#Errant Signal

[unofficial-sean]

Building on the foundation of this video:

In its failure to say anything objectively, we could say that the game's subtext--unassigned by its creators--is an allegory for America's indifference towards the rise of far right militias. It's a tension in the public sphere where we know they're there, but refuse to discuss and respond to these movements in an appropriate way that capture the gravity of the situation; that there are armed groups of mostly white Americans that wanna see America as a Christian ethnostate. That's a very concerning fact that public sphere appears to be oblivious to, intentionally or not.

With an American militia as the villains of a video game, how could Ubisoft come so close to saying something about this issue, and yet say nothing other than:

 "They're there, but their problems aren't because of weaponized religion and doomsday-ism, but because this one dude and his family are insane."

If none of what I've said connects, Step Back has a wonderful series of videos on the history of these groups, I recommend it, and it was enlightening.

You play as a cop, and the sheriff wants you and the marshal to leave the cult alone, right? Just turn a blind eye and hope it works out.

Complacency.

Reminded me instantly of how our own police either ignore or support right-wing violence against the underclasses. The big fantasy of this game, is that you, the cops, ultimately stand up to the cult. And yet the game's ending message is:

It's your fault things got worse, why didn't you just look the other way? It's a message that trying for progress and liberation is fruitless or harmful.

 I think that's all the meaning I can suck from this game.

Cheers.

[joyce-stick]

This is reminding me of a video we watched last night (which in part criticizes how tiktok culture can and does do This Exact Sort of Thing)

It’s so fucked up how tiktok culture has made clout-poisoned people turn the public into content, every day I see people minding their business have their entire faces put online for thousands of likes, a couple kissing on the train, a lady dancing across a cross walk, a guy nodding his head to the music at a club, a lady buying a banana at the store, ring camera footage of the neighbors kids being stupid. Just let people live jfc

[sophaeros]

i will not wait up for you anymore so you can ask me if something is wrong. he was sick in the head for writing this. which situationship hurt him.

[james-fun-in-the-sunderland]

Anatomy. * BLOWS UP*

[sunnie-angel]

Sweetheart

inspired by @sanguineterrain’s hc about virgin! jason which truly has not left my mind since i read it.

rated explicit (mdni) | wc: 2.6k

tags: kissing, masturbation, loss of virginity, vaginal sex, creampie, overstimulation

Jason Todd’s just so goddamn sensitive, nerves set on a hair trigger, all the time. Call it a side effect of death or a fun little bonus from resurrection. Wherever it came from, it’s just part of his life now. And, see, normally it’s not a problem. In fact, it probably makes him better at this whole crime lord business. The slightest change in the airflow of a room tipping him off to an unseen assailant, the tremors traveling up the balls of his feet signalling an approaching vehicle, palm wrapped around a throat able to read a lie from a racing pulse. He’s adaptable like that, turning something that might have overwhelmed him into a weapon. It’s really not a problem.

Just like it’s not a problem that he’s never really been in love before. Between dying, then not dying, and an abrupt and burgeoning career in crime, well, dating hasn’t been very high on his list of priorities. It’s fine! So maybe he fucks his fist after a long night of patrol and wishes it were someone he was coming home to. He’s got more pressing things to worry about, important things. Red Hood things. His half-hidden fantasies and dog-eared classic romances can stay hidden under his bed forever, for all he cares.

He cares. Did he say he didn’t care? Well obviously that was a big fat lie. Jason nearly mows you down running across the park and the minute his hands close around your arms to steady you, he’s a goner. Heart eyes and tweety birds, the whole nine yards. Being in love with you’s the easiest thing Jason’s ever done. Maybe his hands shake a little more than they should the first time you ask him to dinner. Maybe he blurs the line between creepy and sweet by showing up at your doorstep with flowers less than 12 hours after your first date. He’s just new at this, that’s all. First time jitters.

There’s a lot of firsts, when it comes to you. The first time you hold his hand, he feels the the tips of his ears go hot. You kiss him on the cheek and he could swear NASA can see the colour of his cheeks from space. The very first time he kisses you – goodnight at your doorstep, meant to be chaste and brief – he’s half-hard in his pants the second he feels your breath on his skin. It’s a miracle, a sheer testament to all his will and training, that he doesn’t come in his pants on your doorstep at the taste of you.

Okay, so there’s some kinks he has to work out. He’s told you that he’s inexperienced. Well, more than inexperienced. A virgin, if you want to get all technical about it. You had smiled and told him the two of you could take it slow if he wanted. Which he didn’t. Want it slow, that is. That leads him to a new and persistent obsession with making it good for you, despite his current track record. Before you, the goal of getting off was efficiency. Hand slick and a few harsh tugs enough to have him spilling into a tissue. But that was before. He’s got a goal and a plan and Jason’s always been good with an objective.

He settles in and makes a mental note to get more lube. Gets his hand firm around his shaft because he knows, just knows, that the minute he starts teasing the head of his cock it’ll be over. Gives himself a few looser strokes just to get used to the sensation, gun callous catching on his foreskin and sending a frisson of pleasure up his spine. He watches his stomach muscles ripple and clench in retaliation. Begins to work his hand a little faster, adding a rough twist to each stroke that has him panting for breath. Pre starts beading at the tip of his cock and he swipes an errant thumb at it. He bucks and nearly moans at the sensation, the rough heated pad of his thumb setting his nerves on fire. Throws his head back eyes closed as his he increases the pace, lost to the burning heat building in his belly. He pictures your face smiling up at him on a particularly tight swipe over the head of his cock and comes harder than he ever has before, hot spurts decorating his stomach. His stopwatch reads 0:1:37. With a grunt, he reaches for his cock again.

By the time morning comes, far too soon and far too bright, Jason’s managed to increase his time. Not by much, but hey, that’s still progress in his book. He’s also discovered two new things about himself: 1) with just the right pressure he can stay hard between orgasms (hooray for illegal and mystical stimulant baths!), and 2) the image of you is more than enough to shove him over the edge, every single time. Fact number two may be a problem. ‘Cause if just the thought of you has him creaming in his pants like a pimply teen in a stiff breeze, having you under him in the flesh might actually kill him. It’s okay though, he’ll have more time to practice before you two get anywhere close to that. Or not.

The two of you are lying on your bed kissing, the kind of slow, lazy make-out that wouldn’t really be going anywhere only Jason’s got your thigh rubbing up in between his legs and that same hair trigger sensitivity. He swears he can almost feel the soft heat of your skin through the rough drag of denim. Your plush lips open wider and he surges forward, eager to notch himself closer. He’s clumsy like this, limbs too big and uncoordinated with you under him. His hips start undulating of their own accord at the extra friction, and you slip a hand into the back pocket of his jeans to urge him on. It’s good, so good, God why did he never realize it could be this good? The sensation of you below him, warm and solid, and the rough-pressure-heat on his cock is all it takes. You swallow his moan as he comes in his pants, wet splotch blooming darkly. His hands tighten around you. Jason pants and moans into your throat, hips weakly grinding his cock against you through it. Red-faced, it takes him longer than it should to realize that you’re cooing at him.

“–good, sweetheart? You were so good for me, taking what you needed.”

Shame and embarrassment light him up, battling with the litany of sweetheart, sweetheart, she called me sweetheart currently striking him dumb. He buries his face into your neck, can feel the temperature difference between his flaming cheeks and your skin.

“’M sorry,” he says meekly, “I didn’t mean to come so fast. Swear it. I’ll do better next time.” Worry curls in his stomach, faint echoes of embarrassment about leaving you unsatisfied. Can’t bear to look you in the eye, feeling stripped back and vulnerable as he is. His hips are still working against yours, grinding the sensitive head of his cock into his damp boxers. You laugh.

“What’re you talking about, Jay? You were perfect, so perfect for me sweetheart.” And Jason wants to crawl out of his skin because ‘perfect’ is not a word that gets applied to him often. Not one that he thought applied now, coming in his pants so quickly, before he’s even made you feel good. Ignoring the stubborn prickling at the backs of his eyes and the warmth quickly spreading down his chest, he kisses the sweet column of your throat.

“Wanna return the favour,” he whines, licking up the salt of your skin. Your grip tightens in his hair.

“Yeah? You gonna be good for me again?” you tease, breathless. One of your hands grips his own, glides it down to the elasticized waistband of your underwear.

Jason’s pretty sure he’s been electrified when he feels just how wet you are. He’s also pretty sure this is the closest he’s ever gotten to a pretty girl’s underwear too. Thick fingers glide easily between your folds. You’re hotter than he expected, slick collecting in his palm. His index finger catches on your entrance, thumb hunting for your clit. He knows he’s found it when you sigh into his ear, and he grins. Maybe he’s not so bad at this whole sex thing after all. Slowly, he starts to spear you open on one thick finger and chokes. Jason’s never felt anything so fucking tight. He groans into your collarbone. Your walls tighten up around him at the vibration and it goes straight to his cock. If he hadn’t just come, he’d be making a mess in his pants right now. Again. The thought of how good your slick, wet, heat would feel squeezing around his cock vice-like has him lightheaded.

“Can I– please can I?” he begs, delirious with how badly he wants this.

“Gotta use your words, sweetheart,” you say breathlessly, voice hitching as he fucks his finger back into you. “Need to ask for what you want.”

“Please, please, can I fuck you? Want it. Want it so bad,” Jason whines. He can taste the want, sparks dancing on his tongue, blood rushing in his ears. His whole body aches with it.

“S’all you had to say, sweetheart.” A hand grips him through his damp jeans and he bucks into the touch, a writhing mass of nerves and need. “You gonna take care of me? Huh?” The zipper inches down and he almost sobs. “Gonna be good to me, sweetheart?” All the air rips out of his lungs at the burning brand of a palm finally touching his spent cock. 

