all of them. With the help of the servants, you quickly have all the crates unloaded and the items put away and organized. You dismiss all the workers promptly, so you and Feyd can be alone. Once the doors are closed, you let out a sigh of relief.
“Is the space to your liking?” Feyd asks, coming to your side and slipping his arm firmly around your waist.
“It’s perfect,” you reply, looking around with elation in your eyes. You reach into a drawer in front of you and take out a jar. Inside, he sees it’s full of the iridescent indigo scales of the fish you had shown him the night you were attacked on Youra. “I wanted to wait until I got back to Giedi Prime to do the extraction on the scales for your batch of the elixir. …Would you like to stay while it happens?”
Feyd nods without hesitation. He knows that watching you work is something only the people closest to you ever get to see. “Of course, my love. It would be my pleasure,” he says. You smile at him, delighted at his interest. You point to a little door in the corner and tell him to wait for you before disappearing into it. A few minutes later, you emerge having shed your gown and jewels for a tan lab coat. When you smooth your hands over the new coat, Feyd thinks to himself how put together you look. You seem even more at ease now that you’ve changed. In your arms, he sees another coat and two pairs of safety glasses.
“To protect your clothes and eyes,” you say, walking over and handing him the other coat and one of the pairs of glasses. Inside the coat, he sees “Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen” delicately stitched in with golden lettering. As he puts it on, he realizes it’s been tailored to his measurements perfectly at your behest. His heart swells once again. Your foresight is obvious to him. Beside him, you take out a mortar and pestle and pour a few of the scales into the mortar. He hears the scales clatter like pebbles against one another as they fall.
Over your shoulder, Feyd can finally get a closer look at the scales from the fish you had shown him. The scales are shaped like rounded trapezoids and glimmer even in the artificial indoor lighting. Through the striking coloration, he can see delicate silver ribs that flare out from the narrower end of the scales, making each scale look like a pocket of moonlight rays shining through an inky night sky. Feyd thinks how it’s truly a wonder how nature produced such a creature that bears such beauty.
You grasp the pestle in your hand and start striking the scales with firm, downward motions. Upon impact, the scales fracture at the ribs. Little by little, the scales become smaller, and you change your technique, beginning to roll the pestle around the bottom and up the sides of the mortar. You reverse the direction of the circle every few times. Because of your expert hand, the scales are soon reduced to a fine powder in the bottom of the mortar. The dust glistens beautifully as you pick up the mortar and tip it around in a rolling motion, observing the results of your grinding.
“It’s time to perform the extraction and then the purification. Hopefully the crystals will be well formed,” you say to him, taking the mortar over to the fume hood behind the two of you and flipping the on switch to the hood. “Have you ever watched any of your scientists work before?”
Feyd shakes his head as he follows you, memories of his childhood passing through his mind. “My uncle always instructed me to remain in the arena and the training grounds growing up. The laboratories on Giedi Prime were never our places to be. Our scientists would always come and report to us rather than us going to them. It has always been that way. Everyone in House Harkonnen works for the Baron. Everything they do is in service to him. It is inappropriate by our standards for him to go to them.”
You nod at his words, reaching for the glass sash that separates you and Feyd from the compartment of the fume hood. “Unsurprisingly, it’s the opposite on Youra,” you say, putting the mortar with the powdered scales inside before lowering the sash again until it’s almost closed, leaving gap a couple inches tall for continued access. “Yes, all workers serve my father and me, but we are all colleagues, in a way. They are the workers and my father is the hub for all of the departments on Youra. Much of my father’s success is tied to them, so he would often visit our workers to acknowledge their efforts and dedication. He always wanted to see their work for himself, too. He’s always been the curious type. My father had me follow him to the laboratories as soon as I was old enough to understand safety protocol. I’m sure if it wasn’t for regulations, he’d have brought me into the labs in a baby sling.”
The image of young you in a laboratory, holding your father’s hand as Youran chemists show you both what they’re working on comes into Feyd’s mind. Even though he didn’t know of you when you were children, he can imagine you then, much shorter with a rounder face but with the same bright eyes brimming with curiosity. The idea makes his heart warm and a smile tugs at his lips.
“I’m sure those laboratory visits were most influential for you,” Feyd says. You nod in return as you put on a pair of gloves and reach under the sash to grab an amber bottle containing a clear liquid from the side of the hood.
“Absolutely,” you reply as you transfer all the powdered scales into a glass Erlenmeyer flask and add enough of the liquid to cover the solids. You move the flask onto a raised plate in the hood and press a few buttons to begin the heating process. “I loved watching them do their work. They knew so much about our world, but were still determined to know more. The way they moved in the lab was like a dance. I desperately wanted to be a part of that, so I began working with them when I was fourteen…”
As Feyd listens to you talk about your past as you work, his admiration of you grows. Your determination and tenacity through failed experiments and stalled projects are astounding to him, and the fact you’ve been able to become a swordswoman on the side this is truly a marvel. Your skill and years of training are evident today, as your body seems to know this process by memory. This in front of him is the product of all those years of effort.
The liquid in the vessel begins to bubble gently. As the moments go by, the liquid takes on the iridescent nature of the scales and becomes a vibrant blue. Removing it from the heat, you strain the liquid through fine mesh into another container, removing all the powdered scales from the mixture. Looking at the collected solids, Feyd can see the scales have lost their original coloration and turned a chalky off-white. You smile to yourself, knowing that the extraction was effective while you prepare a large volume of a different liquid, also clear and colorless, in a large beaker.
“Are you ready for the recrystallization?” you ask him, grabbing a syringe and drawing up some of the extract into the barrel. You return to the beaker of liquid and gently tip it sideways with one hand while pointing the tip of the needle at the side of the beaker. Carefully, you begin to squeeze the syringe and the indigo liquid begins to drip out the needle’s tip and trickle down the side of the beaker. As the extract hits the surface of the clear liquid, deep purple crystals seem to flutter out from the point of impact into the liquid instantaneously. Feyds lips part in amazement, unable to tear his gaze away from the process
“How does it work?” he asks, watching as a batch of thin, needle-like crystals start to gather at the bottom of the beaker while the bulk liquid remains colorless. It’s as if all the color of the extract has been contained within the crystals.
“I use the first liquid to remove the compound from the scales and make a concentrated extract. I then add the extract to a bulk solvent which our compound of interest is insoluble in. The compound forms crystals when the liquids meet because the second liquid is in great excess compared to the first,” you explain, drawing up more extract and adding it to the beaker in the same way. Once you’re out of extract, you squat down to bring your eye level to that of the beaker. “It’s perfect. I don’t think the crystallization has ever gone that well.”
You’re absolutely beaming as you swirl the crystals suspended in the liquid, admiring how they twinkle in the light. He can’t deny that your excitement is contagious. You collect the crystals by filtering the mix through another filter and spread out the crystals on a metal sheet to allow them to dry before removing your safety glasses, and Feyd follows suit.
“This is the compound I was referring to that night at the Pools of Ashora,” you say to Feyd. “If we dissolve the crystals in water and drink it, it allows people to retain their body’s water content and reduced the frequency at which people needed to drink water.”
“Fascinating…,” Feyd trails off, staring at the delicate crystals scattered across the surface inside the fume hood.
“When I was on Youra, I tested the elixir myself,” you say. Hearing you say that you’ve done that, a bolt of fear goes to his heart at the thought of you just drinking a novel chemical. Feyd’s eyes quickly lock onto you, and his neck stiffens. His mind swirls with distress at the possibility of you getting hurt. You may look okay now, but was the elixir difficult for you to stomach? Did it hurt you in the moment?
Looking at him, you’re immediately in tune with his reaction, and you lift your hand up to rest on his arm to calm his nerves. At your touch, he immediately relaxes. “Don’t worry, Feyd. I am alright. There’s nothing to be worried about. We’ve done plenty of trials since I first introduced this fish to you. I assure you it’s safe. I’ve had all of my best scientists on this project, and I had the best doctors in Youra monitor my vitals for two days after the fact.” Feyd nods, knowing if anyone is competent enough to keep you safe, it's yourself and the Youran doctors and researchers. “We still don’t know the exact mechanism of the compound in the body, but we do know there aren’t significant negative side effects on people. Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” Feyd replies, taking the opportunity to bring his hand to your waist and pull you close enough that your lips are almost touching and you’re both staring into each other’s eyes. “I will always put my faith in you and your work.”
“I’m glad to hear,” you reply, your breath fanning out across his face, which sends shivers down his spine. “That means a lot, Feyd, we’ve been working hard the last few weeks for this.” Grinning at you, he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger and tips your head up toward his, catching your lips in his. You quickly take off your gloves and hold his cheeks in your palms, savoring the intimate moment.
A knock at the door sounds through the room. Feyd grumbles in annoyance as the tension between you releases. You and Feyd look at each other before ending your embrace. You call out “Enter!” in the direction of the doors. A military advisor enters the lab in full uniform with his head low. He immediately drops to his knees in front of both of you to show his respect.
“Baron, Baroness,” he says. “I am deeply sorry for interrupting you both, but I bring critical news from Arrakis.”
“Very well,” Feyd says, straightening up and peering down at the man kneeling before him. “Out with it.”
“There has been an attack by the Fremen. They destroyed eighty percent of the most recent spice crop.” You can tell by the way the man shivers that he is afraid. Nobody ever wanted to be the one to break bad news to Feyd-Rautha. “Count Rabban attempted a counterattack.”
“‘Attempted?’ What happened?” Feyd growls, his eyes flashing in dissatisfaction. You catch Feyd’s hand in your palm as it flies in the direction of the knife he keeps on his person. You shake your head. You tell him there is no use in killing this man because it would be a waste with just a look.
“Y-Yes, my Lord,” the man says, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. You can hear him beginning to hyperventilate despite his best attempts to steady his breath. “Rabban went after the Fremen, but the dust and debris from Rabban’s initial artillery attack made the visibility so poor on the battlefield that only Count Rabban and a few others survived. They were ambushed in the haze; it was a massacre with a casualty rate of seventy two percent and climbing.”
“Over half?!” you gasp, your own fists beginning to clench at Rabban’s blunder.
“Rabban says he saw the Fremen prophet, Muad'dib, on the battlefield before he fled. The Fremen… they are dedicated to him. They kill for him, Baron. Our spice operation is in jeopardy. We await your command.”
Feyd stiffens, a vein threatening to pop on his temple. He sucks in air through his teeth, infuriated at Rabban’s continued incompetency. The advisor recoils at the noise, shuffling backward toward the door.
“You are dismissed,” you call to him with a huff. A wave of relief washes over the man as he bows and thanks you before slipping out the door.
