#meets violent hostility

[withbriefthanksgiving]

The director of the New York Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights of the UN (UN OHCHR), Craig Mokhiber, has resigned in a letter dated 28 October 2023

the resignation letter can be found embedded in this tweet by Rami Atari (@.Raminho) dated 31 October 2023.

The letters are here:

Transcription:

United Nations | Nations Unies

HEADQUARTERS I SIEGE I NEW YORK, NY 10017

28 October 2023

Dear High Commissioner,

This will be my last official communication to you as Director of the New York Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights.

I write at a moment of great anguish for the world, including for many of our colleagues. Once again, we are seeing a genocide unfolding before our eyes, and the Organization that we serve appears powerless to stop it. As someone who has investigated human rights in Palestine since the 1980s, lived in Gaza as a UN human rights advisor in the 1990s, and carried out several human rights missions to the country before and since, this is deeply personal to me.

I also worked in these halls through the genocides against the Tutsis, Bosnian Muslims, the Yazidi, and the Rohingya. In each case, when the dust settled on the horrors that had been perpetrated against defenseless civilian populations, it became painfully clear that we had failed in our duty to meet the imperatives of prevention of mass atrocites, of protection of the vulnerable, and of accountability for perpetrators. And so it has been with successive waves of murder and persecution against the Palestinians throughout the entire life of the UN.

High Commissioner, we are failing again.

As a human rights lawyer with more than three decades of experience in the field, I know well that the concept of genocide has often been subject to political abuse. But the current wholesale slaughter of the Palestinian people, rooted in an ethno-nationalist settler colonial ideology, in continuation of decades of their systematic persecution and purging, based entirely upon their status as Arabs, and coupled with explicit statements of intent by leaders in the Israeli government and military, leaves no room for doubt or debate. In Gaza, civilian homes, schools, churches, mosques, and medical institutions are wantonly attacked as thousands of civilians are massacred. In the West Bank, including occupied Jerusalem, homes are seized and reassigned based entirely on race, and violent settler pogroms are accompanied by Israeli military units. Across the land, Apartheid rules.

This is a text-book case of genocide. The European, ethno-nationalist, settler colonial project in Palestine has entered its final phase, toward the expedited destruction of the last remnants of indigenous Palestinian life in Palestine. What's more, the governments of the United States, the United Kingdom, and much of Europe, are wholly complicit in the horrific assault. Not only are these governments refusing to meet their treaty obligations "to ensure respect" for the Geneva Conventions, but they are in fact actively arming the assault, providing economic and intelligence support, and giving political and diplomatic cover for Israel's atrocities.

Volker Turk, High Commissioner for Human Rights Palais Wilson, Geneva

In concert with this, western corporate media, increasingly captured and state-adjacent, are in open breach of Article 20 of the ICCPR, continuously dehumanizing Palestinians to facilitate the genocide, and broadcasting propaganda for war and advocacy of national, racial, or religious hatred that constitutes incitement to discrimination, hostility, and violence. US-based social media companies are suppressing the voices of human rights defenders while amplifying pro-Israel propaganda. Israel lobby online-trolls and GONGOS are harassing and smearing human rights defenders, and western universities and employers are collaborating with them to punish those who dare to speak out against the atrocities. In the wake of this genocide, there must be an accounting for these actors as well, just as there was for radio Mules Collins in Rwanda.

In such circumstances, the demands on our organization for principled and effective action are greater than ever. But we phave not met the challenge. The protective enforcement power Security Council has again been blocked by US intransigence, the SG [UN Secretary General] is under assault for the mildest of protestations, and our human rights mechanisms are under sustained slanderous attack by an organized, online impunity network.

Decades of distraction by the illusory and largely disingenuous promises of Oslo have diverted the Organization from its core duty to defend international law, international human rights, and the Charter itself. The mantra of the "two-state solution" has become an open joke in the corridors of the UN, both for its utter impossibility in fact, and for its total failure to account for the inalienable human rights of the Palestinian people. The so-called "Quartet" has become nothing more than a fig leaf for inaction and for subservience to a brutal status quo. The (US-scripted) deference to "agreements between the parties themselves" (in place of international law) was always a transparent slight-of-hand, designed to reinforce the power of Israel over the rights of the occupied and dispossessed Palestinians.

High Commissioner, I came to this Organization first in the 1980s, because I found in it a principled, norm-based institution that was squarely on the side of human rights, including in cases where the powerful US, UK, and Europe were not on our side. While my own government, its subsidiarity institutions, and much of the US media were still supporting or justifying South African apartheid, Israeli oppression, and Central American death squads, the UN was standing up for the oppressed peoples of those lands. We had international law on our side. We had human rights on our side. We had principle on our side. Our authority was rooted in our integrity. But no more.