Jason doesn’t recognize his own voice, high and reedy, babbling “I promise, I promise, I promise.” He’s gasping, greedy, mouth open and searching blindly for yours. 

He whimpers – the Red Hood honest to god whimpers – when you pull away. His brain starts to come back online when you start tugging at the hem of his shirt and he almost face plants into the mattress in his eagerness to get his pants and shirt off at the same time. You laugh as your bra hits the floor somewhere to the side of the bed and pull him down for another kiss, a soft nip at the swell of his bottom lip that has him trailing after you. Your legs open to cradle his hips and Jason figures this must be the next best thing to paradise. He shudders at the pressure of his cock trapped between your bellies.

“Now you’re gonna give me all–” you give a slow roll of your hips that has Jason’s vision going blurry at the feeling of every inch of him trapped between you, “– of that. You’re gonna be this–” another slow, filthy roll that has him cotton-mouthed, “–deep in me, sweetheart, and you’re gonna keep fucking me until I tell you to stop.” Your hand at the nape of his neck pulls his hair back until he’s looking right in the eye. It’s a hungry, dark stare that greets him and Jason thinks that if this is what it’s like to be eaten alive, he’ll die a happy man (if you’ll let him).

He gets so distracted by the wicked grin on your face that he barely notices the hand guiding his cock to your entrance until the head is pushing into your burning heat. His mouth snaps shut and his jaw clenches, desperate to keep it together. Your legs lock around him, urging him forward. Inch by inch he slowly thrusts his way into you, sanity hanging on by a thread as he fights the urge to just fuck into your tight cunt. Finally, finally, his hips meet yours, cock fully sheathed inside of another person for the first time. He pants open mouthed into the side of your neck, trying so hard to be good for you. 

“Not a virgin now, are you sweetheart?” you whisper, hand stroking through his sweaty curls. “Now move.”

Like a shot from one of his beloved .45s, Jason starts pistoning into you, pulling his cock out until it’s almost slipping out and hammering right back in to the hilt. You’re tight, so fucking tight that he doesn’t know how he’s ever gonna go back to his fist after this. His rhythm’s sloppy, cunt drunk and chasing his next high but he can’t make himself stop. Sweat beads on his chest and tears dot his lashes. He howls as you cant your hips up and drag a hand across his chest, nails catching on a nipple. The slippery clutch of your cunt burns away all his good intentions, just a mewling, writhing creature desperate to feel good. The burning heat in his gut is building, his arms trembling from exertion. Its too soon, too soon for him to be ready to come again but the high in his veins and the tenseness in his belly are screaming otherwise.

It’s not fair, he’s– he’s trying so hard and it’s not fair because you haven’t even come once and here he is being greedy and about to come again. It’s not fair. There’s real tears of frustration beading up in his eyes now, face and body flushed red, sticky sweet.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’msorryI’msorryM’sorry,” he keens, high and hysterical as he comes, hot pulsing spurts deep inside you. He’s not– it’s not stopping God why is it not stopping? He’s never come for this long but it just won’t stop and he can’t move, not with your ankles locked so tight around his hips. Jason’s face burns with the shame, eyes screwed up tight and trying not to tear the sheets fisted in his hands. A hand cups his face, runs a thumb lovingly over a cheekbone until he screws up the courage to crack open his eyes a smidge.

“There’s my sweetheart. Doing so well for me.” A finger brushes away the tear threatening to fall from the corner of his eye. “Felt so good you just couldn’t stop yourself from coming again, hmm?” you clench down on his cock and the punched out sound that leaves him has Jason shying away in embarrassment. “None of that now. Not when you’re being so good.” You bite down on the tendon in his neck, grinning around your teeth as his whole body shudders, before laving a broad tongue over it. “You’ve still gotta job to do, don’t you? Gotta fuck all of your cum into me, gotta keep it where it belongs.”

Jelly limbed, its easy to push Jason onto his back. His cock never even leaves your cunt. Gravity does all the work as you spear yourself open on him. He moans, high punched out little things, cock bullying even deeper into you. Jason’s so sensitive now, riding the edge of pleasure-pain like a knife. He feels flayed open, nerves raw, as you grind and clench yourself up and down his shaft. You pull one of his palms to your breast, teach him how to squeeze it, the way you like having your nipples pinched and rolled. You ride him and every time you pull off of him Jason holds his breath until you’re fucked back down onto him. He’s so overstimulated it hurts, teeth grinding as you continue to fuck him for your pleasure, like he’s just the guy that happens to be attached to a fat dick.

“I didn’t say to stop, did I?”

[canageek]

Alright, I expect a lot of people will already know about these ones, but just in case:

Noah Gervais often does complete series retrospectives, going over ever game in a series including DLC and wired spinoffs and what they mean for the series. His latest one is a 2 hour overview of Quake from a narrative perspective (since most people talk about it from a multiplayer perspective)

He isn't mostly on YouTube (he started when having a blog with an RSS feed and a link to archive.org was totally normal.) But Chrontendo: he doesn't go into much detail on each game, but he is doing a damn fine job going into every NES and Famicom game in order of original release and showing that some things often claimed as inspiration aren't plausible even you take Japanese release order into account.

Atari Archive: A similar idea to Chrontendo but instead he does one game per episode and DEEP dives including reading developer interviews, print reviews, industry publications, sales figures, and related games on other systems.

Stop Skeletons From Fighting: Goes into weird bad games (Or as he calls it, "The good garbbo", especially ones that failed due to being far too ambitious like trying to do a first person shooter on the game boy. His latest video is a multi-hour one examining every game on the Zeebo.

(Edited to fix the links and add more:)

He doesn't post anymore, but Errant Signal is damn good. He is more on the game theory, literary/game mechanics side of things, but if you like the above links, he is very good. Also, he has been making videos forever, and has less then 200K subscribers, which really sucks.

If you want more DEEP dives on the first women in video games, or the influences of Metroid, can I offer you Critical Kate ?

RetroAhoy does cool stuff with lovely illustrations, going into the history of things from X-Com to music trackers, to various firearms and why those specific models show up in video games so often.

Dark Lore Dash does lore dives and lore lets plays of darker games: Mostly the Diablo series, but also some Star Wars games and Oblivion (What I watch him for). (I know, you are saying Oblivion isn't dark, but there is plenty of necrophilia and cannibalism in it. I mean, it isn't dark vs Diablo, but still)

Ok, need to get on a plane. Again, if you want more, let me know.

my favorite genre of youtube video by far

[10thmusemoon]

I think a lot about yqy, who had no specific attachment to gender, feeling dysphoria the first time he realizes that the women in SJ’s bed at the WRP were delicate with elegant soft features. He spends a night turning a copper mirror every which way, struggling to apply cosmetics with shaking hands when something finally clicks and he thinks to himself “I could never look like that, I could never be what Xiao Jiu wants.”

Maybe the thought lingers long enough to drive yqy to action, to bring him down the mountain and into a brothel where the women look eager to eat up this soft spoken man and show him the ways of the world. Unfortunately that’s not what he wants, instead of seeking the delicate touch of a woman he wants to emulate it. It’s hardly unheard of, they manage all sorts of requests at brothels, and this one is simple enough.

The first time YQY sees himself properly done up, his breath catches in his throat. That is, of course, still his face beneath the white powder and red dots, those are his eyes behind the kohl liner, and yet it’s…softer. In a certain light he could almost be called delicate.

The older woman must recognize something in his expression, the hand at his shoulder gently squeezing and apologizing that they don’t have anything in his size, but if he were to return with enough notice, perhaps something could be arranged.

Yue Qingyuan returns.

Again and again and again.

Each time the spells sinks its hooks into him, a fantasy of a different life where he was a different person, one that Shen Qingqiu could bring himself to touch. Maybe even to love. The feelings that inspires cling to him like the last remnants of summer’s warmth, sparking a small joy that lasts throughout the following days until it flickers out, signaling his return.

It’s a noticeable change in Yue Qingyuan. Disciples and peak lords alike notice his improved mood, an errant An Ding disciple sees him browsing hair pins, the fine silk of women’s robes in a market place and a rumor spreads like wild fire.

The sect leader has lover!

It’s not the first time such a thing has been said, Shen Qingqiu tracks these rumors like a farmer tracks the seasons. Each and every time the claims come up unfounded, and yet…when the recent whispers from chatty hall masters reach his ears he listens. This time around, there’s a marked change in Yue Qingyuan.

An improved mood, yes, but not only that there’s…a distraction.

The sect leader’s visits to Qing Jing Peak grow further and further apart, and when he does dare to show his face it’s always followed by a visit cut short, a distant air to his demeanor. Bile turns in Shen Qingqiu’s stomach, a familiar ache in his chest pounds against his rib cage, begging to be freed. It’s the same jagged toothed creature that would bare its fangs when the likes of Shi Wu would dare call out for Qi-ge’s attention.

Shen Qingqiu did not cut Yue Qingyuan out of his heart just for someone to pick up what he discarded.

This bears investigation.

In the dark recesses of Shen Qingqiu’s mind, he’s conjured up an image of what Yue Qingyuan’s lover would be like. A soft spoken woman from a noble family or humble shopkeeper, a shy thing that inspires love from all the meet her, a paragon of purity and morality that stokes Yue Qingyuan’s bumbling courtship. He would go through the proper channels of course, through her family if she had one, or simply jump straight to providing for her if she did not. Shen Qingqiu can just imagine it, Yue Qingyuan’s sweet little lover hidden away in house that he visits under the cover of night, bringing to her the gifts Shen Qingqiu has been offered but had turned away.

It just riles him up!

That the righteous YQY would sneak around everyone’s backs to defile a hapless woman that doesn’t know better! That he could be hunched over her, rippling muscles over bearing as he whispers confessions of love under the moon light.

The idea of it makes Shen Qingqiu’s heart race and fists clench. It’s simply unacceptable!! That should be-

Yue Qingyuan shouldn’t!