“Rabban is a damned fool!” Feyd shouts once you’re alone. “He has had every chance to rectify his mistakes on Arrakis, but he seems to leave his brain behind when he makes decisions and lets this Muad'dib win every time! And now I hear news of abandoning the battlefield at the sight of this prophet? He is a coward! An absolute imbecile! If something doesn’t change soon, the Emperor will take Arrakis from us!”
You reach your arm out and rest it on his shoulder. In moments, you’ve quelled Feyd’s initial outburst until he’s only seething with fury instead of being on the verge of trashing the entire lab. “I think it’s time to relieve my brother of his duties,” Feyd says after he takes a deep breath. “We shall go to Arrakis to do it. I want to see the look on his face and the hope drain from his eyes when he knows he’s failed. I will take over the operation on Arrakis. We will do what my brother was incapable of.”
“In that case…,” you say, preparing two glasses of water, adding a pinch of the crystals to each. The water immediately turns a luminous indigo, and you hand Feyd one of the glasses, which he gladly takes. You raise your glass in the air. “To victory and to House Harkonnen.”
“To victory and House Harkonnen,” he replies, connecting the rims of your glasses and drinking the entire glass in one go. The elixir is salty and rich on his tongue as if he’s drinking the essence of the tropical ocean. As the elixir flows into him, he feels a warmth pulsate throughout his body. He isn’t sure if this is truly the effects of the elixir or just a placebo, but Feyd feels powerful, like he could slaughter a thousand men and still have a hunger for more. As he meets your gaze, you give him a knowing look. You feel the energy, too. You both shed your laboratory coats and leave the room to prepare for your journey to Arrakis.
--
The preparations before and journey to Arrakis went without a hitch. You had opted to choose Harkonnen battle gear over your own, but you and Feyd still agreed on concealing your knives under a black Harkonnen dress cloak, still not eager to let anyone know of your true nature. Arriving in Arrakeen, you notice the striking architecture, made up of geometric slabs of tan stone layered to create a fortress to protect its inhabitants. This time on Arrakis, Feyd doesn’t feel the heat like he used to. It’s as if his body is fighting back against the harsh environment on the desert planet. You feel it, too. You were initially concerned because you had only tested the elixir during the dry months on Youra, which paled in hostility in comparison to Arrakis, but seems the elixir’s protection is more than sufficient.
You and Feyd walk the halls of the fortress side by side, heading to the room where all of the Harkonnen strategists and military officials are. You see them gathered around a digital map projected by a computer in the middle of the room, which shows the locations of all the Harkonnen forces in the north of Arrakis. Upon seeing their Baron and Baroness side by side, they all freeze and bow.
“Welcome to Arrakis, Baron, Baroness” one of them says. He opens his mouth to continue but Fed cuts him off.
“Enough,” Feyd hisses at him. “I have orders for you. You are no longer to follow the word of Count Rabban. As of today, he is relieved of his duty as Planetary Governor of Arrakis. You will report directly to and receive orders only from me and your Baroness.”
The room of men immediately shout “Yes, My Lord!” in response. A smirk forms on Feyd's lips at their responsiveness, and he instructs them to hit the Fremen with old-fashioned artillery. As the orders are executed by the Harkonnen military, you watch the map intently as the targets on the map turn green, indicating the Fremen bases are hit successfully. All of the military advisors’ eyes widen in surprise at the genius of Feyd’s strategy as the reports of complete annihilation from the ground forces roll in.
They all begin to applaud Feyd and as their chants fill the room, your heart fills with pride. Feyd has finally proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was always meant to be the leader of House Harkonnen. As the applause continues, you see Rabban appear in the doorway, a look of surprise disgust on his face. You notice he’s still wearing his nightclothes, and your eyes flash between him and Feyd as Rabban approaches Feyd, Rabban’s legs still stiff from sleep.
“Leave us,” Feyd instructs the others in the room, who promptly file out. They keep their eyes on the floor, not daring to look at Rabban. They know people who end up alone in a room with Feyd after repeated blunders usually don’t exit the room outside of a body bag.
“What are you doing here?” Rabban growls at Feyd.
“It’s early morning. What are you doing here?” Feyd quips back. Rabban lets out a frustrated huff.
“You can’t just waltz in here,” Rabban says through gritted teeth. “And how can you bring that woman into the inner sanctum?”
“How dare you refer to your Baroness like that!” Feyd roars, grabbing Rabban by his collar. “If you have forgotten, dear Brother, I am Baron now. I will do as I please and take my wife wherever I wish!”
Feyd throws Rabban back and he falls on his back hard. In desperation, Rabban tries to scramble to his feet again, but as soon as he’s almost upright, he feels his knees buckle from under him as you kick the backside of his knees in. Rabban’s forehead collides with the stone floor with a visceral crack, and he feels his arm caught in your grip behind him. He groans as you push his arm to the verge of overextension. On his neck, Rabban feels the cool tip of a blade threatening to pierce his skin, which sends a chill down his spine, his head still spinning from impact.
“You should learn to respect your superiors,” you whisper to him as Feyd’s gaze is fixated on you. The picture before him has a fire rising within him. His breath turns thick and heavy, seeing you over Rabban, your blade on his neck and your foot on his back with a fiendish smile on your lips. “I would have expected more from my brother-in-law… You are a disgrace to House Harkonen,” you drawl, pressing your dagger’s tip into Rabban’s neck enough to draw blood. Dark crimson blood trickles down Rabban’s neck and he squirms. You remove your foot from his back and step forward to place your shoe by his face. You take the opportunity to kick his cheek in a little with the toe of your shoe before the heel of your combat boot hits the floor by Rabban’s face with a firm thunk. “Kiss my feet, and I may spare your life.”
Rabban quivers under your hold, his palms spread over the stone floor. He considers trying to escape. He could try to press his body up and avoid the blade on his neck and try to sweep your legs out from under you, but he quickly realizes that you are in control. Any movement like that would end with your knife in his chest, back, or neck. Despite his position being compromised, he hesitates to kiss your foot How could he, Glossu Rabban, kiss a woman’s shoe in submission?
“You heard her, Brother,” Feyd hisses, stepping toward you both as he basks in his brother’s terror. Feyd stops in front of his brother and squats down to look at him. “Kiss her feet. Now.”
After a moment, Rabban quivers and presses his lips against the leather of your shoes. As he does, you see how miserable and pathetic this man below you is. It's truly a shock that this oaf is the brother of your Feyd, who is confident, domineering, and skillful in every way.
“You made a good decision obeying, Rabban,” you say, releasing the blade on his neck. “I would have wasted a perfectly sharpened knife slitting your throat if you hadn’t cooperated.” You step back from him as he clambers into an upright position. His hand flies to his neck, feeling the blood trickle down his neck and seep into his nightshirt.
“You are hereby relieved of your duties as Planetary Governor of Arrakis,” Feyd grins at the pitiful sight before him. “You will return to your quarters in the meantime and wait for future instruction.”
Rabban leaves in defeat. Once the doors shut behind him, you and Feyd smirk at each other, and Feyd rushes to you giving you a tender kiss. “I love you, Baroness,” he murmurs, completely infatuated with you.
--
A few days later, you stare up into the atmosphere of Arrakis. The Emperor’s craft has just entered the atmosphere. You and Feyd share incredulous looks and you immediately make your way to where the emperor will be docking.
“What could the emperor want?” you ask Feyd as you walk.. “We restored spice production. It’s never been more efficient.”
Feyd shakes his head, deep in thought. “I do not know, my love.”
“I don’t like this, Feyd.” you whisper to him, trying not to let anyone else hear and Feyd nods in return. “What could have summoned the emperor to Arrakis?”
“We shall see,” he replies. Rabban arrives and bows to you both, which makes you frown. Rabban hasn’t been involved in House Harkonnen’s operations since he was removed. Nevertheless, he still proceeds into the throne room before Feyd or you can dismiss him.
Inside the throne room, the emperor is perched on a large throne up a large flight of stairs with his daughter and a Bene Gesserit standing by him. Your eyes narrow seeing the witch’s presence, knowing they have tricks they are not afraid of using to manipulate the great houses. You, Feyd, and Rabban kneel in front of them, bowing your heads. Before any of you speak, the emperor’s voice rings out.
“I am sure you are curious as to why I have come to Arrakis,” he begins. “What do you know of the prophet Muad'dib?” Rabban speaks up first, saying that Muad'dib is a madman.
“Mad?!” the emperor says.
“All Fremen are mad!” Rabban counters, and the Emperor’s fist clenches around the arm of his throne. You and Feyd shoot daggers at Rabban, and he closes his mouth immediately, putting his head down again which casts his face in shadow.
“We apologize for my brother speaking out of turn,” Feyd says to the Emperor. “Rabban has had no part in the latest work of House Harkonnen. He is not a reliable source of information. We know Muad'dib is a figure of the Fremen, and they follow his command.”
“Yes,” you say. “He organizes their forces, and they have been effective in battle against many of our forces by hiding in the sands and staging ambushes. They’ve been effective at destroying our spice harvesters in the past, but we’ve been able to successfully retaliate.” The Bene Gesserit flashes some hand signs at the emperor. She must be able to tell if people are lying or not.
“What of the prophet’s whereabouts?” the Emperor asks, his voice darkening with frustration at your lack of knowledge. The emperor’s suggested scorn directed at House Harkonnen is sour on your tongue, and you grit your teeth.
“We control the north of Arrakis and spice production, Emperor,” you reply, keeping yourself collected. “We believe Muad'dib has fled to the south to hide in the storms after my husband’s last military tactic was successful in neutralizing their northern bases.”
As you utter those words, you feel a tremendous boom propagate through the air, causing the building to shudder. Everyone in the room looks up. Some of the diplomats that have accompanied the emperor swallow thickly. You and Feyd exchange knowing glances. Something isn’t right. The Sardaukar forces, who have come to protect the emperor, raise their weapons and get into formation with one line in front of the emperor, who has abandoned the throne in favor of shelter.
The other line of Sardaukar forms a line opposite the entrance way, as more explosions can be heard beyond the walls. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Rabban slip away, ever the coward. You feel Feyd’s touch on your arm as he beckons you to position yourself behind the defenses with the other diplomats. From your shared position, you both wait and listen intently. The others in the room are paralyzed in a cold sweat, but you and Feyd are silently watching, waiting, and listening, already gathering information on the situation to calculate your next move.
Dust fills the room as another bang resonates throughout the room and the barrier breaks down. The frontline of the Sardaukar advance, weapons at the ready. As they disappear into the dust, you know they aren’t coming back. The room is almost entirely quiet, but through the haze you hear the barely audible but familiar sound of daggers piercing armor, slitting throats, and tearing flesh. The remaining Sardaukar dig their heels in as a figure emerges through the orange debris, wrapped in tan fabrics caked in others’ blood. His face is concealed by a scarf, and the only flesh of his you see are his eyes, blue from spice. He is accompanied by an army. Judging by the amount of noise they made on their arrival, you and Feyd know there are probably hundreds of them. Fighting your way out is not an option. This must be the prophet Muad'dib.
