Audere est Facere

violence on their beloved's behalf.

deranged compliments and praising bad deeds.

stealing nice things for their beloved.

jealousy and possessiveness.

encouraging their beloved to be worse.

As if they're the ones who would need keepsakes of her when she outlives them all a thousand times over. Children are meant to outlive their parents, no matter how painful that may be, but not the way he had, and never the way she will.

But he holds onto his smile, always so amused when her humor shines through, even if he doesn't always have it in him to show it.

She steps away from her father's side. Three paces off, half-buried in Arrakis sand, lies a man—throat opened by her own blade, the wound already dry as leather in the heat, as if the desert had claimed him before she did.

Ghanima kneels. Presses one palm to his cheek, the other to his brow. His jaw hangs slack, one canine catching the last of the light like a splinter of moon. Rigor has locked him mid-scream. She yanks; the crack of it travels up through her wrists.

The tooth does not want to leave him. Roots curve like a fishhook, clinging to the only home they have known— a memory surfaces of a mother pulling her son’s tooth with thread and a slammed door. She knows she must twist.

Slowly, wet and granular, it comes free millimeter by millimeter, ripping from the socket. A dark trickle slicks her palm. She holds up the tooth— sun-warm, enamel gleaming, its root curled, stained the deep rust-red of Arrakeen sunset.

Turning to her Papa, she offers her palm like an altar. Sand crusts her knuckles; the tooth glints. Her smile is small and strange and her own.

Feyd is startled to find that her words mean anything at all.

Rarely does a na-Baron believe a word spoken by any living thing, but there is in her denial of the Baron— her utter disregard for all the necessary consequences— a kind of purity, a singularity of intent, that clarifies his own resentment into something honest and recognizably human. The sensation is brief as a spilled adrenal spike, already thinning as he locks eyes with her.

What he feels in Willow is a lack that mirrors his own, and the recognition is both elevating and abominable.

"I love my cousin." Which is a non-answer. Love and hate are rarely mutually exclusive things. She allows this to hang in the air, wanting to feel the weight of the unsaid before finally cutting the string she's been dangling on her whole life.

I love my cousin, he just repulses me. I love my cousin, I don't know why I feel unsettled when he enters the room. I love my cousin, I don't know why I feel naked and afraid and revolted when he is close to me.

A birthright, a blood-currency, a thing as natural as breathing and twice as necessary. That she does not know this— that she has lived this long without understanding that the body’s first and most delicate language is revulsion— strikes him as a kind of sacrilege.

Feyd looks at her face the way he looks at things he is deciding whether to break or to keep or to banish into the in-between. The bones close beneath the skin.

“You are allowed everything,” he says, “Not that you may take—” his knuckle is still warm from her jaw, “—but that you already own it. The hate. The fear. The-- everything else.”

His thumb traces the hollow beneath her ear, a valley he has mapped in the dark of his own skull long before he touched it. The cartilage there is thin, almost translucent, and he can feel the faint tremor of her pulse— quick, quick, quick— like a small animal held in a fist. She is so terribly alive. It makes him want to press down.

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The sun crested one of the distant ridges, and David felt some of the power drain from him. Not all, otherwise he would be dead, but it was enough to notice. The disadvantage of having a night god as a patron. If anything, he felt sleepy, but he kept it out of his face -- or he thought he did. She clearly held his attention, however, and his curiosity.

The woman clearly had no other pressing business and didn't seem adverse to mingling with a fellow supe. Some just went their separate ways after crossing paths, like wary cats navigating a rival's turf. Or maybe she was just flirting.

"Oh? Seeking a treat for good behavior, are we?" He was not above petting a cat making friendly noises. Cats, however, still had claws. And so he held out his proverbial hand for her to sniff. "Leaving out my overly-dramatic nickname, Weiss is fine. Or David, if you prefer to be familiar." He had a feeling she did.

Gentlemen, Vera knew, absolutely exist. She'd met plenty. They were just gentlemen the way a knife was a letter opener— technically functional, but that wasn't the point of the edge.

The sun is barely up and already warm on the side of her face, and she is aware, acutely, of how close she is standing— how close she’d made herself. Close enough to count the shadows under his eyes. Close enough that a filament— a single, hair-fine thread— could reach him without either of them having to move. She doesn't send one. She just thinks about it. "I'd love a treat, actually. From you specifically, David."

Vera tipped her chin toward him, and the name sat in her mouth first, absorbed the shape of it. Weiss. David. Something ordinary hiding underneath all that darkness and mythology. She liked the contradiction, like the toppling of gods back into human dust.

"Vera," she says, and the name feels like stepping out of a coat, "Vera Harkonnen."

A pause, deliberate, watching his face for the flicker of recognition— because there usually is one, sooner or later, and she's learned to read the exact millisecond a person's expression reorganizes itself around a name they already know attached to a father they already fear.

This silence now occupies it, granular and endless… she is almost Ren. She is the mineral record left behind by vanished seas. The Ren studies her with terrible attentiveness.

“Do you still seek to fill yourself?” [he] asks at last, each voice threading through the next beneath the vocoder. “You carry your hunger with you into the void.”

The thumb presses once into the space between them. 

It is a dangerous thing, being known. Even by a creature so alike in fractures and splinters. Especially by such a one.

She is aware— times multiplied— of Ren’s awareness. Even the smallest disturbances in her were meted out between them, a system of mutual constraint and wit. To be hollow, and to remain so, is a labor beyond the appetite; to be witnessed in her emptying was the closest she knew to satisfaction.

Agonia might be too tired for hunger. To want at all— the very shape of desire is a negative now, a pit carved deeper by years of failure. Any drive that once gnawed at her from within, a bone-sharp ache to be filled, to be made whole, to have something inside her worth the weight.

“I don’t know that I can slice the hunger out of myself.”

—But the galaxy has gnawed back, every taste of hope crumbling into loss, every aspiration evaporating and condensing into a new stratum of emptiness. If once she had thirsted ferociously, now she tastes only the parched aftersmoke. Each attempt has left her further voided, and she cannot will herself to forget the sum of all those failures.

The helm, her own reflection soldered to its faceplate, has taken on the aspect of a funerary mask. Fitting: she heralds a funeral every day.

Agonia stares at Aria, not moving, not even letting her breath pass through her teeth too sharply. She wants to see how Aria plays it. If the croissant gets eaten all the way down— every last crumb, sticky iota of chocolate bloodied across her molars— Agonia will let her. Might even light her a cigarette after, let her smoke it until her head’s spinning from the sugar and nicotine, and mop up the mess if Aria pukes in the alley.

—And still, in the end, will watch over her.

But where Khan saw the inevitability of entropy, Marr still assembed meaning.

That piousness rankled.

A hand moved to scratch at the side of his face. He was becoming annoyed quickly and not the kind he could play off as amusement. True annoyance.

M O N S T Y R I O U S — a study in : fate is real, the horror in humanity, playing god versus being one, the romance in the grotesque, conquering one's fears only to die anyway, the lifting of the veil, walking the fine line between good and evil.

heavily featuring original characters and extensive original lore. featuring many verses for the boys as well as william butcher and leonard mccoy. extreme themes present.