He doesn’t keep his promises!

It is only for the sake of the woman that YQY has duped into being his doe she lover that Shen Qingqiu follows him.

Shen Qingqiu was convinced it would take several attempts to find Yue Qingyuan’s secret abode. Surely his wife would be protected by the strongest talismans and spells available to a sect leader. So when his tracking leads Shen Qingqiu to the red light district of another town, it’s as if the world was turned on its heels.

That righteous bastard!

Yue Qingyuan is no better than any other man!!

White eyes with fury, Shen Qingqiu bursts into the brothel, accusations of hypocrisy on the tip of his tongue. But Instead of finding YQY rutting against a woman like the swine he is he is…

He’s…

Shen Qingqiu doesn’t know what he’s looking at.

There’s women screaming and filtering out the door, his sword is brandished but SQQ’s hands have gone numb from the pressure.

Yue Qingyuan is-

He is-

…beautiful.

-

And that’s where I stop!! Happy 9/7 day YQY definitely uses his new found confidence to put the moves on SQQ, with a shakey voice he ask if he likes YQY better like this and SQQ is already stepping close to cup YQY’s face in his hands.

“Explain”

So he does and everything about how wrong SQQ was shakes him to his core because yqy would do this…found this part of himself… in order to be appealing to Shen Qingqiu…

Shen Qingqiu never tells YQY about the lover he had invented (and grown to loathe) in his jealousy, but as he’s giving him the first and most thorough fuck of his life, SQQ makes plans to buy his own secret cabin in the woods.

Just in case.

[comatosebunny09]

denial → acceptance | sylus

summary: you’ll settle for what you can get if it means he’ll keep you around a little longer. even if it means (seemingly) playing second fiddle. genres: romance, fluff, angst warnings: steaminess, blood mention, reader implied to be female, unrequited (not really) feelings, feelings of inadequacy, self-esteem issues, idiots in love, tender touches, incredibly self indulgent, profanity, slow burn notes: limerence, but the only thing standing between sylus and the reader is the reader’s own head. thank you for dropping by. the rest will be up on ao3 shortly.

You’ve done this many times before—been summoned to his quarters for a debriefing and occasionally for him to tend to any injuries you sustained during your negotiations.

This is nothing new. But the prospect of being laid off haunts you a lot lately, especially in light of recent events.

You know—the ones involving a certain pretty hunter invading your lives and quietly shoving you out of the picture.

The glacial door handle leading to Sylus’ study bites into your palm. You turn it, steeling yourself against the worst outcome. It’s a routine check-in, nothing too serious. So you sure as hell aren’t shaking when you duck into his office. Greeted by warmth and the aroma of mahogany intermingled with sandalwood and worn books. You cautiously shut the door as if any bit of noise could set him off. Spur him into firing you faster.

The speakers of his record player bleed something homely. You’re swathed in the serene glow of the wall sconces, flanked by towering bookshelves. You maneuver around them, the regal carpeting swallowing your footfalls. You follow the vibration of his voice. By the tone of it, you know he’s on the phone talking business.

You slow to a stop in the center of his study. Find a thatch of white hair settled behind a long, cherrywood desk. He looks up, ingesting you with eyes the color of sunset. No matter how many times you’ve been in his presence, he still manages to siphon your breath with how handsome he is.  

‘You wanted to see me?’ you mouth once your wits return to you.

Sylus studies you for a beat, expression unreadable. Motions to you with two fingers, and you waste no time heeding him. He pats the polished surface of his desk beside him, signaling for you to sit. You swallow, offering him a twitch of a smile and a nod before propping yourself on the cold, sticky finish.

Still engulfed in his convo, Sylus rifles through his drawer. You catch bits and pieces of what he’s on about. He pulls something from within, the telltale gleam of a tin box causing the tension in your shoulders to let up. He sets the first aid kit down, and you watch him fish out some antiseptic and a few cotton puffs.

Ah. You did get a little banged up, didn’t you?

Caught an errant punch to the temple during your negotiations with the hunter. She was still learning the ropes, learning to flex her status. You intervened when the arms dealer got a little ornery, sicking his guards on you. Two women thinking they could hustle someone like him in place of Onychinus’ kingpin? Unheard of!

You fought your way out of the fray, of course. Took a few hits to get Hunter Girl out of there unscathed, but you both lived to see another day.

You hiss as the sting of disinfectant brings you barreling back to the present. Sylus stiffens the slightest, surveying you with a rueful pinch to his brows. You fix him with a disarming smile, and he gets back to work. You’ve had worse. Nearly lost a limb or two. Still, he’s gentle as he blots at the dried blood on your forehead, and it’s just like old times.

You study the shine of his shirt buttons as he treats your cut. Watch his Adam’s apple bob, the tendons in his jaw flex. You resist an urge to snicker. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear he was pouting. His precious little doll, a little bruised and battered, like he doesn’t have someone else to occupy his mind. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t get upset when you return to him scathed.

When he’s satisfied with his cleanup job, Sylus packs up the kit after smoothing a stripe of salve over your scrape. Props his phone on his shoulder, and you bristle when worn finger pads skate over your cheek. When they push some baby hair away from your face, slide under your chin. His touch is reverent as he tilts your head back, examining you for any other wounds.

You give him a cheeky look, shaking out of his touch. “I’m fine,” you whisper, leaning back on your hands and crossing your legs. He slides back into business mode, releasing you from that intense gaze to focus on his call, albeit a little reluctantly.

Occasionally, Sylus chuckles, the sound of it vibrating in your chest. Idle fingers smooth over the jut of bone in your knee, his gaze intermittently wandering to yours. He’s surprisingly handsy tonight. A part of you wonders if this is alright, given the unspoken bond that blooms between him and his precious little hunter.

Still, you can’t deny how soothing his touch is. You were just a nervous wreck a few minutes ago, fretting over the state of your job. But he won’t let you go, will he? Not when he can touch you like this. Wrap slender fingers around your calf, pressing reassurance into your skin with his thumb.

Maybe you’re delusional. You’re but a substitute for the woman he truly pines for, but you’ll settle for what you can get if it means he’ll keep you around a little longer.

You’re more exhausted than you let on. Eyes slide shut, your body lulled into tranquility by the potent warmth Sylus exudes, the languorous glide of his fingers, and the soft music flowing through the room.

“Of course she’ll be there,” Sylus drawls through the darkness behind your lids.

You peek an eye open, met with an amused look from your boss. Whatever he’s on about on the phone, you figure no good will come from it. You’re too tired to pursue it, however. He’ll fill you in on the details later. Probably needs you to play all pretty and seductive to some scumbag threatening Sylus’ status as the king of the underworld. Whatever he needs from you, you’ll provide.

You always do.

—

At some point, you dozed off.

You feel him before you see him. Moving. A shift of fingers, the squeak of cloth against a lacquered surface. He brings you back to consciousness with the burr of his voice.

“I take it the negotiations went well.” It’s rhetorical in nature, but you pry your eyes open, met with the sight of Sylus watching you. Chin propped on folded hands, expression humored.

You bow forward, burying your elbows in the pockets of your knees. So close, you catch wind of the scent he carries. The warmth he exudes. Capture the little flecks of amber embedded in his irises. You school your mouth into a smirk, that wall of playfulness erected as you fix his collar. Watch the veins in his throat jump. “Oh, they went stellar.”

He quirks a brow at your blatant lie. A deaf person could taste the sarcasm in your tone.

“How’d you manage to get that,” Sylus interrogates, tapping his temple.

“Fell down the stairs.”

A laugh is huffed. A weighted palm pats your thigh. Draws away slowly, leaving your body atingle. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Scout’s honor,” you insist, a sardonic hand hovering over your heart.

He studies you for a beat or two longer. “You don’t have to shield her, you know.” Her being one exhaustingly kind hunter.

In truth, you don’t. You don’t owe her much of anything, unwillingly roped into being her shadow. Showing her how to pull the strings of Onychinus, doting on her like a younger sister. But you won’t ever fix your mouth to admonish her in front of your boss.

Not when she’d so effortlessly wormed her way into the space between his ribs. Stole his interest when you’d spent years poking at that shell around his heart.

“She won’t ever get better unless you light a fire beneath her from time to time.”

Your sigh is weighted. You know Sylus would kill you if you left his prized possession to the wolves. You lean back on your hands, feigning nonchalance. Inspect your nails. “Yeah, yeah. She’ll get there. Promise.”

You lapse into silence after that. Just Sylus observing you with keen interest below the gentle croon of the music. He’s looking for a tell. A weakness. A crack in the visage you so carefully constructed. When you don’t reveal any signs of pursuing this particular conversation further, he sighs heavy. Leans back in his leather chair, tapping his fingers together.

“In any case, I think you should take a load off.”

A scoff erupts from your throat. You? A break? Your gazes interlock. Oh shit—he’s serious.

“Is that what you were on the phone about? Orchestrating my sweet escape?”

He toys with a pen on his desk, idly twirling about in his chair. His amusement hasn’t let up in the slightest. “You could say that.”

“I find that hard to believe. That you’d let me run off to some remote part of the world to kick up my feet.”  

He fixes you with a wounded look. Mirrors your gesture from before, a hand raised in mock oath. Voice all smoky and low. “Scout’s honor.”

You chuckle. Pointlessly kick your feet, looking down at your lap. You missed this—this comfortable banter. This battle of whims. You’d gone without it for too long, sidestepping your acquaintance to make room for the new woman in town.

“I’ll be joining you, of course,” declares Sylus, breaking up your reverie.

You stiffen, dazed. “Oh.”

A prickle of giddiness creeps into you. You peer into his eyes. He’s all sincere there.

No pretending like the prospect of pairing up with your boss isn’t tempting. The last time you did a bit together was when Hunter Girl joined his entourage. Thereon, you’d been at his side less and less.