Muad'dib looks around with his blade drawn, seemingly searching for someone as he enters the room. You see him and Feyd make eye contact. Feyd’s eyes narrow at him in curiosity. When Muad'dib does not find who he is looking for, he turns the crowd of people behind the Sardaukar guards. Most of the diplomats instinctively take a step back. He makes eye contact with the emperor before turning to his own forces and hissing something in a foreign tongue which you presume to be Chakobsa, Fremen language. He exits the room back into the crowd of Fremen who chant for him, waving their war banners. You see they bear the hawk insignias of House Atreides. The son of Duke Leto Atreides is alive.
The Fremen advance, easily slaying the last remaining Sardaukar. Many of the diplomats shudder and jump in surprise as the Fremen plunge their daggers into the Sardaukar warriors, who are powerless to stop them. Once they are all dead and their blood is spread across the floor in crimson red pools, the Fremen start grabbing the rest of you by your arms, and you are all dragged away one by one. You are being taken prisoner. You look to Feyd, who gives you a subtle nod as if to say “go along with it,” and you do.
--
You’ve laid low all in the confinement the Fremen have kept you in all night, not eager to give any of them a reason to kill you. Silently, you’ve been analyzing your situation, trying to figure out a way to achieve an optimal outcome, which you feel is slipping through your fingers. Since you have been taken prisoner, you can only presume that the rest of the Sardaukar and the Harkonnen army have been slaughtered and their bodies burned before daybreak. You and Feyd are likely the last living Harkonnens on Arrakis.
After sunrise, you are called upon by a faceless Fremen, who orders all of the prisoners to follow. You are reunited with Feyd, who takes your hand, careful not to let the Fremen see this gesture of affection as to not allow them any leverage. His touch automatically makes you as at ease you can be, given that you are both captives without allies.
Arriving in a room with the other prisoners, you see the surviving Fremen mingling and congratulating one another. The man from before stands in the clearing of the room without his face covering, his black wavy hair framing his face. Feyd turns to you and mouths “Atreides.” You nod in understanding, and watch as Paul Atreides addresses the Emperor, challenging him for the throne. Looking out the window, you see warships in the distant sky. The other great houses have arrived and Paul Atreides threatens to destroy all the spice fields if the houses intervene.
“Stand yourself or choose your champion,” he orders the Emperor, who turns to Feyd.
“I select Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen,” the emperor declares. “Get him a blade.” You inhale sharply, knowing this means Feyd must fight to the death against a man who has already slain many in battle and emerged victorious from the bloodbath of the previous night. You trust Feyd’s skill, but you know not to underestimate Paul Atreides. Feyd’s eyes flicker toward you. He knows what you’re thinking and gives you a slight nod as if to promise he will fight his hardest, not for the emperor, but for you. He is presented with a blade by one of the members of the emperor’s council. To your surprise, Feyd pushes it away and turns to you. Coming to stand in front of you, he gestures downward toward your legs, where your daggers are still strapped to your thighs out of sight.
“Feyd, are you sure?” you say to him, your voice small.
“I want to use your blade. Please let me fight for you,” Feyd whispers. You nod and reach down to fulfill his request, drawing one of your Youran weapons from your garters. When you hand it to him, Feyd feels the familiar heft of your dagger in his hand, which makes him grin. Just as he remembers, it’s expertly balanced and perfectly crafted, its pointed tip shining in the low orange light of the room. He smiles, recalling the night you handed him the same blade, the first time he saw your true nature. He twirls the knife in his grip with a flourish of his wrist as he stands opposite Paul Atreides.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, cousin,” Paul says.
“Cousin…” Feyd says, continuing to evaluate Paul for his weaknesses. “You wouldn’t be the first family member I’ve killed.”
His words don’t phase you. You’re well aware of Feyd’s family history. You clasp your hands in each other in front of your chest, willing Feyd to be the victor. Paul Atreides straightens himself and salutes Feyd. “May thy knife chip and shatter,” Paul says with a gruff tone, lowering himself into a battle stance and pointing his knife at Feyd. Feyd smirks, raising your weapon. The sight of it in his hand is gratifying for Feyd. Despite standing alone against Paul, it’s as if you are both in this fight together with him wielding your weapon.
“May thy knife chip and shatter,” Feyd returns and within moments, they're after each other, having an all out brawl in the middle of the room. They each swipe at each other with reaction times like lightning. The sounds of blades crashing against one another, the low smacks of their bodies colliding, and their grunts of exertion fill the room. You have to admit, Paul Atreides is an impressive fighter. He’s quick on his feet and swiftly dodges and counters many of Feyd’s attacks, but it is obvious that Feyd is the one with strength on his side. The only way for Atreides to win is if he is able to find a way to use that strength against Feyd.
You’re barely breathing at this point. Your facade of stoicism threatens to crumble when you see Paul Atreides’ forehead connect firmly with your husband’s nose. To your surprise, you don’t see any blood on Feyd’s face. Paul Atreides’ head is thrown back after almost bouncing off of Feyd’s nose. Paul’s head seems to be spinning as he stumbles backward on uneven footing. Feyd recognizes Paul’s debilitated state is fleeting, and takes advantage of the moment, striking Paul again. The tangle of limbs is intense, but in the blink of an eye, you see Feyd disarm Paul, taking Paul’s knife for his own.
As they break away from one another, Paul Atreides is heaving, struggling to breathe as the leather bound hilt of your dagger protrudes from his abdomen. He’s wheezing as his own blood seeps into his battle gear. His allies gaze upon the sight in shock, some wincing in second-hand pain.
Feyd approaches him promptly, and grabs Paul by the scruff of his neck, raising Paul’s own knife at him. Paul Atreides uses his own gloved hand to grab the blade, trying to push it away, but Feyd leans in, forcing the blade to slip further into Paul’s grip, cutting the flesh of Paul’s hand open with a sickening noise, the tip of the knife getting closer to piercing Paul’s neck.
The next moment, you feel like screaming. The dagger, once poised to slice open Paul Atreides’ neck, is no longer in the air visible to you. Paul Atreides has used his grip on Feyd’s blade to redirect the tip toward the stomach of your husband. Your hands fly to your mouth, tears threatening to spill. The force Feyd puts behind his blade at that proximity is fatal.
The memories of meeting Feyd on Youra, fighting by his side against Ozran, plotting into the early hours to kill his despicable uncle, your wedding ceremony in front of House Harkonnen, and the moments of tenderness and affection he’s given you in private flash through your mind. Your stomach writhes, and your heart shrivels into itself, and your mind begins to confront the idea that you now must mourn the life you and Feyd had assembled. Another thought flashes through your mind. You’ll likely be killed after this with the rest of the prisoners in this room, and die alone without your husband, lightyears away from your people on Youra and Giedi Prime. You’ve failed.
Through your tears, you stare at the scene as the air and the people surrounding you are completely still. However, something gives you pause. You hear something hit the floor look down to the area under Feyd and Paul’s feet. You spy fragments of metal, broken into uneven shards, scattered across the floor. However, there is no blood to be seen. Your eyes shoot to Feyd, who is also looking down to where they both hold the hilt of the broken knife.
Without a second to spare, Feyd’s hand flies to your knife in Paul’s side, ripping it out of him. Paul cries out in agony, the removal of the knife causing a blood curdling squelch of skin and muscle ripping. The next moment, Feyd slits Paul Atreides’ throat with a grand swing of his arm, sending blood splatter fanning across the floor. The pregnant woman seated in the wooden throne bearing the Atreides crest lets out a high pitched shriek, and she begins to wail, seeing the light from her son’s eyes fade as his body crumples to the floor. A Fremen woman across from you lets out a shaky breath, her lip quivering and tears pool near her bright blue eyes as Paul Atreides’ fresh blood collects in a puddle on the stone floor under the gaping hole in his neck.
Feyd turns back to you, bloody blade in hand and lets out a deep exhale, allowing the tension in his own chest to dissipate. He had thought he was dead, too, but no. He is alive. He is victorious, and he gets to look into your eyes again, knowing that he has done his job for you.
Kneeling, Feyd presents the emperor with the soiled blade. The emperor smiles and pronounces Paul Atreides, the prophet Muad'dib, to be dead and Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen as the victor. In defeat, the ally of Paul, identified as Gurney Halleck, relays a message to the great houses of the outcome of the fight. The emperor’s reign shall continue, and your husband is alive. You push your way past the others in the crowd and throw yourself at Feyd, who cradles you in his arms, running his fingers through your hair, whispering to you “Please don’t shed any more tears, my love. I am still here… I wouldn’t leave you that easily.”
“I thought I lost you,” you choke out and Feyd shakes his head, using his thumb to wipe away the tear stains on your cheeks.
“You haven’t and you won’t,” he replies, his hands holding your body steady. “Let’s go home.”
—
Holding your knees to your chest, you sit in a private chamber on the Emperor’s vessel as it leaves the atmosphere of Arrakis to take you and Feyd back to Giedi Prime, which was the least the emperor could do given that Feyd nearly died for him. One of Feyd’s hands rests on your waist, holding you firmly in his grip while the other rubs gentle circles on your shoulder with his thumb. Feyd watches as your eyes dart side to side, which happens when you’re deep in though.
“What is on your mind, my love?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.
“I’m thinking about your battle with Paul Atreides,” you reply. “The knife broke when he tried to turn the tables on you, didn’t it?” Feyd nods, bringing his hand down to the spot on his abdomen where the knife was. “May I see where it was?” you ask and Feyd obliges, creating a small bit of distance between the two of you so that you can get a good look at his torso.
You bring your hand to where Feyd’s armor has been sliced open by the blade. Bringing the other hand to his body, you gently spread the layers of fabric and leather apart to look through the hole. Underneath, you see Feyd’s familiar pale skin and his chiseled abdominal muscles that you’ve always loved to drag your fingers across. His skin appears to be absolutely pristine without a single nick or bruise in sight. You bring your head closer to get a better look before saying, “There isn’t evidence of any damage to your skin, Feyd. Your body is like the battle never happened. There isn’t a trace of impact.” As soon as you utter the last word in the sentence, you freeze and your lips part ever so lightly as your mind races to connect the dots. He knows that look on you, and he sees the gears turning in your mind.
“Impact…,” you mumble to yourself. Your eyes shoot up to Feyd’s “During the battle there was a moment when Paul Atreides’ head collided with your nose.” Your hand flies to his cheek to steady his head. You examine his nose, using your hand to tilt his head side to side. Everything about his face is unchanged, which shouldn’t be the case, especially after a fight like that and the headbutt he endured from Paul. You tip his head back. Again, there is no blood or breakage.