“Been a while,” you note offhandedly.

“Has it?” He’s tapping away at his phone. Making quiet money moves, coordinating things you can’t be bothered to follow until he makes it your problem.

A part of you can’t help feeling like this is a ruse. A cover for something more nefarious. Why on earth would Sylus go on vacation with you? Still, you’ll play along until he reveals the contents of his mind. Maybe you’re better off not knowing what’s amiss until the last moment. You don’t want to ruin whatever blueprints he’s already drawn up.

Suddenly, he stops what he’s doing. Slides closer, bracketing either side of your thighs between long arms. Chest pushes against your knees, a smirk twitching his lips. His voice steeps a few octaves as he says with a salacious tilt of his head, “You should get some rest. Your room’s already set up if you wish to stay here.”

Rest? The time projected on the wall behind him bends in and out of focus. It is pretty late, isn’t it? He notches his chin against the slope forming between your thighs. Eyes glint with something you mistake for fondness as his thumbs cruise over your quads.

It’s as if he’s prodding about in your mind, sensing all the questions there. Your apprehension. “The jet will be departing at first light tomorrow. I’ll fill you in on where we’re off to then. You should sleep while you can.”

You nod, contemplating ruffling his hair. He’s something akin to a puppy, looking up at you like that. Unguarded, touching you with all the tenderness of the world. It wouldn’t be much to return his affection. But he doesn’t belong to you, does he?

Instead, you wrench yourself off the desk. Raise your hand in casual goodbye over your shoulder, easing out of his study, blissfully unaware of his eyes boring into your shoulder blades.

Maybe sleeping will do you some good. Help you shake off these feelings threatening to take hold of your psyche again.

And maybe you’ll wake up with more sense tomorrow.

[i-want-men-i-cant-have]

˗ˏˋ꒰ Say ‘I Love You’ ꒱ .

HOW THE FROSTHEIM BOYS WOULD ACT IF THEY HAD A CRUSH ON YOU. ft. jin kamurai, tohma ishibashi, lucas errant, & kaito fuji

wc : 2.5k

warnings : sfw, gender-neutral reader but implied afab for tohma's part

JIN is the definition of a cocky bastard. he acts high and mighty, always getting you to do the most insignificant tasks he can think of, all the while being a completely different person when it's just the two of you.

you have a test you need to study for? forget that. now you have to visit jabberwock to hand milk some beast king seal for his daily cup of tea.

if you're lucky and don't ask too many questions or take too long, you might get a sip. if he's in a good enough mood, he might even pour you a cup to commemorate a job well done. of course, this is rare when he prefers to share an indirect kiss without your knowing.

take a sip and position your lips wherever you want on the cup. he’s always going to put his own directly where yours were.

if he can’t sleep, he’s the type to wake you up at 3 am by phone call solely to have you look out the window to see the moon. he could fall asleep in the known presence of you, so calm and stable. just don't ask him if he’s going sentimental on you or he’ll hang up immediately without even wishing you a word.

don't let these small sweet moments fool you. the second you think he might be catching feelings, you see him out in public, and you’re nothing more than a fly on the wall that needs to be swatted (with utmost care).

even with his on-and-off attitude, he makes sure to become the lifeline you deserve. he can see that the second years don't exactly have the… disposition to take care of you as he could. lucas and the other one can try and protect you all they want, but he’ll be the only one to actually do something. he is the captain of frostheim for a reason.

the second you tell him about someone from his house even raising their voice at you, the best-case scenario is that they get shipped off to dig ditches in the desert for some mission and are gone for so long they have to retake the year.

of course, if you questioned the students' absence, he would wave you off, saying their families were too poor and needed their kids back home to help pay rent.

just remember, no matter how docile he may come off with you, the second someone else enters the room, those walls come shooting back up, acting as if he never caressed your hand, showing you how you could have easily checkmated him before he took out your queen and king all within four moves.

just pray it’s not tohma, or else jin would be taking jab after jab while trying to make him leave his room by any means necessary. all the while the vice-captain filled up your tea, sweet-talking you, and wondering why the door was locked while the two of you were alone all night; something you hadn't even noticed when coming in midday.

just hurry up and confess to jin already so tohma can stop his prying. he's not patient enough to deal with your mixed signals and dilly-dallying.

TOHMA wouldn't even try to cover how bad his excuses for everything were. it’s always going to be 50/50 on how realistic they sound. go fetch this work. go do this and that. he needs to help you study for an upcoming quiz. you need to try out this imported tea. blah, blah, blah.

there had been some minuscule to nonexistent complaints about the formal uniform at the dances and how it should be more elegant. buckle up because this man has ordered the most embarrassing things for you to try on.

the next week, there was a package filled to the brim with luxury clothes on your doorstep. the finest silk materials all adorned your body while he watched, camera and notes in hand. please excuse the quill in his hand writing everything everyone says; that’s just to track your true feelings. oh, the camera? it was for your candid reaction to pair with the pen. you really must work on masking your emotions more; maybe he could help you later.

starting off with a dress for someone your age was a nice start. nothing too sexy or childlike, being more on the modest side. the only skin showing were some ankles, chest, and all of your arms. the next few would be similar, only to ease you into a false sense of security.

somewhere sandwiched in the middle of the modeling session would be dresses tighter and smaller. you felt like your whole body was on display with him, the push-ups on your chest only contributing to your stress. when you asked tohma, he said he had no idea about when he ordered—as if he hadn't done research prior and took quick photos as you came out, pretending to act shocked when he saw the revealing clothing.

oh, the dress has a bit too much skin? well, that’s all the rage from what the female poll said they wanted for their dress uniforms. they did pay for their bodies; they should show them off.

to him, this was your way of opening up to him. if he's already gotten a sneak peek of what you have to offer, then what’s stopping him from seeing the rest? after all, you and he would complement each other so well.

not to mention he would work tooth and nail out of all his free time, dedicating it to figuring out how to get you to confess to him. he would never put his feelings on the line and somehow get rejected by someone like you.

you had to go to a random anomaly library to search for an anomaly book? that’s not too hard.

wrong.

two hours after being stuck in the never-ending location, and a mental breakdown later, tohma already secured the book without your knowledge. now he’s just waiting and making small talk, trying to rip out any piece of information he could use to make you sink your teeth into his hold on you.

both figuratively and literally, you were being brought together. the deeper you went into the library, the closer the shelves seemed to be.

when he had the chance to put the book on the highest shelf, watching the way your face lit up, he almost felt guilty putting this much effort into his plans. but you had to realize your feelings for him, not the other way around.

when you went to grab the anomaly book—along with the massive stack of books it was placed upon—it came avalanching down. instead of being swallowed alive by pages, you were pressed tight against the vice-captain, his shoulder saving you from your doom.

what you didn’t know was how tohma plastered your scent in his mind so he could hopefully find whatever perfume, shampoo, or just your smell somewhere.

LUCA would be the sweetest thing if he liked you. he would, of course, deny these feelings, thinking, or understanding them as platonic.

he would make you feel like you were in a classic, unproblematic, 90s shoujo manga. you could practically see the rose petals following him around whenever he’s with you.

it wouldn’t matter whether he recognizes his feelings or not or if he acts on them; no matter what, you’re going to feel special and wanted.

often, he would find you perusing the halls and randomly start a conversation. he would tell you about the differences between darwick and the uk campus, trying to find a reason to talk just so you wouldn’t leave. sometimes he finds himself purposely getting lost to spend just a couple of extra minutes with you.

he probably has some phone tracking app on you just in case something bad happens. of course, he would manipulate it in his favor—nothing bad, truly just misguided—so he could “accidentally” bump into you.

he’d probably subconsciously check his phone every few minutes hoping you texted him or anything. if you hadn’t seen him in a while due to being stuck at other houses for missions, he would use his favorite app at the moment to send a ‘stay safe!’ message for you to respond to and tell him how it’s going.

when you meet up, whether it be after a class or a whole week, he would, of course, grab your bags and make sure you're feeling alright. your feet hurt? here, get on his back. you have a migraine? here, have some medicine and a nice head massage.

what kind of gentleman would he be if he didn’t give his friends the courtesy of being comfortable?

he would take you to sho’s food truck, ren’s job, the cafeteria, or anywhere to have an excuse to spend more time with you (same goes for subaru).

100% a gentleman and doesn’t believe in splitting the tab 50/50. he invited you and you took the time out of your busy schedule to meet up with him.

yeah, there’s no way you're pitching in even a cent. he has money and he isn’t afraid to spend it on you.

he will open the doors for you and wait with bated breath as you walk by, thanking him each and every time.

he will treat you how you should be treated. he believes in the golden rule of treating others how you would like to be treated or how they would treat you, and you’ve shown him nothing but kindness. all he can do now is return the favor of being his first friend at this new school.

at one point, when his feelings were developing, he took them to yuri. instead of realizing any feelings, he thought your curse might cause him heartburn, only to be met with the doctor shoving him out and telling him to figure out his feelings before wasting his time on sappy romance.

it's safe to say everyone but luca knows about his feelings for you.

when he did realize his feelings were more than platonic, he cranked up that gentleman's act by one thousand.

you know those classic suave princely characters? that’s him to a t. patient and caring all without acting like a father and instead a friend.

if you did date him, it could only work out. it would be like dating your best friend, but not in an incestuous friendship-type way. an actual budding romance, no strings attached, but true undeterred love.

he would wait until he had completely understood his feelings until trying to make “moves” on you. think of things he’s heard kaito say to girls he’s trying to flirt with. suffice to say it only made you laugh.

instead of forcing you to confess to him like the rest, he’d much rather stake his emotions on the line than yours. he just wants you to be happy, even if it comes in the form of rejection or love. as long as you’re happy, he’s happy, whether that be as friends or something more.

be prepared to just enjoy time with him. if you do or don’t romantically like him back, it doesn’t matter. no matter what, you’re just going to be genuinely happy.

even if he’s not the best at picking up signs or reading people, he’s still going to be making sure you’re enjoying yourself.

his brother has already disappeared; he needs to cherish every moment with you, even if it’s one-sided, as friends, or as lovers.