Your mind begins to race as you return your hands to your husband’s torso. Your hands fumble as you attempt to remove the layers of armor in between you and Feyd’s skin. Feyd realizes what you’re doing and soon enough he’s shirtless in front of you. You extend your hand out and drag your hand over his stomach. You press your fingers firmly down onto his abdominal region and upper body repeatedly, changing the area you’re putting pressure on each time. He feels solid under your touch and not in the way you’re used to. Feyd has always been bulky and muscular, hardened from years of training, but something about this is different. It’s like his body has the durability of an alloy the researchers on Youra could only dream of engineering, but he’s still flesh and blood. Bring your fingers to your own stomach, pressing your fingers against your own front, and you gasp. “That’s it!” you exclaim.
“What is it?” he asks, knowing you are on the edge of an epiphany.
“It’s the elixir!” you gasp, standing up and holding your head in disbelief “It saved your life!”
“I thought it was only to help the body retain water,” Feyd says as you get up and begin circling the room.
“Don’t you remember? That’s the end result of the elixir, but we were still unsure of the mechanism by which that happens!” you exclaim. “Remember the night I showed you the fish? I said that the fish sheds its scales at the beginning of the wet season. What I didn’t tell you is that the wet season is the only time of year we can get the scales off the fish because they fall off naturally. Our scientists have tried to get the scales before the transition of the seasons, but they've always been unable to pry the scales off or kill them because it was impossible to slice open the fish. No matter how much we sharpened the knives, we couldn’t cut them open!”
“That’s how the fish retain water in the dry season. The fish develop these scales with this compound that transforms their own bodies into a shield from the elements, so that water can’t escape. I’ve always wondered how a fish would be able to survive the whole dry season on a dried up lake bed. This compound is why the fish species hasn’t gone extinct! When they’re sitting in their dried up ponds, no predators can eat them because their bodies are too tough to pierce,” you surmise, delight filling your complexion. “By drinking that compound, the same thing has happened to our bodies! You were able to survive the battle because your skin became this impenetrable barrier that lets you keep your water that just so happens to be impervious to outside attacks as well! That’s also why your nose didn’t break and why Paul Atreides was so disoriented after he struck you with his head. It was as if he rammed his head into a steel wall. Researchers on Youra didn't catch this effect in the clinical trials because we don’t just go stabbing all of our test subjects with knives or subjecting them to blunt force trauma, especially not for a study about water retention!”
Feyd hardly believes what he’s hearing, but he knows it's true. Everything you’re saying makes perfect sense. Memories from the battle flash in his mind. He remembers his arm is suddenly bending toward himself, feeling the rough surface of the broken blade scrape against his abdomen, but the pain he had been trained to resist since childhood never hitting his senses. He brings himself to his feet and pulls you into his arms, squeezing you as tight as he can muster. “You are phenomenal, my dear, I can’t believe you figured that out,” he murmurs to you. “Thank you. I owe you my life.”
He lowers his lips to yours, kissing you like he’s never done before. You both cling to one another, relieved you are both alive and safe. Feyd holds the back of your head and runs his fingers through your locks tenderly, thinking about how far you both have come in this short amount of time. Mere months ago, you were a stranger he had the obligation to meet and marry. He knew he would have to enter a loveless relationship with you in the name of alliances. He tried to convince himself you were a woman he wanted to make a plaything out of. Before, he was intent on manipulating, breaking, and exploiting you for his own amusement. Those ideas feel so foreign to Feyd now as he revels in your affections and caresses your cheek.
Looking down at you, he sees you for what you are. You are the most beautiful being to ever exist. Nothing past or present will ever compare to you, and it brings tears to his eyes, knowing you are his wife and he is your husband. You are the culmination of all House Ronen and House Harkonnen have worked for, a true representation of the union of your two houses, and the pinnacle of all Feyd has come to hold dear. You are where brain meets brawn, where tradition meets modernity, and the pride and joy of Feyd’s life. You are simply everything.
--
Thanks for reading! I can’t believe the series is over (but I'm also considering writing an epilogue, but I have some requests coming down the pipeline, so we'll see about that. lmk if that's something you might be interested in...). Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed Knives Dance! :)
Also is it obvious I study chemistry yet?
Taglist:
@austinbutlerslovers @rougegenshin @itshype@woodland-mist @tian-monique @torchbearerkyle @austinswhitewolf @allthingsimagines @meetmeatyourworst @nyaaaaa008 @caroline334 @alana4610 @targaryen-madness
Tags that aren't working for some reason??? @roguegenshin @miaraises
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hi lovely :) i have a request for you!!
i’m thinking spencer reid x reader (and platonic!bau team if you don’t mind!!) where reader is having a bit of a rough time with mental health, but is 1 year clean and they have a lil celebration? thank you!!
-🍓 (this is my application for being an emoji anon lmao)
hi, thank you! ♡ fem 1k
cw implied drug use
You're expecting your boyfriend's voice when a hand touches your shoulder, but it's actually Hotch that speaks. "Good morning. Are you feeling alright?"
You meet his furrowed brow with a softer expression. "Morning, Hotch. I'm good, I'm," —you stretch your arms out in front of you in a lie— "just really tired."
"Take it easy today, okay?" You nod quickly. "Okay. And Y/N? Well done."
You enjoy the shoulder squeeze he gives you and hide your abject puzzlement as he heads up the steps to his office, briefcase in hand. It's always nice to be doted on, but what's today?
"Hello," a new voice says, a hand again on your shoulder, ducking down to kiss you behind the ear. Here's your expected boyfriend, Spencer's voice low and spectacularly sweet, "Good morning. You're here early, I haven't even made you coffee."
"That's okay, I can make it."
His arms cross over your chest. He touches you so confidently, his lack of hesitance a great encouragement; it's hard to find room to feel insecure about things when Spencer seems to see no faults in you. Hard, but not impossible.
As though he can sense your rough morning (rough week, rough month), he holds you that second longer than usual, lips like angora silk where they touch to your cheek. "I'll make it, thanks. It's the least you deserve today."
"Right," you say. He strokes your shoulder with his thumb in farewell, leaving you wondering. Today isn't your birthday, you'd probably know if it were.
"Hey, good morning!" Emily says as she arrives, thrusting her bag and her travel mug onto her desk before she descends on you.
It's her hug that breaks the camel's back, so to speak. You give her hands an absent minded hold but pull back in her embrace. "Emily," you say, frowning at her, "what's so special about today?"
She blinks like she's worried to tell you, but she gets it together and hugs you again. "You're one year clean today. Everybody's so proud of you," she says quietly.
You almost bite the tip of your tongue off. "How do you know that?" you ask. The thing about staying clean is that it haunts you until it doesn't. Some people can't ever beat it, and some people can. It's been a huge struggle for you, but eventually relapsing stopped feeling like an option, especially while you've been with Spencer. You can't do anything to jeopardise your safety while you're with him, you just can't. (That doesn't mean you haven't desperately wanted to.)
"Well, I knew it would've been around now, but Spencer sent us a memo. Nothing too detailed, you know, but we all…" She smiles at you wryly. "We care about you so much, and we didn't get it right with Spencer."
No, they didn't. Spencer didn't get half the support he deserved, so he's making sure you do.
There's something of a mental block in you that doesn't allow you to cry, but this shakes you roughly. Emily gives you a sorry smile and a last quick hug, apologising that she has to go and speak to Hotch before the work day officially begins. You lean back in your chair and click dazedly on an email from Penelope detailing how deeply loved you are and wondering if you'd like to go shopping. I know today might be really hard, so if you need me you know where I am. Love Pen.
"You okay?" Spencer asks, placing your coffee in front of you on the desk.
"Come and sit with me for a bit."
You don't sound like you're asking, but you are. Spencer hears the need in your demand and immediately grabs his chair to sit next to you. You're surprised he didn't squat.
You turn your face, lay your cheek on the short back of the chair uncomfortably, and take him in. He looks great these days, the memory of a young man firmly buried beneath a well-fitting suit, a cropping of facial hair, and the subtle, lean lines of muscle especially evident as he sits back to copy you, curls falling into his eyes. "You told everyone about my anniversary."
"Your accomplishment," he corrects quietly. "I did."
"I do want them to know, just… I feel a bit raw." You hardly remembered yourself, though you knew it was soon.
Spencer takes your hand, pulling the joined pair between his knees. "It's something to be extremely proud of. And there's nothing wrong with celebrating it."
"It's embarrassing–"
"It isn't." He sits up as someone comes closer and you follow suit. This is a complicated conversation and your simple intimacies are necessary but inappropriate in the workplace. "I'm sure there are a ton of people who find sobriety embarrassing, but those are all people who don't know what it feels like to have to do it. We," —his voice softens— "do. I know exactly how it feels, and I know exactly how you've been feeling lately, so I'm proud of you and everyone else should be too."
"How I've been feeling lately?" you ask.
"Come on." Spencer stands and takes your face into his hands. One is warmer than the other, and he uses it to stroke the baby hair's at your ear very gently. "You do a really good job at hiding how you feel, but you can't hide from me."
"I'm not trying to."
"Good," he says, leaning down to kiss you. A soft, brisk connection. "I love you."
"Not as much as I do, loverboy!" Morgan says as he arrives, giving Spencer a little nudge as he needles his arms behind your back and kisses your cheek.
"You're squeezing me."
"Have I told you lately how much I love you?" Morgan asks, squeezing your harder.
"Morgan, she knows you know."
"Know what?"
"You didn't see the memo?" Spencer asks.
"What memo?" Morgan grins at you with pearly white teeth and scrubs at your shoulders until you're squirming at the pressure. It's nice. "Looking good, gorgeous."
#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid scenario#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid fic#spencer reid fanfiction#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds#criminal minds fic#criminal minds x reader
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The Frenzied Flame and the appeal of abject nihilism
Elden Ring's endings have been talked to death at this point, what's good, bad, mistranslated, so on and so forth. In this discussion, it is very clear that the Frenzied Flame ending is the bad one. The big "fuck everyone else" ending. You burn down everything, melt it, until nothing remains. What makes it notable in comparison to the other endings, however, is the buildup to it.
The moment you gain the option of taking this route, it is very clear what the end result is. Hyetta tells you to melt all that divides and Melina begs the player to consider the good still in the world. The game makes no effort to hide what will happen next.
This might appeal to someone who has come to believe the Greater Will is the real evil and source of all suffering, or some edgelord who wants to make everything miserable, but both of those have better ending options to pursue for their beliefs (Ranni and Dung Eater respectively). The Flame appeals to a different group than either of those though.