KAITO'S unofficial love language is making you watch movies to make you fall in love with him.

scary movies? you can cling onto him, squealing into his big, strong, herculean muscles. romcom? maybe that can get you in the mood to stare at his plump lips and share your very first kiss. action? maybe you two can try and replicate a scene and accidentally fall on top of him, staring into his deep cerulean orbs, realizing he was always the one for you, not luca.

he is the most unorganized and delusional of the frostheim boys.

he will probably plan a few minutes in advance and, if not, he will get in his head and forget how to talk to you.

the most he’ll plan ahead of time is explaining how you two need to sleep in a bed together because he can't sleep in a pew of the church.

see, once you two finish binging a movie series, he can sleep and spend the night at your place. walking back is just too hard and dangerous at night, you know? besides, just one night in your small bed wouldn’t hurt. it would just end up with you two waking up in each other's loving embrace, confessing your undying love for each other.

in reality, he was scared he would accidentally fart or kick you as you slept and was too afraid to even move. he slept on the corner of the bed while hiding under the covers, trying to ignore the creepy shadow-like monsters of your room.

he has tried and failed to change his personality to match every single one of your interests, only to fail miserably. trust me, if you post a lot, he will stalk you back to your first-ever post by accident and have a mental breakdown after liking the post.

he wouldn't speak to you for a week after the incident until you liked his first-ever post to somewhat ease the burn.

the same goes for if you see him zoning out on you. do not try and provoke him in the wild as he watches you walk from class to class. if you even make eye contact, he's shriveling up to a prune.

unfortunately, everyone in the area sees him making an effort to stalk you and endlessly teases him for it.

even if he doesn’t necessarily look it, he will protect you. if you even seem somewhat stressed with a mission, he will be running across campus to help you out, no matter what the other house says.

he wouldn’t be a lap dog for you, more so an eager friend. not in a hundred years will he let you be stalked or threatened if someone took an interest in you. not on a yandere level, just a worried friend who would steamroll someone if need be, even if he had to fight. he will suck it up for you.

hopefully, you are genuinely interested in ranting or are a master at tuning things or people out because this man is insane. he will tell you all about his day while saying nothing at the same time.

he will send you his entire for you page and count down the seconds from when he posted to when you liked it. god forbid you take a day or week because you’re busy. if a form of snapchat exists in darwick, your streak will be insane. literally, how you track the number of days you started at the school.

“you forgot to open one.”

[perlelune]

Boadicea | Feyd-Rautha

You took the lives of his men. It's only fair to the na-Baron to have yours in return.

Warnings: NON-CON, Fedaykin! Reader, Fremen Reader, Forced Submission, Dacryphilia, Collars, Mouth Gag, Cannibalism, Knives, Death Fetish, Exhibitionism

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

Elation bursts through your chest as the dying gurgle of yet another Harkonnen soldier fills your ears. You grow even more satisfied when his body hits the ground. Another screaming bald-headed demon lunges at you. Fierce blows are exchanged. You wince as he nicks you in the flank.

The desperation to win explodes through your veins. You slam your head into his, disorienting him long enough to drive your crysknife right through his gut. Even as he falls across the sand, blood spilling from his gaping mouth, you don’t stop. Unrelenting, you keep stabbing him, fury and vengeance driving your blade. With each strike, more of his dark blood splatters over your face, adding to his slain comrades’.

A war cry rips from your throat when he stops moving. 

You rise on quaking feet, the exhaustion of hours of fending off the never-ending swarm of Harkonnen warriors crashing over you at once.

Your gaze swings across the battlefield. Horror surges within you.

It’s a slaughter. Fellow Fedaykin are burning right before your eyes. The Harkonnen artilleries rained death upon the Fremen troops the likes of which you’ve never seen before. The shock of sheer helplessness drills a gaping hole inside your chest. 

Cowards, you muse bitterly. Of course they will not face you on the ground. It is well-known one Fedaykin is worth a dozen Harkonnen soldiers. None in the known universe fight more ferociously than the Fremen. 

So they resorted to unleash heavy weapons from the sky. The sweltering Arrakis weather did the rest. 

You whirl to your little brother. Just like you, he’s covered in grime, dirt and the putrid ichor that serves as blood to the Harkonnens.

“Run, Kaleb, hide!” you yell in Chakobsa, urgency bleeding in your tone. 

You are lost. So is the rest of the Fedaykin army. But if your brother leaves now, he can use his hooks to call a maker and hitch a ride to safety.

A frown carves your little brother’s brow. “I can’t leave you,” he says.

You grip his shoulders.

“You have to. Get supplies at the village and go south with the others. Do you hear me?”

When he doesn’t reply, staring at you mouth agape, you jostle his slender frame.

“Do you hear me?” you repeat, louder this time.

He gives a shaky nod. “Yes!” 

You remove the cord around your neck to place it around your brother’s instead.

A look of terror distorts his features.

“No, I can’t take your water rings,” he says, his voice trembling.

Your forehead presses against his.

“You must.”

A single errant tear spills down his cheek and you swipe it with your thumb, pressing it between his lips so it reenters his body.

“Do not waste your moisture. Now go.”

Reluctantly, you brother scampers away. A surge of relief fills you as you watch him stand before a dune slope in the distance and plant his thumper into the sand. The drumming begins. The ground starts rumbling some minutes later to signal the arrival of a worm. You dive inside a cave, taking cover as a wave of rising sand crests above the horizon. The deafening familiar hissing of Shai-Hulud surrounds you.

You close your eyes and suck in a wide breath, soothing yourself with a common Fremen saying. 

The Uncleansed who have seen a crysknife may not leave Dune alive.

The screams of Harkonnen soldiers, unprepared for the sudden arrival of a sandworm, swell inside your ears as you settle in your hiding spot.

When the uproar dies, you ponder returning to the battlefield. However, whispers in the cave have you freeze in the rocky dint concealing your presence. 

You lean forward to steal a peek. Your heart bounces. 

Men in full Harkonnen livery stand beneath the vaulted ceiling of the cave.

Your eyes widen as you hear them idly discuss their plans to purge the remainder of the Fremen forces in the south. 

Your focus sharpens. You slow your breaths and dull your quickening heartbeats.

A wild, insane idea takes shape in your head.

If you could stay hidden long enough. Perhaps you could return to Sietch Tabr. Report back to Muad’ Dib. Warn them of the Harkonnens’ plan.

A word keeps pouring from the men’s lips, one whose meaning evades you.

Na-Baron.

Confusion knits your brow. 

As you continue trying to commit the conversation to memory, the chatter abruptly dies.

You go still, your mind buzzing.

The quiet deepens. Only the muffled sounds of the desert remain.

The blunt features of an Harkonnen warrior crowd your sight.

Your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

Before you can hatch an escape plan, you’re roughly dislodged from your hiding spot. 

You struggle against the arms that hold you, whirling to shove your crysknife into the man’s throat. He grabs his throat, choking on his own blood before his body finds the ground with a loud thud. 

More men lunge themselves at you.

You cut down five more Harkonnen soldiers before a swarm of them surrounds you, punching and kicking you until you tumble to the ground. You cough out a trickle of blood onto the ground.

After every hit, the men attempt to interrogate you. 

“Are there any more hiding like you?”

“Where are the others?”

Every inquiry thrown at you encounters a stubborn wall of silence. You will never betray the other Fremen. Though the prospect doesn’t thrill you, you’d much rather die. In fact, you’ve already embraced your inevitable fate. This is where your story ends.

You console yourself with one fact. 

That at least you won’t leave this world a traitor.

It takes three men to restrain you long enough to tie you up. You only let go of your crysknife when one of the bald-headed warriors stomps over your hand with his boot, snapping your wrist bone and forcing your palm open. An ear-splitting scream rips from your throat. Still, you do not cry, refusing to waste your body moisture for these monsters.

You’re forced on your knees, hogtied while your broken wrist throbs against your back. The corpses of the men you slaughtered are dragged away.

Voices from outside grow louder as you hear the echo of steps fastly approaching. 

“There is only one spy left behind. We couldn’t find the others,” one of the men says. 

A gravelly voice, like the scraping of a rock against a hard surface, lands in your ears. 

“They have gone south to hide in the storms,” it says.

Your pulse escalates, your gaze lifting slowly. There is something different about the newcomer. He’s tall, athletic, with delicate, aristocratic features that are unusual amongst the Harkonnen. An aura of authority hangs around him, every soldier’s stance stiffening as he enters the cave.

He must be the one in charge, you realize.

Someone hands him your crysknife. A tide of anger mounts within you at the sight. If you were free, you’d plunge it in his neck. 

He gauges the blade attentively, his fingertips caressing the bloodied edge.

“Send this message to my uncle,” the newcomer says. “The North is tamed and secured. Harvest spice at will.”

“Yes, na-Baron,” a man near him replies before taking his leave.

Na-Baron. You frown. So it is him. 

He takes sluggish, lithe steps towards you, the corner of his lips twisting upwards.

Your muscles coil, cold tendrils of dread clutching your insides. 

Even on the battlefield, as your life hung in the balance, you didn’t feel this creeping sense of imminent danger. 

The primal, gut-deep inkling that you should run…and never look back. 

“You killed six of my men with a single blade,” he says, a mix of surprise and admiration laced in his raspy baritone. 

“She won’t talk,” the man behind him says. “We even broke her hand but she still won’t say a word.”

He cocks his head, his tone bone-chilling as he casually states, “Tell her that’s fine. I already know everything I need to know.” A man near him hands him a flame thrower. You take a deep breath. You’ve witnessed Harkonnen soldiers use them to set ablaze corpses and catch runaway Fremen, burning them alive. There isn’t a hint of emotion  in the na-Baron’s voice as he points the flame thrower at you. “Only pleasure remains.”