The Frenzied Flame instead is presented as both the end of all pain, grief, and woe, but also it represents the option of revenge. You find the Three Fingers at the bottom of a mass grave, full of the victims of a genocide.
In that moment, looking upon the merchant's corpses, it is difficult to imagine anything other than anger and pain. Even if you topple the Golden Order in a different ending, the perpetrators of the atrocity go unpunished. With the flame though, you can exact this vengeance upon the Order. The rest of the world is collateral, but don't they deserve to be punished? Is it really alright to let the world keep going if this is what happens, over and over again?
In reality, odds are the people involved with the genocide of the Merchant Caravans are long gone. They are either dead or functionally so, making any vengeance taken even emptier than it would be otherwise. The Golden Order is corrupt and needs to be dismantled, but to do so at the cost of everyone and everything's life is an insane option. But the Frenzied Flame isn't meant to be rooted in logic, it is instead rooted in gut emotion. That crying sense of injustice, of hatred finally boiling over.
Perhaps that is what makes it the most selfish ending. That embrace of the nihilistic ideal of life being the root of all suffering, life itself being a mistake, and choosing to rectify that is the most self serving possible option. We know this, but it doesn't feel that way in the moment. By making you stand in that mass grave, listening to a half dead man continue playing his song of sorrow, it makes us want to take the flame and burn all that divides and distinguishes.
That is what makes the Frenzied Flame ending so good in all honesty. It is wrong in every way, the worst possible one, but it is oh so very tempting, even if only for a moment. In the end though, Melina is right. Even though the world is really messed up and nothing is working right, life still persists. That is beautiful in and of itself, is it not?
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Destiel Trope Collection 2024 | Day 4: Hurt/Comfort
,,Hello, Dean." | @tami-ryver
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 1,162
Main Tags/Warnings: Castiel teaches Dean Enochian, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean Winchester Has Self-Esteem Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Castiel Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Pining Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Castiel Loves Dean Winchester
Summary: Cas teaches Dean Enochian and they both might get something more out of it.
Falling Inside The Black | @tami-ryver
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1,715
Main Tags/Warnings: Demon Dean Winchester, Season/Series 10, Alternate Season/Series 10, Pining Dean Winchester, Pining Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel/Dean Winchester Mutual Pining, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Cocky Dean Winchester, Castiel is So Done with Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Angel Castiel (Supernatural), 5+1 Things, Pining, Mutual Pining, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort
Summary: 5 times Dean hates being a demon and 1 time he takes advantage of it.
Warm Embrace | @tami-ryver
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 2,957
Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Kidnapped Dean Winchester, British Men of Letters (Supernatural) Being Assholes, Hunter Dean Winchester, Creature Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel Takes Care of Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Castiel is Protective of Dean Winchester, Escape, Coils, Hugs, First Kiss, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Angst, Scared Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gorgon Castiel, Medusa Castiel,
Summary: Dean freezes. He is unarmed, Cas doesn't know how to use the gun and their only escape route is the door to Cas' right. Dean doesn't know what to do, he is paralysed with fear. He is going to die here.
Non Solum | @thisisapaige
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 16,061
Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Witch Castiel, Hunter Dean Winchester, Strangers to Lovers, Angst with a Happy Ending
Summary: Castiel lives a quiet life, a solitary life, a lonely life. He cannot risk anyone finding out he is a witch, lest any hunters seek out his isolated cabin in the frozen Northern Wastes. Interacting only with those who require his healing services, Castiel constructs an existence that ensures he will be alone.
Alone, that is, until a bloodied, dying man crawls up to his front door and threatens to tear down everything Castiel has built.
The River | @davidfosterwallaceandgromit
Rating: Teen & Up
Word Count: 16,763
Main Tags/Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, Episode: s15e09 The Trap, Purgatory, Alternate Season/Series 15, Character Study, Angst, Season/Series 15, Divorce Arc
Summary: Cas has seen Dean in every state from abject misery to desperate determination, but his essential nature has never changed. This, this fight against Chuck, it’s different. Ever since the cemetery, Dean is acting differently.
Rewrite of 15x09 "The Trap," dealing more directly with Dean's control issues and Jack's death.
Love Me Anyway | @verobatto
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 22,027
Main Tags/Warnings: Modern setting, CEO!Dean, secretary!Castiel, bodyguard!Castiel, friends to lovers, trauma, panic attack, coming out, character development, pining, falling in love, bi!Castiel, emotional hurt/comfort, PTSD, kidnapping.
Summary: For five years Castiel Novak was CEO Dean Winchester's perfect bodyguard and assistant. Novak, the only man the powerful leader trusts. But one day, Castiel Novak quits his job all of the sudden because he wants to marry his girlfriend and have a normal life, leaving Dean speechless. Dean realizes he knows nothing about the best employee he had. As his world turns unexpectedly upside down, the famous CEO decides become Novak's friend to keep him close again. But try to become a "good selfless friend" is something new for Dean... and even more when he discovers through that path he may have feelings for Castiel.
Monster Crush | @thefandomsinhalor
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 22,441
Main Tags/Warnings: Canon Divergent, Episode: S07E01, Creature Castiel, Angel Castiel, Summer, Vacation Spot, Fluff and Angst, Sleepy Cuddles, Protective Castiel, Hurt Dean
Summary: With Godstiel’s reign finally over and all the souls back in purgatory, Dean is aggravated (but not surprised) to learn that yet another problem has surfaced: Castiel, after recovering from the ritual, appears to be growing monster parts. As in, one second he has vampire fangs, and the next he has tattooed djinn arms. And then there are the tentacles. Castiel believes it will wear off. Dean has trust issues. Still hurt by his betrayal, Dean nonetheless decides that he and his mega-monster-shifter angel should lay-low somewhere isolated until they know more. Which makes it very complicated for Dean to keep giving him the cold shoulder.
Graceland | @deliciousblizzardshark
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 24,554
Main Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Human Castiel (Supernatural),Trans Castiel (Supernatural),Trans Male Character, Road Trips, Getting Together, canon-typical child abuse, Religious Cults, mentions of transphobia, Found Family, Sam Winchester is Dead, Suicidal Thoughts
Summary: Sammy died on a Wednesday morning, only a few miles away from where Dean was sleeping off a hangover, sprawled across his bed in a pair of worn boxers as if the world couldn’t hold any more trouble for him. --
Sammy's dead and Dean, who'd devoted his whole life to taking care of his younger brother doesn't know what else to do but to pack up the Impala and take to the road.
It's only when he picks up Castiel, an escapee from a religious cult with ghosts of his own, that he begins to learn how to escape his grief and to believe there might be a place where he belongs.
His Angelic Wings Aren't | @Abletownshipnumber5
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 36,249
Main Tags/Warnings: Angel wings, post-season/post finale, Castiel's angelic grace, hurt/comfort, time travel, slow burn, canon-typical violence, kidnapped Dean Winchester, Traumatized Dean Winchester, Swearing, homophobic language, mildly dubious consent
Summary: After Dean arrives in Heaven, he discovers Cas has been freed from the Empty by Jack. Jack transforms Dean into an angel so he can serve in Cas' newly formed garrison. However, their reunion did not go as Dean had hoped. Also, Jack brought back angels previously sent to the Empty by Team Free Will and some aren't happy with Dean.
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nothing natural | ken x fem!reader | part 2 | 18+ only
warnings: none for this chapter except reader doesn't believe that ken isn't human and asks to touch his feet to prove it. its not going to be a thing, i promise lol. enjoy !! also i really hope my characterization of ken is good so far!!
So this is how you found yourself packing up your things, throwing a cursory farewell glance to Pat, who’d long abandoned watching your tense exchange in favor of flipping through an Avon brochure, and heading down the marble staircase with Ken glued to your side, chattering away at lightspeed the entire time.
“This is excellent. (Y/N), I just knew you’d be as kind as I thought you were. And now I never have to see the bridge guy again. You don’t have a change of clothes, do you? I mean… I assume you have plenty of dresses, jumpsuits, blazers, things like that, but I could really use something that accentuates my chest a little better. Unless you like it covered up. Do you like it covered up?”
“Aren’t you sweating your ass off in those clothes? And who is the bridge guy?” You give a slight tug at the hem of his jacket, pushing open the glass double doors for the both of you and nearly gasping at the hot wall of humid air washing past, embracing your skin in a rush.
Ken turns, locks his confused eyes with your inquisitive ones. As your hand flies away from him, Ken follows your fingers, like he’s upset that you didn’t actually touch him. “What do you mean? I feel fantastic in these. It’s my white denim. But if you… do you like them?”
“I… well, I don’t know what your chest looks like, but I’m sure it looks… great.” Your cheeks flushed as you stole an unbidden glimpse in his general direction, shouldering you as if he was convinced he’d disappear if he wasn’t essentially tethered to you.
“You really think so? Then I’ll keep it on. I bet I can wear this for a whole week and not even get a single wrinkle. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.”
Without asking, you chance a risky move, placing your fore and middle finger to the back of Ken’s neck where his hair dips down. The sunlight doesn’t seem to bother him, the punishing heat isn’t making him groan with exhaustion, and to your abject horror – there’s not a bead of sweat on him: Ken’s sun-kissed skin is frigid to the touch. Rigid, he felt wax-like, resembling the mold of a man.
In the middle of the looping sidewalk that wraps around to the block you live on, Ken freezes with a gasp, reflexively shoots his hand up to clasp around your wrist where you’re feeling him. For a moment, neither of you speak, you just allow yourself to stare into his eyes which are very much undeniably alive, bright blue with inexplicable life and bounding to chase yours, melting into your grip.
“Why aren’t you hot out here.” It doesn’t come out as a question. Ken begins to sense your hesitation, doesn’t drop his firm fingers from your hand. “It’s the middle of summer, Ken.”
You hear a passerby shove past you, can feel their leashed dog traipse by your knees, you can hear a car horn honking at traffic, but all of it feels muted, feels futile, the volume turning down on every possible source of stimulation save for Ken’s eyes, Ken’s icy cold neck.
He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t back down from the question. “I told you. I’m not…” Ken looks upwards to the clouds, quirks an eyebrow as if drafting his response with immense care. As if he had been up there before. Like he’d never thought this hard about anything. “I’m not from here. You’re a human.”
“And you’re supposed to be – what?”
“I don’t really know how to explain it. No one’s ever… I guess no one’s ever cared to ask me about it.” With his eyes still trained on yours, you press your fingers a little harder against a cord of muscle where a visible vein pokes out, feebly exploring for a pulse point, just to find that Ken had no heartbeat, either.
This pressure between you both seemed to pull a reaction from Ken, who at once slammed his eyes shut and sucked in a harsh breath, inching his head back and baring more of his not-skin to you. You felt that if Ken could have a pulse, it would be racing right about now.