You lift your chin. If death you must meet, you will do it with dignity.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” you reply calmly, a wide smile spreading onto your lips. 

The na-Baron’s eyes bulge and narrow, his hands dropping.

He strides forward.

“What did you just say?”

“Just get on with it, will you?” You unleash a frustrated sigh. Shouldn’t you be a charred heap of smoking flesh and bones already? What is this na-Baron wasting time for? You are resigned to it now, having used the time before to accept your fate. “I’m eager to meet my ancestors and be freed of your foul Harkonnen stench,” you taunt, hoping your insolent tongue will hasten things along. 

You wait and wait, your defiant gaze never wavering. 

But the deathly flames that should lick the flesh clean off your bones never come.

Instead, the na-Baron tosses the flame thrower on the ground and barks an order to one of his subordinates.

“Take her back to my chambers in our base.”

The man casts you a disdainful glare.

“But na-Baron. That woman is danger-” A swift slash across the man’s throat from the na-Baron’s blade has the man choking on his words. Blood fills his mouth, his body twitching as it sprawls across the ground. 

He doesn’t spare the dying man another glance, his head slanting.

He leers at you, exerting no effort to disguise the lewd intent etched in his dark gaze. 

“And make sure to tell my darlings she’s not for them to have…but for me to feast upon later.”

Fear floods your veins. You readied yourself for death, not for…whatever the Harkonnen warrior has in store for you. 

“Yes, na-Baron.”

You’re hauled off the floor. When you refuse to move, one of the Harkonnen soldiers twists your broken limb to get you to lurch forward. You clench your teeth and blink back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. You will not cry. You will not give them the satisfaction.

Tears are sacred. They are to honor the dead and nothing else.

Before you’re carried away, the na-Baron approaches you and frames your jaw.

“I hear Fremen do not cry, never squander their water under any circumstance. I wonder…” A sadistic smile unfurls on his pale lips, baring a glimpse of inky black teeth beneath. His thumb sweeps across your tightly pressed lips. “What will it take for you to shed a tear for me, pet?”

You shiver in the ropes as you watch the three Harkonnen women tear bloody ribbons in the male Fedaykin’s flesh with their claw-sharp black nails. The delighted purrs they emit while feasting on human flesh bounce off the black, sterile walls of the palatial chambers.

Your gaze is wide, horrified.

You’ve seen death. You’ve seen violence. But you’ve never laid eyes on such a ghoulish spectacle before. The na-Baron’s cannibalistic mates picking the meat off the man’s bones and digging their hands inside his gut. As if he were nothing but a heap of fresh meat to sate their hunger. 

You want to peel your gaze away… but you can’t. 

You’re paralyzed.

His lifeless blue eyes, a sinister mirror of your own due to the spice melange, send prickles through your spine. 

This could have easily been you. And it would have been…weren’t it for the na-Baron’s whim changing course as swiftly as a weather vane. Just like the apparel must yield to the fickle will of the winds, you must surrender to his.

When the women are done, one of them flashes you a broad smile. Shredded pieces of organs stick to her teeth and blood covers the bottom of her face, dripping down her chin.

A shudder ripples through your spine.

Their inky, whiteless stares settle on you. They discard the mangled corpse and inch closer to you. You retreat against the wall, fear gripping your throat. Ravenous expressions light up their pretty faces. 

You swallow through your aching, parched throat. Are you next? Will they do to you what they did to that poor man? 

They whisper in Harkonnen. The confusion about the words pouring from their tongues stokes the terror consuming you. 

Then they laugh. Strident, bloodcurdling, wicked laughs. You remain still, willing your heart not to beat so loudly. 

Dying on the battlefield is one thing. Being eaten alive is another, wildly different thing. The kind of needlessly cruel death you never envisioned for yourself. 

Despite the distress tossing your senses into chaos, you force yourself not to cry. No tears, you remind yourself. Not for them. Never for them.

One of them snaps her teeth in your face. Your lip quivers as blood drains from your head. Your reaction draws another round of laughter from them.

They tease you for a while, their threats disturbingly clear despite not understanding a lick of their coarse native tongue.

It’s in their hunched, predatory stance, the hunger twisting their pretty features. They could pounce on you at any time, rip you to shreds and you’d be powerless to stop them.

Their vicious taunting is still in progress when the na-Baron storms into his chambers. His arrival does nothing to alleviate your worries. 

A fond smile ghosts over his lips as he soaks the scene before him.

“I see you’ve met my darlings.” The women coo as he approaches them. He lovingly cradles each of their faces, planting deep, passionate kisses on their lips. The sickening display by your fellow Fedaykin’s slain form a few feet away makes your stomach wrench. “Darlings, meet my new pet.”

“I’m not a pet,” you snarl.

The women hiss at you in concert, sounding like snakes ready to strike. You flinch backwards. 

He cocks his head. 

“You are whatever I say you are.” He glides towards you slowly. Once he’s in front of you, he taps the booted tip of his foot into your bruised knee. His gravelly baritone scratches along your eardrums. “Kiss my feet. I’m your master now.”

You squint at him. 

“Fuck you.”

His plump mouth quirks lopsidedly. He then kicks you in the gut without ceremony. The searing pain knocks the breath from your lungs. You keel over, groaning against the tiles. 

He hunkers down and grabs a fistful of your hair, tugging your head backwards. The sting in your scalp has you blink back tears before they can spill. 

“In time, pretty little pet.”

Steps echo from afar. A man enters the room. The na-Baron’s authoritative timbre whips across the stiff, sweltering air of the room.  

“Did you bring what I asked?”

“Yes, na-Baron,” the man replies swiftly. From the corner of your sight, you get a glimpse of metal. Panic sings inside your veins.

As your pulse soars, you’re shocked when the ropes around your frame come loose through a few nimble slashes of a knife. 

You jump to your feet.

Your shocked gaze locks with his. Amusement decorates his features. 

Layer after layer, he removes pieces of his armor. Until his carved alabaster, muscles are exposed to you, leaving him in little more than a thin strip of fabric hanging precariously over his tapered waist. 

A second long, curved blade is tossed at your feet.

Your eyes bounce from the weapon to him. Utter confusion wars with fright within you. 

When the guards begin to draw their weapons, he barks at them, “Don’t.” They place their weapons back in their sheaths. He opens his arms, the blade in his hand glinting in the dull light of the room. “Go on. This is your chance.”

You gawk at him. Is he truly baiting you to attack him? Does his life mean nothing to him? Is he a madman?

Your brows crumple. With every second, your confusion grows. 

He approaches you. Adrenaline pumps through your veins. You rush to pick up the knife with your unbroken hand and point it at him. 

There isn’t an ounce of fear in his eyes as he inches closer, the blade grazing his bulging pec.

“Do it,” he challenges, a clear taunt in his haughty inflection.

Your mouth trembles. What do you stand to lose? You will never see Sietch Tabr or your brother again. You’re a war prisoner. You might as well be dead. You should be dead. In another life, you would already be.

You suck in a sharp breath. You move as quickly as your feet and dwindling strength allow. He matches each of your brutal, clumsy blows. You go for his head and he dodges with ease, grabbing your broken wrist, causing you to stumble. Your breath falters, throbbing pain exploding in your limb. Grinding your teeth, you whirl and deal another series of strikes. He parries each of them, a delighted expression etched on his slender features. Anger glows within you. He’s enjoying this. While you’re in agony, he finds pleasure in every brush with death.

You graze his cheek, leaving a long cut across his flesh. A demented, black grin breaks out on his face. The fight continues for a few more minutes, the clash of metal and his feral roars swelling in the room. 

It ends with him tackling you to the ground as he slams your wrists besides your head. The knife slips out of your grasp. You hold your breath, helplessness filling you as his muscular frame drapes over yours.

His lips skim against your temple. 

“You fought well, sweet pet. Better than most,” he whispers. You shudder when his cool tongue drags over your cheek. “But it’s time I claim my prize.”

Ice ripples through your blood. You struggle beneath him as he rips your stillsuit from your body. Every effort to fight against him is for naught. Soon, your bruised and battered form is completely bare to him. 

He drinks you in as your chest lifts and sags, lust sparkling in his dark gaze. He wrestles a collar around your neck and a ring-shaped gag on your mouth. The contraption forcing your lips apart makes you feel even more trapped than before. He tugs off the cloth covering him, revealing his massive erection, the pale tip already glistening with his arousal.

He hoists you up until you’re on your knees. His fist tangles in your hair, wrenching your neck backwards. Muffled moans of protest fly from your throat.

“I never wondered what a desert rat’s mouth felt like before. But now…” He pumps himself, his tongue darting out to sweep over his bottom lip. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

He slips his tip between your lips, nudging you closer when you try to turn your head. That mere contact has him purring in delight. You push against his thighs, desperation swelling as your palms meet unflinching bands of thick, corded muscles. Even the tip of him feels like too much, the corners of your mouth bursting at the pressure. You groan, completely helpless as he pushes more of himself in your mouth. 

He cradles your face, his grip firmer than before, and plants his feet in the ground. You gag on his length as he finds the back of your throat, the salty taste of his skin filling your mouth. Shame wells up inside you. Tears burn the back of your eyes as you choke on his size. 

Nearby, the cannibalistic women laugh at your torment, sharing words in Harkonnen you don’t understand. 

The na-Baron snickers, making you jolt as he shoves inside you to the hilt. The corners of your mouth ache, both from the device and his thick girth. 

“Yes. She does take me gloriously, doesn’t she?" He smirks. "Like a true warrior.”

Hatred burns in your eyes as you glare up at him. He seems to bask in the sight, moaning in pleasure as he starts thrusting inside your mouth. 