“Are you. Are you dead?”
You feel ridiculous. You feel faint. Your body wants to look every which way, maybe waiting for a prank show host to reveal themselves with a raucous cast and crew, pointing and laughing at the fool who fell for the “living wax figure” bit, and you’d smile for the camera and go home and forget this ever happened. (Mind destined to wonder how the hell they made their dummy so believable, so lifelike, so… alive.)
But no one came, and no one laughed, and glassy eyed Ken kept staring at you, scrambling for an answer to your loaded question.
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t sleep?”
“Nope.”
“Do you eat?”
“Never tried. But there’s a bunch of food in Barbieland. It’s more for decoration, if that makes sense. Sorta like clothes. An apple here is very different from an apple there. Trust me.”
Sudden shakiness claiming your knees, you knew you’d have to find a place to sit soon or you were liable to fall over in the middle of the sidewalk, which would pose a massive problem for you and your new cargo (friend?) who claimed to neither sleep nor eat, let alone seemed capable of getting you medical help.
These newest revelations which you’d felt for yourself seemed to quickly overshadow the old worries which had plagued you – the stalking, the casing out your apartment, those were all old news now.
Ken was one step ahead of you, noticed the pallor painting across your face, and without another word took your bag from your shoulder, slipping a shockingly strong arm around your waist effortlessly. “Come here. You look… really scared.” He jolted his head to find an unoccupied stretch of grass, then walked you both over to it, hand never leaving your back.
Once you felt yourself on the ground, you were able to take a deep breath. Ken sat cross legged in front of you, your bag still strewn across his body, his face entirely drawn with intense concern.
“(Y/N)?” The consideration in his tone was so palpable, you couldn’t help but to trust him, let him continue to keep his hand on you, just to make sure you were still with him. Black splotches had entered your vision but dissipated once you got your bearings, due in part to the reassuring feeling of Ken’s thumb pressed against the ball of your kneecap.
“I’m sorry, I. I don’t know what just happened. I didn’t mean to freak you out, Ken.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Do you feel any better?”
In the middle of the day, broad daylight assailing your back, your cheeks, your arms, and still on the clock, you lifted your head up to address Ken.
Ken, who had been there to help you, who had fixed you with such tenderness in his eyes and didn’t know the first thing about you. Ken, who glimmered in the sun, who waited five hours at the library by himself just for a chance at seeing you. Who had been bursting at the seams to show you a book about… horses.
“Did you really follow me home?”
Ken nodded, smile tugging at his lips. “I should have said hi. Would you have said hi back?” The way he balanced back on his tailbone revealed even more of his abdomen, his glistening muscles that managed to appear slick though they were devoid of actual sweat. Ken really did look to be covered in… well, lacquer, or some kind of perfect finish that made him perpetually shine.
“I think I would have said hi, yes. For sure. Why do you keep talking about – um. Barbie? And please be honest with me.”
Ken didn’t miss a beat, looked down to where his thumb was still resting on your leg. “Don’t freak out again. You don’t have to worry about her, by the way – we are not a thing anymore.” He pointed tersely with his free hand.
“That’s not what I was wondering… about.”
“I’d rather you hear it from me first, (Y/N). I’m from Barbieland. That’s what I was trying to explain before. You know Barbie and Ken? That’s me. I am Ken.” A laugh would be appropriate, but you didn’t feel like giving one. Not considering the dead serious look Ken wore as he talked, measured and severe.
“Okay. So… okay. What does that mean? You live… like a Ken doll? Like extreme cosplay? Plastic surgery to look like him and stuff like that?”
“I don’t know what roleplay is. I am literally Ken.” He blinks at you, waiting for the cogs to turn, waiting for it to click for you.
“A mega Ken fan.” You might be in denial still.
Growing frustrated, Ken snatches your hand back to his lower neck, brusquely forcing your clammy fingers into the dip right above his clavicle, the base of his throat to prove his point.
“See? I don’t feel like you. Feel yours, and then feel mine. I’m not lying. Why would I lie about who I am?” With your other hand that Ken hadn’t captured, you did as he said and mirrored the motion, felt your arduous pulse, blood coursing through your veins, and felt speechless again at the sensation of nothingness coming from the guy who looked more male than any man you’d actually seen.
“I don’t know what to say. You’ve never been to a doctor?”
“Oh, Barbie is a doctor. But I haven’t needed to see her for anything in a while. She used to call me accident prone. Or attention seeking. I can’t remember which one.”
“Right. Have you ever been sick?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Of course not.
“Broken a bone?”
“Don’t think I have those,” Ken pressed on, returning your nervous hand to your lap. He then stretched his leather-covered legs out across the gross, positioning them to the side of your knees, and started playing with the strap of your bag. “This is pretty heavy. No one carries this around for you?”
“Is it okay if I touch your leg?”
“You can absolutely touch it. But, do you think I can do that for you from now on? Carry the bag?” Ken pleaded at you with his eyes, so open and honest and innocent like a newborn fawn, and you found it impossible to tell him no. Talking with him was almost like conversing with a child, and that made your skin crawl when coupled with the knowledge that you found him overwhelmingly attractive, impossibly beautiful, even.
Jesus, the heat must be getting to you after all.
“Sure, you can carry my bag, Ken.”
“Yes,” Ken celebrated privately, too initially excited to notice that you’d started prodding at his shin in little tentative bursts. At first, you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, it just felt like… a leg. So you eyeballed his ankles, his feet where the cowboy boots sat against the grass, and Ken seemed to know what you were about to ask. “Do you wanna see my feet? Will you believe me then?”
“I know how crazy this might sound. But I think I kind of do need to see them. Is that okay?” You fought to suppress your embarrassed grin, but this only made Ken laugh.
And what a beautiful laugh he had. Boyish, charming, airy like an angel; something you wanted to keep hearing again and again until this self proclaimed “Ken” had run out of things to find funny.
Had you always been this easy?
Or was it just easy with him?
Ken bent forward immediately, removing his spotless white boots, to reveal bare, spotless feet, angled perfectly and without any sort of distinct smell. No calluses, no odd toenail, no hair. They enticed you to get closer, to touch them, but you realized how bizarre this looked and how odd Ken must feel.
“I’m sorry, god, this is probably the weirdest day you’ve ever had, and I’m not making it any –” But as you looked up to give him this apology, Ken wore not an uncomfortable expression, but one instead of… unnamable, sober emotion. Like he was likely to break down in tears of relief the longer you regarded him with such curiosity.
“You don’t think I’m weird?” Ken asked, voice barely above a whisper. This response wasn’t what you expected, and you bit your lip, learning fast that Ken was as sensitive as he was bold. “When Barbie was here, people were awful to her at first, they were calling her horrible things and I don’t think I could…”
“I think that I have never met anyone like you. I think that… it’s insane that your feet are… I mean, can I touch them?”
This brings a hopeful spark to his face again, and he nods eagerly at your request, hungry to hear what you have to say. As if his future hangs on your opinion of him. As if he would die without your attention, good attention, bad attention, any of it. As if the prospect of being touched would save him from damnation, eternally.
All this to hold a stranger’s foot (a stranger with no heartbeat, a stranger with hypnotic blue eyes that could look so inviting looking down at you, would look even better blown open in surprise after a kiss, or – wait, why are you thinking about this?) on the grassy courtyard by a Catholic church while you’re still ignoring your work and still getting paid for every minute.
You knew there’d be more than a handful of angry emails waiting for you when you finally returned home.
But that could wait. It could all wait, because you scooted forward to cradle Ken’s bare foot in your lap, and you inspected with all the great care of a scientist inventing pharmaceuticals or something equally as important to mankind. He was right. It wasn’t like yours, his skin, his body wasn’t like anything you’d seen before. So… smooth. No hair except for Ken’s head of blonde, his arched brows. What kind of human being could live this long and not have a pimple on their face, no bumps or ridges on their feet, no scars anywhere whatsoever? You dragged your fingertips across the rounded arch, but again, nothing.
“You’re not even ticklish?”
“I’m not sure what that feels like.”
“Is Barbie ticklish?”
“I never tried tickling her.”
“You can feel me doing this, right?” Ken nodded, watched you caress him lightly, then with effort, as you squeezed tentatively. “So you can feel pressure.”
“Yeah, I can feel everything you’re doing.”
“But there’s no, like. It’s not tickling you, it’s not hurting you, it’s not. Sorry if this sounds weird, I promise I’m just trying to get information. Does it feel… good?” Something in you was begging you to just let go, stop worrying that this was probably the strangest day you’ve ever had, like you had anything else nearly as interesting going on besides quiche recipes in library magazines and buying lettuce for your guinea pig.
Ken raises his light brown eyebrows, like he hadn’t considered this, face still content as he processed your handiwork, rotating in circles now and occasionally swiping up to his smooth ankle. The cuffs of his leather pants had rolled up and afforded you a bit of access to more skin, if you could call it that.
“You’re the first person to touch my feet before. I don’t know… give me a second.”
“Should I stop?” Suddenly, you began to worry this might be putting Ken off. After all, you literally didn’t know him, and you’d asked him to show him your feet. Christ, you hoped he wasn’t taking you for a lunatic. You knew this was probably stupid. It was arguably unsafe – this guy had admitted to following you home.
However, with context, you were beginning to understand this might be the only course of action that fit Ken.
“No – don’t stop. Please, keep going.” The tone he’d just used was vastly different from the others – it wasn’t quizzical, wasn’t reassuring or conversational. He sounded… pleased, voice almost cracking at the end as you pushed a little harder at where his ankle bone would be and felt none of the give a human would have, none of the pores or follicles of hair. You’d started to really start massaging him now, gently rolling your fingers across his lower shin and then moving back down to his feet, compressing him.
How could this be real? It didn’t make any sense. You had half an idea to ask if you could try this on his neck, but when you looked up to gauge his physical state, Ken’s eyes hadn’t opened, but his mouth had fallen open in satisfaction, brows relaxed and easy. At first, he seemed peaceful, but when you stilled your breathing, you could hear him almost purring under your touch, like he’d never felt this before and wanted more – wanted something more acute. Something heightened. His chest rose and fell, mouth twitching as you worked, but you knew this was a peculiar way of getting to know someone, and you knew that Ken would probably never tell you to stop.
You gingerly laid Ken’s foot back in the grass next to his boot, and he snapped his eyes open, staring at you with a protest at the unexpected loss of contact.
“Why’d you stop?”
“I don’t know. This is weird. Am I making you feel weird?”
“(Y/N) – you’re making me feel incredible is what you’re doing. What’s that called, anyway?”
“A foot massage, I suppose. And it’s not something you typically do the first day you meet someone.”
Ken turned this over in his mind, evidently not picking up on the undercurrent of… something heavier than enjoyment he’d been displaying so openly, and put his boot back on.
“You don’t even need socks, huh?”
“Guess not. Can we do that again sometime? Maybe you can teach me how to do it for you? (Y/N), I promise I can learn really fast.” His mind racing a mile a minute, you had the good sense to rise above in this situation, regardless of how electric it felt to touch him – even if it was a little unorthodox.
You rose to stand once Ken had adjusted his (perfect) foot, and Ken held onto your bag like it was his job, clutching the strap with unnecessary force.
“Maybe, Ken. Listen, I really need to get back to my apartment and keep working, my boss is probably furious with me. And. I also am sorry if that was weird, asking to see your feet and then… doing that. I promise I’m not a creep or anything.” Very convincing – great work, he’s sure to buy that.
“Don’t say that. Seriously, (Y/N), I do not want to hear you say that again. You’re not a creep – you’re amazing, you’re so smart – no one’s ever even been interested in seeing me like that, no one’s ever questioned that I’m a doll, so I –”
“Is that what it is?” You asked, feeling like the clouds may have parted and the word dancing on your lips the entire time finally made itself known to you. “You’re a doll?” Ken bounded to his feet in a fluid motion, something that would’ve been difficult for any normal man to do.
He made it look easy – made everything look easy.
Ken chuckled, couldn’t help but wear that irresistible grin as he waited for you to start leading the way, assuming that wherever you went, he would naturally follow. “You are so funny. I told you, didn’t I? I am Ken! That’s me.”
“That’s you.”
“That’s me, baby.”
It rolled off his lips a little too casually. It wrenched your heart to correct him – with Ken’s understanding of the world, he probably had no idea that touching someone’s bare feet in the middle of the day did not mean you were romantically involved.
You wondered what he understood of romance. You wondered if he’d ever been touched anywhere else, what was underneath his pants, what would have happened if you hadn’t stopped massaging him, but this started to make your head spin with more ferocity than before.
“This is important, Ken, so please listen.”
“You got it.”
“People you’re just friends with – you can’t call them baby.”
“But we are friends. We are, right?”
“Yes – yes, we are friends. But baby is for when you’re with someone. You know?”
Ken chewed on this, followed you down the sidewalk even further, passing by a string of old houses.
“With someone.”
“Dating them. Seeing them. Committed and whatnot. You have that in… Barbieland too, don’t you?” It felt completely and utterly insane saying that sentence, but you were beginning to realize you’d have to stop caring about how you sounded when you talked to Ken if you wanted to get anywhere with him.
“Sort of. I meant it when I said you don’t have to worry about Barbie, okay? Don’t worry about that, (Y/N). We are just. Friends.”
This wasn’t going where you thought it would. For now, you decided to postpone educating Ken a little further on the boundaries you’d have to set – the ground rules to keep this from turning into something unfair.
Ken smiled at your side, hated to tear away from your shoulder even to let other people pass, and for now it was enough to hear Ken call you ‘baby’ even if just once, and even if he had no idea what it really meant.
#ken#ryan gosling#ken x reader#ken x fem reader#female reader#ken barbie#barbie movie#ryan gosling ken
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Loved reading your deep dive on sexism in atla and your breakdown of sokka and gender roles. was wondering if you have any posts on your thoughts about katara and aang's relationship/growing affections in the show. and what it means for them as individual characters, but also in the grand scheme and overall message of the show. you're so eloquent and introspective, I would really love to hear your thoughts, if you wanted to share.
thanks! i’m not sure whether you want me to analyze their relationship through a specific framework or focus on anything in particular, so i guess i’ll just generalize here.
symbolically and thematically, aang and katara’s relationship is the heart of the show, and therefore it makes perfect sense that it concludes with their embrace. katara and aang are equal protagonists in my opinion; while aang is the titular character, katara is the narrator, and their respective roles are so informed by each other that they could not exist separately. aang is the last airbender, katara is the last waterbender, and they each come together as genocide survivors to give each other the necessary hope to resist and work towards toppling the imperialist regime that has persecuted and subjugated their peoples.
their relationship is incredibly profound, one of faith, trust, deep friendship, and inexorable hope. they embody the show’s principal themes both as individuals and as a duo. “love is brightest in the dark” really summarizes it best. in absolutely abject, miserable, hopeless conditions, they find true friendship and unconditional love and support in the other, and it allows them to achieve more than anyone around them ever thought possible. but they knew, because they never lost that unwavering faith in each other.
aang was katara’s first true friend, and they are best friends in every sense of the word. katara yells at aang exactly once (in “the waterbending scroll”), and immediately apologizes for it. this is unusual for her, and a testament to her affection for him that so surpasses her feelings for literally anyone else (she never once apologizes for moments wherein she said far harsher things to sokka or toph, for example). aang thinks katara is perfect and beyond reproach, and vice versa. the admiration and love they have for each other is not only very sweet, but also crucial to the show’s entire framework.
and yet…..i don’t really care for their romance. it’s not that i don’t understand its thematic significance (obviously i do), but i think it’s just framed kind of…awkwardly? it doesn’t really land for me. there’s something kind of puerile in the way katara is framed through aang’s gaze that almost trivializes and negates the significance of their friendship to me.
i’m not against their romantic potential point blank, and have said in the past that i think it would make sense for them to date at some point as teenagers, but the way their romance was navigated throughout the show never quite sat right with me. i mean, for one thing, they are babies. but i also just can’t help feeling like their cutesy tween romance undermines the sheer depth of their relationship. while their relationship as a whole is quite literally painted on a cosmic scale, their awkward moments of “aaah i have a crush on my best friend!!!” kind of jar with that. and it doesn’t have to per se; i like that they’re portrayed as goofy kids who also carry the world on their shoulders. but it just kind of does.
i think that writing romance is one of atla’s major weak points, and i really only find sokka’s relationships to land successfully as pure romance in itself. but one of the major strong points of the show’s writing is also how it depicts friendships and familial relationships, and in that domain, aang and katara are centrally, thematically crucial and profound and beautiful. so yes, it makes perfect sense that the show concludes with them embracing against a sunset, finally allowed to rest. but i cannot help but wonder whether it should have ended solely with the hug, and allowed the kiss to remain implied.
#jasmineneedsramen#asks#aang#katara#aang&katara#analysis#hot takes#also just bc their romance doesn’t work for me doesn’t necessarily mean i think it straight up sucks#ymmv and that’s fine
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i want to thank you for your post from a few months ago about abandoning the idea that health is good. it's helped me process and unpack just how much the health framework has damaged me (and everyone; you could get multiple phds exploring how the concept of health categorizes and controls bodies!). and those ideas have extended beyond my personal life to my academic and professional writing and my interactions with loved ones - they've reached and impacted a lot of people.
i was a disabled child in a family of career athletes; the health paradigm was deeply engrained at an early age. now that i'm finally shaking those teachings, i've gotten a lot out of reanalyzing ideas i've always framed through a health lens. if it doesn't matter if i "eat healthily," since that's a meaningless concept, then how and why do i choose what i eat? why do i want to stretch regularly, if not because it's healthy and my doctors said it will improve my disability? how does my relationship with substance use change when health is taken out of the equation?
in these questions, i often find there's deeper and more satisfying reasons for my feelings and actions. this process reminds me of my experience with transness, in a way. reconsidering the concepts and assumptions underpinning a framework, deciding the whole framework is useless to you, and exploring what lies beyond it. thank you for opening such a freeing and fascinating door :-)
oh, woah, this absolutely made me cry, i truly can’t express how meaningful this is for me. (as you might know from following my blog lol) i’m homebound & only see two people in person unless i’m at the doctor, so this feeling of connection to other folks in my community is so deeply valuable, i really can’t thank you enough 💓💓
i definitely relate to the sense of rejecting health leading to a changed perspective on, like, everything in my life + prompting more intentional ways of engaging with my choices, routines, etc. following that theme of community, lineage, & ideas that ripple out, i’d love to take the time to mention just a few of the scholars, ancestors, comrades, & friends who have been life-changing for me in this area!
while there is a lot of transformative & vital work within disability studies, there’s still a lot of structural barriers against sick people’s contributions to formal theory + a lot of direct & indirect reinforcement of health as a good thing in the field. so i’ve found in many cases more resonant work in trans studies, mad studies, & postcolonial studies, by people affirming the pathology of their own identities & positions. just a few favorites of mine from within, across, & outside of these fields, in no particular order:
Sandoval-Sánchez, A. 2005. Politicizing abjection: in the manner of a prologue for the articulation of AIDS Latino queer identities. American Literary History. 17(3), pp.542-549.
Fritsch, K. 2013. On the negative possibility of suffering: Adorno, feminist philosophy, and the transfigured crip to come. Disability Studies Quarterly. 33(4).
Barounis, C. 2013. “Why so serious?” Cripping camp performance in Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight. Journal of Literary and Cultural Disability Studies. 7(3), pp.305-320.
Abrams, T. and Adkins, B. 2020. Tragic affirmation: disability beyond optimism and pessimism. Journal of Medical Humanities.
Stryker, S. 1994. My words to Victor Frankenstein above the village of Chamounix: performing transgender rage. GLQ: A Journal of Gay and Lesbian Studies. 1(3), pp.237-254.
Sexton, J. 2011. The social life of social death: on Afro-pessimism and black optimism. InTensions Journal. (5).
these were all immensely profound to me, but this last work, following Fanon, was such a complete & total frame shift for me that i feel the need to include some of it here (emphasis added):
This is precisely what Gordon argues is the value and insight of Fanon: he fully accepts the definition of himself as pathological as it is imposed by a world that knows itself through that imposition, rather than remaining in a reactive stance that insists on the (temporal, moral, etc.) heterogeneity between a self and an imago originating in culture. Though it may appear counterintuitive, or rather because it is counterintuitive, this acceptance or affirmation is active; it is a willing or willingness, in other words, to pay whatever social costs accrue to being black, to inhabiting blackness, to living a black social life under the shadow of social death.
This is not an accommodation to the dictates of the antiblack world. The affirmation of blackness, which is to say an affirmation of pathological being, is a refusal to distance oneself from blackness in a valorization of minor differences that bring one closer to health, to life, or to sociality.
[…] In a world structured by the twin axioms of white superiority and black inferiority, of white existence and black nonexistence, a world structured by a negative categorical imperative— “above all, don’t be black” (Gordon 1997: 63)—in this world, the zero degree of transformation is the turn toward blackness, a turn toward the shame, as it were, that “resides in the idea that ‘I am thought of as less than human’” (Nyong’o 2002: 389). In this we might create a transvaluation of pathology itself, something like an embrace of pathology without pathos.