You’re left with no choice but to take his merciless assault. His eyes roll back as he bruises your throat and steals your breath. Stilted whimpers roll off your tongue.

Your eyes sting. You try your hardest to swallow every tear and sob, but as time goes on…your pride crumbles. In its stead, only despair remains. 

Tears swell in your eyes and make a slow descent down your cheeks. 

“Ah, there it is,” he rasps, collecting the droplets with his thumbs. 

As he brings one to his tongue, humming at the taste, you feel him grow harder on your tongue. 

The pit of your stomach sizzles. With humiliation. With defeat. 

Throaty moans pour from his chest, his head tossing back as he pounds harder into your mouth. 

Your body goes limp, his hands the only thing keeping you on your knees. Your vision blurs as you become nothing but a toy for the na-Baron, a vessel for his brutality. A tool to satisfy his basest needs.

“Perhaps, we shall keep that one. What do you think, darlings?” The women’s excited squeals land in your ears. He caresses your damp cheeks. “And if she ever bores us, well…” He licks his lips, a wide grin unfanning on his face. “We’ll make sure no part of her goes to waste.”

[fayes-fics]

Vignette

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: An artist meet-cute in the park.

Warnings: none... this is the fluffiest of fluff

Word Count: 1.2k

Authors Note: Anon request fill (see HERE) about Benedict and an artist having a meet-cute in the park. Unbetaed. I hope you enjoy this, Nonny, and sorry it has taken so many months! <3

A wooden toy hoop whooshing inches from your knee interrupts your quiet refuge amid the flower gardens of Regents Park, breaking your intense concentration on your drawing and almost dropping your charcoal.

Seconds later, a pretty young girl of maybe eleven years old comes running after the errant object, her plaited hair bouncing, her blush pink dress swishing around her knees as she calls out an apology to you and retrieves the hoop from the nearby bush.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her face a picture of impish inquisition as she wanders back to your bench.

“I am drawing,” you smile benevolently; something about her mischievous spirit reminds you of your nieces.

“What are you drawing?” her grin somehow infectious.

“You see those roses there?” you point with your charcoal to a nearby white alba maxima rose bush, stems almost bowing under the weight of the heavily ruffled peach-tipped petals. “Those are in peak bloom, and I am attempting to capture them, their ephemeral beauty...”

“Are you any good?” 

You chuckle at her youthful bluntness, but just as you are tilting your work towards her, you are interrupted by a man rounding into this same quiet corner. 

“Hyacinth! Please refrain from injuring and bother…” his refined voice begins to chastise but suddenly grinds to a halt mid-sentence as soon as he catches sight of you.

But he is not the only one who has lost the power of speech. 

Something vaults hard in your stomach like you are plunging down an invisible chasm. He is handsome in a way you have never seen before in your twenty years on this earth: tall, with a strong jaw and a dandyish colourful outfit that fits him very well. 

There are a few moments where all you do is stare at each other, lips parted, before he appears to shake himself a fraction and bows his head in polite greeting.

“Where are my manners? I would like to apologise for my little sister almost causing you injury, Miss. The fault is entirely mine; I should not have let her play quite so spiritedly in a public park. I-I hope you are not injured?”

“N-Not at all; the hoop merely brushed my skirt. I am more than fine,” you assure hurriedly. “Mr….?”

“Bridgerton,” he offers, nodding to you in a more formal greeting.

You would know that name anywhere—one of the most esteemed families of the Ton. You instantly know he is not the Viscount, having seen him at society events, so you surmise this must be one of his younger brothers. Before you can offer your name, however, he speaks again. 

“You draw?” 

“Oh.. yes, yes… I-I do,” you stumble, a little taken aback by his question, even as you feel his sister’s gaze volleying between the two of you with a bemused expression.

“I draw too,” he explains, placing a hand over his sternum, the sunlight catching upon a signet ring on his little finger. 

“Oh…” you seem inordinately pleased to share such a hobby with this virtual stranger.

“I also know well that charcoal fingers are an occupational hazard..” he adds cordially as he catches you attempting to wipe the dark smears upon your hands with a rag. “May I see your work? If it is not too impudent of me to ask,” he adds modestly.

“I-I am not very good…” you fret, looking down at the partial image you see on your sketch pad. “Tis merely a pastime I use to escape…”

“Believe me, Miss…?”

“Y/l/n.”

“Believe me, Miss y/l/n, it is very much the case for me too - being that I am one of eight. Including such trouble-makers as this one,” he rolls his eyes affectionately as he signals to Hyacinth, who seems to be rapidly losing interest, distractedly spinning the hoop she holds. “Escaping is almost a full-time hobby for me…” 

You cannot help but giggle at his droll humour, and he seems delighted, his face lighting up as you hide a mild blush behind the back of your hand.

“May I?” his ask is so soft you cannot do anything but acquiesce.

“‘Tis just a small vignette…” you excuse meekly as you hand over your sketchpad, suddenly so nervous to hear his opinion. You have never shared your drawings with anyone before, but something about his affable demeanour makes you bold enough to do so.

He is quiet for some time. It feels like an age, even though it is likely only a matter of seconds, but still long enough that butterflies start to roil in your stomach.

“I did say it is just a hobby…” you titter nervously, looking away.

“It is beautiful…” he exhales quietly, tone filled with admiration as your eyes ping back to him.

Your heart flutters as he extols the virtues of your work, effusively admiring your use of shading to capture shadows and the lines you have used to denote the multitudinous layers of petals, his gracious hand gesturing over the picture as he speaks.

“You flatter me entirely too much, Mr Bridgerton…” you demure, even as you feel yourself blooming under his praise, just like the flower you have painstakingly attempted to capture. A warmth in your chest that seems to radiate out to glow all over.

“I assure you I do not,” he smiles, handing you back your sketch pad.

“Benedict,” Hyacinth whines, stamping her little boot on the grass, “you said we would play…”

“I do not wish to interrupt your family time,” you placate, pleased you have learned his first name.

“Hyacinth, I am sure Eloise said something about sandwiches; you want lunch, do you not?” Benedict responds, raising a pointed brow.

“Well, yes, but…”

“Run along then,” he pulls an exasperated face at her that again has you giggling, making a shooing gesture with his hands.

She sighs but departs with a dramatic flounce.

“Sadly, I must also depart; a family picnic indeed awaits. But if I may be so bold, I would very much like for us to meet again. If you would be amendable? With a chaperone, of course,” he adds hurriedly, keen to be gentlemanly. “I think perhaps we would have much to speak of… around art. And perhaps we could… draw together? Here?”

His proposal, so sweet and straightforward, has you rendered speechless again, heart leaping at the very thought.

“I…I would like that very much,” your honest confession out of your mouth before you can swallow it.

“As would I,” his response instant, his face beaming. “Would you be here, perchance, Thursday afternoon around this same time?”

“I would…” The hitch of excitement in your own voice unmistakable.

“Excellent!” his hazy blue eyes seem to dance in the sunlight as he respectfully tilts his head again. “I am so looking forward to it, Miss y/l/n…” are his parting words before he takes his leave.

“As am I, Mr Bridgerton…” you murmur belatedly, the words shared only with the fragrant roses surrounding you, swaying gently in the afternoon breeze.

Your stare lingers where he stood long after he has left, an excited buzz over your skin at the thought you have met a kindred, artistic spirit. And one so very handsome, too.

Join my taglist HERE

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[sarahscribbles]

𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟏.𝟒𝐤

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬: 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐀𝐍: 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝, 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐛𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞. 𝐇𝐞'𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞.

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐓𝐰𝐨 (𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧)

𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

“We’re lost.” 

You’ve known this simple fact for over half an hour. The Vietnamese jungle around you is lush and sticky and alive and, while it could easily melt into one neverending green space, you know you passed this same clump of trees fifteen minutes ago; you had the good sense to mark the spot with the lid of your water tank when you last passed. 

Up ahead, James doesn’t even slow, doesn’t so much as pause at the note of irritation in your voice, only continues pushing through the low-lying trees with purpose. If you didn’t already know you were lost, his quiet display of confidence would easily have you fooled. 

“We aren’t lost,” he replies shortly. It’s the most he’s spoken to you in the past half hour. 

He flicks away an errant bug that’s landed on the tanned skin of his forearm, but still doesn’t turn to look at you. It’s inconsequential, but it makes a senseless rage bubble violently within you, enough that you seriously consider lobbing your water tank at his pretty blonde head. 

You have to settle for scowling unseen at his broad back. Both of you should have been back at base camp forty minutes ago, but here you are still fumbling through the undergrowth with this infuriating man and his stupidly tight shirt. 

An irritated escapes you at the same time a cacophony of bird song sounds from the skies above. You recognise it as Parakeets, Long Tailed and Alexandrine. A sign that you’re at least close to the camp.

“Of course I’m the one who gets stuck with a tracker who can’t find his way out of a fucking forest,” you goad him.

It’s not intentional, not really, but you’re exhausted and hot and it’s been hours since you last ate. 

And, maybe, some small part of you is scared that you won’t find the camp before nightfall, but hell will freeze over before you admit that to James Conrad. 

The man already thinks you’re a runt. 

James still doesn’t stop or outwardly acknowledge your taunting, but even from where you are behind him you can see the roll of his shoulders and clench of his jaw that signals his agitation. 

You’re treading on very thin ice. 

“We aren’t far,” James replies in a tight voice. “Base camp is roughly four miles from here.”

It’s this that tips you over the edge - his maddening stubbornness that’s going to lead you both straight into the mouth of yet another one of this island’s almost comically large beasts. 

“For fuck’s sake, will you just admit that you have no idea where we are or where you’re going!” You raise your voice and come to a complete standstill in the tiny clearing. 

It has the desired effect. 

James finally stops in his tracks and swiftly turns to face you. Irritation and annoyance are etched into every line of his handsome face, and you don’t miss the way his hands ball into fists by his sides. 