To speak of black social life and black social death, black social life against black social death, black social life as black social death, black social life in black social death—all of this is to find oneself in the midst of an argument that is also a profound agreement, an agreement that takes shape in (between) meconnaissance and (dis)belief. Black optimism is not the negation of the negation that is afro-pessimism, just as black social life does not negate black social death by inhabiting it and vitalizing it. A living death is as much a death as it is a living.
if you want a pdf of any of these & are unable to find one feel free to hmu (although they will likely come with my annotations lol). this was a major topic of my master’s thesis for my disability studies degree (which was actually about disabled trans people, so i love that you connected this process of rejecting normality to transness in your own experience – i relate to that a lot) & i’m also happy to share that research with anyone who’s interested :)
i also have relevant thoughts & reblogs in my “stay sick” tag here (which i’ll add to this post) & my “embracing abjection” tag here + more broadly on my main.
& just a few of the many folks whose work + lives have shaped mine: @kelpforestdwellers @heavyweightheart @librarycards @crutchbutch @gatheringbones
i would also (always) absolutely love to hear more about your thoughts + writing if you would like to share! thank you again for taking the time to share this with me, i appreciate it more than i can say 💓💓
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like i think my problem was. image-based self-acceptance doesn’t do shit for what i’m fearing, which is not unattractiveness to current/potential partners but the heightened medical abuse / neglect / blocked access i’m going to experience as a result of oppression for my continued changes in size. not that i don’t experience insecurity & fear fatphobic rejection but like, nothin else is ever gonna touch my terror of doctors, of course it takes a reframing of me terrorizing the medical system to bring me any comfort + power
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rather than gojo being the other side of the coin to toji, i think geto is the perfect opposite to toji, a one to one inversion. where geto is a sorcerer born from a non-sorcerer family, toji is a non-sorcerer born from a (big three) sorcerer family. while geto is relatively new to the inner-workings of jujutsu society (being young and enrolling in high school), toji was conceived in the caverns of its maw. while pre-defection geto was embraced with open arms and praised as half of the "strongest duo," toji was practically "a failure" since birth. which is why their battle in the HI arc is poetic, in a sense that two polar opposites are made to collide. in the end, while geto was sorely out-powered, they were both abject products of the society that bred them, casted out as "broken goods," not quite either or. and in the end, they both haunt the narrative every step of the way as painful reminders of the fault in the system.
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[ID: Sketch page of Jon and Martin from TMA, set in a Victorian-era alternate universe. Jon is a tall, thin, British Indian man with short, curly hair and a moustache, and Martin is a short, fat, white man with unruly, wavy hair. The sketches are shaded with hatching to resemble engravings. The first sketch shows Jon in a frock-coat, clinging to Martin, who looks damp and dishevelled with tears in his eyes. The second sketch shows both in shirtsleeves, facing one another. Jon, with a serious expression, lifts Martin’s chin as he gazes up at Jon in abject terror, his face flushed. The third sketch shows them both in Edwardian-era formal wear, looking noticeably older. They are clasping hands and embracing, in the middle of a dance. Jon is smiling gently and Martin is beaming. End ID.]
like guys when i tell u this au has overtaken my life.
#the magnus archives#tma au#tma#jon sims#martin blackwood#jmart#jonmartin#factual particulars tag#my#saint draws#update: i am actually planning on posting chapters Before jmart week because i have no patience#and also i'd like to post this whole shit this year if at all possible#but i'd like to finish the draft of the first part before i start doing that bit#BUT im also probably only a few thousand words off doing that so! soonish :~)
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"Les Misérables" musical character interpretations: Éponine
Next in my series of characterization comparisons: every audience's darling, Éponine.
These five interpretations of the character are the main five I've seen in various performances. But they can also be combined with each other to create still other portrayals. For example, in the bootleg video of the US tour performance from 2000, Sutton Foster's Éponine is "the Wolf Child," but her natural charm and humor adds an underlying layer of "the Gamine Next Door." Whereas Joanna Ampil's Éponine in the same year's London video – from what I've seen of it – is also a "Wolf Child," but with the underlying fragility of "the Waif." And when I recently saw the current US tour, I thought Christine Heessun Hwang's Éponine was a cross between "the Gamine Next Door" and "the No-Nonsense Street Kid."
The Gamine Next Door
This is a simple, straightforward portrayal of the musical’s Éponine, who projects an air of easy likability. First and foremost, she’s a spunky, sassy, cheerful street urchin, much like an older female Gavroche. She might occasionally hint at the true sadness of her life (i.e. “Look what’s become of me”), but she always quickly hides it behind a bright, cheeky smile. And as her name implies, her interactions with Marius have an air of a tomboyish “girl next door,” with free and easy playfulness and warmth. She might sometimes add a hint of flirting, but she never crosses the line into bad manners. This isn’t to say that she can’t be gritty when necessary: her “Attack on Rue Plumet” can be very fierce and angry, although she’s more likely than some Éponines to mix relatable fear with her defiance. Nor does her lighthearted veneer mean she’s immune to suffering. When she’s alone, she gives heartbreaking voice to her starry-eyed yearning for Marius and her abject anguish that he doesn’t return her love. Of all possible Éponines, this one is the most idealized compared to the novel’s Éponine, which obviously won’t suit everyone’s taste. But in general, audiences are guaranteed to like her, pity her, and relate to her. Teenage girls, in particular, who are in the throes of their own first unrequited loves, will embrace her as one of their own.
The Waif
This Éponine is the most vulnerable of them all. She’s likely to be small, delicate, and “kittenish” in appearance. She’s more soft-spoken than other Éponines too, although still with a powerful singing voice for “On My Own,” and with a gentler, more girlish demeanor. Of course, she does affect a tough, sassy veneer, boasts about her street smarts, and stands up to her father and Patron-Minette with all the necessary fierceness. But that veneer is more fragile than glass. She constantly seeks Marius’s attention with a look of wistful yearning – even if he fails to see it, we can – and when they interact, her teasing is obviously a cover for the shyness and awkwardness she feels, knowing how out of her league he is. Nor is anger and aggression her first response to danger. In “Attack on Rue Plumet,” expect her to try to reason with the men at first, and to only turn defiant when they won’t listen. Above all else, the audience will remember the tenderness of her longing for Marius and her raw anguish that he’ll never be hers. Where other ‘Ponines express their pain without crying, this one’s rendition of “On My Own” will more likely be drenched in tears. Throughout the show, the audience will want to hold her. shelter her, and comfort her, so in “A Little Fall of Rain,” however sad the circumstances, they’ll be glad that Marius finally does.
The Wolf Child
This feisty tomboy is very much a street urchin, not a street waif, and very much the Thénardiers’ daughter. She’s a grubby yet self-assured, iron-willed survivor, just like her father, and she has more than a little of her mother’s brashness and temper. Among Patron-Minette or with Gavroche, she’s clearly “one of the guys,” and when the time comes to fight off her father and the gang at Rue Plumet, her anger and ferocity are positively feral. Expect Montparnasse to get a good kick or punch if he dares to bring his knife near her throat. Her teasing of Marius is bold, boisterous, and physical: expect to see her pushing and pulling him around in a very unladylike manner. This girl is determined to gain his attention, and apart from brief moments of despair, she clings stubbornly to the hope that he’ll fall in love with her someday. But in “On My Own,” she’s forced to admit that she’s been fooling herself. She faces this sad truth with heartache, as all Éponines do, but with anger too. Anger at Marius for his blindness and failure to appreciate her, at the world for being empty when he’s not with her, and at herself for being vulnerable in this way, when she’s usually strong enough for anything. Of course, her story ends in tenderness, with her final moments of bliss in Marius’s arms. But what the audience will remember most are her toughness and her fiery passion.
The Wild Urchin
This girl comes as close to the novel’s Éponine as the musical allows. Physically she’ll probably be dirtier than other ‘Ponines, with bad posture and skittish movements that recall an abused dog or a stray cat. And more than any other musical ‘Ponine, she gives off an air of mental instability. Yet she combines it with a lively, free-spirited nature, and the result is a wild, whimsical, childlike quality that’s strangely endearing, even as it earns pity. She “frolics about,” swinging her legs as she sits, playing with her skirt, kicking stones in the road, or casually lying down and stretching out on the pavement. With Marius she’s even more forward and unladylike than the Wolf Child, freely invading his personal space, and sometimes trying to flirt in a way that recalls her father with the girls at his inn. This might make even Hugo’s Éponine blush, but it drives home the point that her social skills are lacking. She strives hungrily for Marius’s attention, but between her upbringing and her mental state, she doesn’t know how to begin to win his heart. She’s also more ashamed of how awkward and “odd” she is than she pretends to be, which we see when she’s alone, along with her wistful dreams and the pain of her hopeless love. She’s a “crazy homeless girl” whom in real life, we might try to avoid on the street, but we’re forced to understand her, empathize, and care for her anyway.
The No-Nonsense Street Kid
This ‘Ponine is less fierce than the Wolf Child, but she has a similar toughness, and though she’s quieter than other ‘Ponines, it’s not a gentle quietness like the Waif’s, but a hard quietness. Her usual demeanor is sullen yet stolid, unhappy yet resigned to her lot and ready to “tough out” anything. She stands up to her father and the gang with hard, calm defiance and mocking disdain, and though she can be sassy and playful like all Éponines, her humor is drier and more subdued than most. Her only genuine smiles are reserved for Marius. Yet she might be a mild tsundere toward him, as they say, teasing him in an “annoying little sister” style, but closing herself up and pulling away if he offers her too much friendship. She doesn’t expect him to fall in love with her; she knows it’s foolish to hope. But she can’t help but hope anyway. She wants to be resigned to living without him, but though she tries, she can’t conquer her anguish, yearning, and secret fragility. Even when dying, she’ll still be tough, walking away from Marius to try to take care of herself, only to collapse; only when Marius takes the initiative and holds her will she finally show him her inner tenderness. This is different from Hugo’s Éponine, as is her grounded personality compared to the free-spirited Wild Urchin that Hugo wrote. But this portrait of a “hard nut” slowly cracking is moving in a different way.
More comparisons to come!
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What do you think Aziraphale and Crowley like be called in bed?
I have a feeling Aziraphale has a Sir kink
OOOO well
yes, aziraphale isn't abject to a 'sir' when the time calls for it. but he likes all the typical ones too, ones that make him feel loved and treasured while he holds you close, embraces you in the most intimate way. 'darling', 'beloved', 'sweetheart'. and of course, 'my angel'.
crowley doesn't mind a little bit of degredation, 'whore' and 'slut' are things he'll grin at, especially when he's between your legs and you're pulling his hair. but he can also be the total opposite. a 'good boy/girl/pet' will have him moaning and rolling his eyes back into his head, totally under your spell. he loves to be good for you, as long as you tell him what a good job he's doing.
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