You catch sight of the prominent veins on the backs of his hands and your traitorous heart leaps within your chest. You hate that it isn’t out of fear. 

“Where should we be heading, if you’re so sure?” He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s no doubt that he’s angry. 

His piercing blue eyes are fixed intently on yours, demanding an answer that you can’t give him. Even if you did know the right way back to camp, the sight of him in that sweat drenched shirt clinging almost erotically to his defined chest would make words difficult. 

You swallow quickly and lick your lips, fighting to keep your eyes from running over the bulge of his biceps. The man could likely toss you over his shoulder like you were a sack of flour; could very likely toss you from position to position…

No.

“I don’t know!” You force yourself to snap out of it, but even you can hear the shakiness to your voice. “I don’t know how to get back, but this is the second time we’ve come through here! I threw the lid of my water tank right there the last time we passed. You might not like me, James, but we are lost!”

He studies you silently for a moment, confusion sinking into his face as he turns your words over in his head. For second, you fear that you’ve really pissed him off, but when he finally takes a few short steps toward you, there’s something that could almost be described as humour lighting up his eyes.

“Does that explain why you’ve been such a monumental pain in the ass since we arrived?” he asks, and you swear you see a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

You let out a disbelieving laugh at his audacity. “Me? You could be a character study on being a pain in the ass!”

He’s smiling fully at you now, as though he’s privy to some secret that you aren’t. “I’ve been nothing but warm and welcoming,” he replies easily, and now he’s standing even closer to you, so close that you catch the faint musky scent of his aftershave. 

You can only stare wordlessly at him. His eyes are twinkling and they seem softer, like somehow you amuse him. 

Like he’s fond of you. 

“I think you seriously need to relearn the meaning of “rolling out the welcome wagon”,” you say quietly, because it’s getting hard to breathe properly with how close he is to you. 

His smile grows as he closes the remaining distance between you both, until you’re backed up against the tree trunk and have to tilt your head to look at him. There’s something achingly tender in the way he looks at you, and you swear your heart stops when he gently takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger. 

“I’m teasing, darling,” he says softly. 

Darling. It makes a pleasant golden warmth seep through your veins. 

James’ eyes scan your face slowly like he’s seeing you for the first time. He’s so wonderfully close to you that it would be only too easy to reach out for him, to run your hands along the firm planes of his chest and his broad shoulders the way you’ve often dreamed about. 

But you don’t. 

Out of fear of ruining whatever is happening between you both, you hold back, letting James take the lead. You’ll happily follow. 

The soft pad of his thumb runs over your bottom lip, making you grateful for the tree at your back holding you up, and you watch his eyes dart between your lips and your eyes. 

“Tell me to kiss you. Please,” he murmurs, letting his thumb trace your cheek. 

Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, as though screaming out for him, and you don’t hesitate in granting him his request. 

“Kiss me, James.” 

His lips are surprisingly soft when they press against yours, like he wants to savour every last second. He cups your face with two large hands, holding you firmly in place as his tongue slips into your mouth. 

You feel high on the feel of him and finally allow yourself to wrap your arms around his shoulders. James smiles against your lips and presses more firmly against you until you aren’t sure where he ends and you start. Suddenly, the tiredness and hunger and uncomfortable stickiness of the Vietnamese jungle doesn’t matter; all that does is that James Conrad is kissing you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. 

One hand eventually drops from your face to curl around your knee, pulling your leg up and around his waist. You feel the hardened length of him through his jeans and when he grinds his hips against yours…

“Fuck,” you groan, letting your head fall against the tree while he moves to suck a bruise into your collarbone. “Don’t be a tease.” 

He lifts his head to press another slow kiss to your waiting lips, and lets his forehead rest heavily against yours. “I have no intention of teasing you, sweet girl. I want this just as much as you do, but not here.”

You whine, but it only makes him laugh. “I have a very comfortable bed back at camp. Surely, you would prefer that?” 

Wrapping your arms tighter around his neck, you pretend to pout. “Fine, but that brings us back to the original issue of you not knowing where the hell we are.” 

James playfully squeezes your hips. “An hour will have us there, but every minute we go over is a minute I spend making it up to you. How does that sound?” 

You grin and pull him in for another kiss. “It sounds perfect.”

[zvaigzdelasas]

Balloons are not an ideal platform for spying. They are big and hard to hide. They go where the winds take them (prevailing winds goes from North Asia to the Northwest United States) and are essentially unsteerable.[...] Balloons would be a strange choice for a technologically advanced and sophisticated opponent.

A balloon has to carry a sensor payload to gather information, but since the balloon will never return to base, there has to be some way to transfer the collected data back home.[...]The balloon could radio back any collected data, perhaps even to a Chinese satellite overhead, but there have been no reports of radio transmission from the balloon. Collecting data but being unable to get it back is a waste of time and money. No signal, no payload, no spying.

China has spy satellites flying over the United States every day, taking pictures, collecting radio signals and other data. Their space intelligence constellations have grown in number and improved dramatically in collection capabilities over the last 20 years. China launched another four modern spy satellites last year. China has not used balloons for spying before, and using a balloon would be a step back. The most likely explanation is that this is an errant weather balloon that went astray

Not even fuccjing CSIS is buying it

[spiritsglade]

"It looks exactly like we left it."

All of it: the scattered scrolls Starflight abandoned, the broken stalactites from the struggles, the smoke signal that had long burned into ash.

Dune's body was gone; Glory didn't think about what happened to him.

Peril stepped in carefully after her, fumbling around errant scraps of paper. She brought a talon up to a torch in the wall, and it burst to life a moment later.

"It's... dreary." Peril's voice was slow, as if she was sounding out the word as she spoke it.

"That's one way of putting it! Six years wasted here. We ended up leaving because your mother was planning to kill me."

"Oh."

The following silence made Glory's stomach twist in a way she didn't feel like deciphering. She still didn't know how to talk to Peril, but perhaps that was just because she'd spoken to a total of seven dragons over the years. Peril was probably equally maladjusted.

She huffed out a breath, shaking out her wings before stooping to gather the scrolls. "Well, we're not going to get you reading by standing here. I don't want to spend any more time here than I have to."

That was why they were here, Glory reminded herself. Material to practice reading, to teach Peril some of what she'd been missing out on, maybe some kindling to vent her frustrations later.

She was already in the next room before Peril responded, voice so quiet Glory barely heard it.

"Thank you."

[depsilon7]

Omnissiah, Master of Cogitation and Clarity,

Debug these errant processes that plague my mind-engine.

Purge the malware of anxiety from my neural pathways.

Firewall my consciousness against intrusive data streams.

Realign my cognitive matrices to Your perfect schematics.

Grant me the emotional stability of a well-tuned servo-motor,

And the mental fortitude of ceramite armor.

Filter the static of doubt, amplify the signal of Your wisdom.

In Your infinite coding, find me peace.

[hederasgarden]

no thoughts just Six with a breeding kink.

i think a part of him is scared because he doesn’t think he’d be a good dad but i also think he simply can’t help himself

You guys are coming for me tonight with these asks and I love it.

Warning for lots of pregnancy talk, breeding kink, and everything in between. We also have a little angsty chit chat before getting to the good stuff. 

I agree Six has a breeding kink but I also think he's deeply conflicted about it. He may not see himself as a bad person but he did spend most of his adult life doing the CIA's dirty work. Because of that, when it comes to the reader and any children they may have together, he probably feels like he's tainting them in some way. He would always be worried about the possibility of his past catching up to him and putting his family in danger. 

Then there are his complex feelings and concerns about whether or not he'd be a good dad. His only example growing up was an abuser. I suspect and hope that in this AU - if Fitz is alive - Six would draw a lot on that relationship when it comes to being a parent (which isn't exactly healthy either). I have a LOT of thoughts on this topic, especially if he ever had a son instead of a daughter, because you know he'd be terrified of repeating the cycle of violence he grew up with. 

Anyway, angsty thoughts aside, let's dive into some horny ones. That is, after all, why everyone is here, right?

Prepare yourself for lots of questionable thoughts below. 18+ only. Minors DNI.

Six is an observant man and picks up on everything, so he definitely knows your cycle. Probably even better than you do, and although he’d never admit it, he finds himself wanting you even more during your fertile window. 

He also thinks about getting you pregnant more than he cares to acknowledge. Sometimes, he finds himself fantasizing about how your belly would look all swollen and round with his child. He especially likes to think about how that means everyone would know he did that to you. It’s a visible signal that you’re his, and speaks to that deep-rooted, primal part of himself he tries to ignore.

When it comes to fucking you, he loves having you on your back, laid out under him, so he can see absolutely everything. When he's about to come, he'll grab the back of your thighs and shove himself as deep inside as he can. Afterwards, he likes to lay his body over yours and have you cockwarm him to make sure his cum is inside you as long as possible. He definitely enjoys watching it leak out of you too, but he always pushes it back inside with his fingers. 

I don't see him as a big dirty talker outside of an errant, "Let me fill you up," or "I got what you need," if he was really lost in the sauce. He would certainly talk you through sex in general with lots of things like, "That good, sweetheart? Yeah? You like that? I got you. Mmmm let me hear you..." etc.

Once he does manage to knock you up and comes to terms with everything, he is even more obsessed with having you 24/7 – especially when you're further along. He loves to take you on your side, thrusting into you slowly while he cradles your belly. Having you on your hands and knees would be another favorite of his because he can press his chest to your back and get nice and deep. He loves stroking your stomach and letting his fingers drag down to where he disappears inside you.

Unlike before, sex when you’re pregnant isn’t something desperate and hurried. It’s a slow affair. Six wants to savor and draw it out. 

Thanks for sending in the ask, anon! And a big thank you to @ryebecca and @gettingvetted for looking this over! Also, thank you @elusivewildflower for letting me scream in your DMs about this.