In recent decades, key parts of the UN have surrendered to the power of the US, and to fear of the Israel Lobby, to abandon these principles, and to retreat from international law itself. We have lost a lot in this abandonment, not least our own global credibility. But the Palestinian people have sustained the biggest losses as a result of our failures. It is a stunning historic irony that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights was adopted in the same year that the Nakba was perpetrated against the Palestinian people. As we commemorate the 75th Anniversary of the UDHR, we would do well to abandon the old cliché that the UDHR was born out of the atrocities that proceeded it, and to admit that it was born alongside one of the most atrocious genocides of the 20th Century, that of the destruction of Palestine. In some sense, the framers were promising human rights to everyone, except the Palestinian people. And let us remember as well, that the UN itself carries the original sin of helping to facilitate the dispossession of the Palestinian people by ratifying the European settler colonial project that seized Palestinian land and turned it over to the colonists. We have much for which to atone.

But the path to atonement is clear. We have much to learn from the principled stance taken in cities around the world in recent days, as masses of people stand up against the genocide, even at risk of beatings and arrest. Palestinians and their allies, human rights defenders of every stripe, Christian and Muslim organizations, and progressive Jewish voices saying "not in our name", are all leading the way. All we have to do is to follow them.

Yesterday, just a few blocks from here, New York's Grand Central Station was completely taken over by thousands of Jewish human rights defenders standing in solidarity with the Palestinian people and demanding an end to Israeli tyranny (many risking arrest, in the process). In doing so, they stripped away in an instant the Israeli hasbara propaganda point (and old antisemitic trope) that Israel somehow represents the Jewish people. It does not. And, as such, Israel is solely responsible for its crimes. On this point, it bears repeating, in spite of Israel lobby smears to the contrary, that criticism of Israel's human rights violations is not antisemitic, any more than criticism of Saudi violations is Islamophobic, criticism of Myanmar violations is anti-Buddhist, or criticism of Indian violations is anti-Hindu. When they seek to silence us with smears, we must raise our voice, not lower it. I trust you will agree, High Commissioner, that this is what speaking truth to power is all about.

But I also find hope in those parts of the UN that have refused to compromise the Organization's human rights principles in spite of enormous pressures to do so. Our independent special rapporteurs, commissions of enquiry, and treaty body experts, alongside most of our staff, have continued to stand up for the human rights of the Palestinian people, even as other parts of the UN (even at the highest levels) have shamefully bowed their heads to power. As the custodians of the human rights norms and standards, OHCHR. has a particular duty to defend those standards. Our job, I believe, is to make our voice heard, from the Secretary-General to the newest UN recruit, and horizontally across the wider UN system, incisting that the human rights of the Palestinian people are not up for debate, negotiation, or compromise anywhere under the blue flag.

What, then, would a UN-norm-based position look like? For what would we work if we were true to our rhetorical admonitions about human rights and equality for all, accountability for perpetrators, redress for victims, protection of the vulnerable, and empowerment for rights-holders, all under the rule of law? The answer, I believe, is simple—if we have the clarity to see beyond the propagandistic smokescreens that distort the vision of justice to which we are sworn, the courage to abandon fear and deference to powerful states, and the will to truly take up the banner of human rights and peace. To be sure, this is a long-term project and a steep climb. But we must begin now or surrender to unspeakable horror. I see ten essential points:

Legitimate action: First, we in the UN must abandon the failed (and largely disingenuous) Oslo paradigm, its illusory two-state solution, its impotent and complicit Quartet, and its subjugation of international law to the dictates of presumed political expediency. Our positions must be unapologetically based on international human rights and international law.

Clarity of Vision: We must stop the pretense that this is simply a conflict over land or religion between two warring parties and admit the reality of the situation in which a disproportionately powerful state is colonizing, persecuting, and dispossessing an indigenous population on the basis of their ethnicity.

One State based on human rights: We must support the establishment of a single, democratic, secular state in all of historic Palestine, with equal rights for Christians, Muslims, and Jews, and, therefore, the dicmantling of the deeply racist, settler-colonial project and an end to apartheid across the land.

Fighting Apartheid: We must redirect all UN efforts and resources to the struggle against apartheid, just as we did for South Africa in the 1970s, 80s, and early 90s.

Return and Compensation: We must reaffirm and insist on the right to return and full compensation for all Palestinians and their families currently living in the occupied territories, in Lebanon, Jordan, Syria, and in the diaspora across the globe.

Truth and Justice: We must call for a transitional justice process, making full use of decades of accumulated UN investigations, enquiries, and reports, to document the truth, and to ensure accountability for all perpetrators, redress for all victims, and remedies for documented injustices.

Protection: We must press for the deployment of a well-resourced and strongly mandated UN protection force with a sustained mandate to protect civilians from the river to the sea.

Disarmament: We must advocate for the removal and destruction of Israel's massive stockpiles of nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons, lest the conflict lead to the total destruction of the region and, possibly, beyond.

Mediation: We must recognize that the US and other western powers are in fact not credible mediators, but rather actual parties to the conflict who are complicit with Israel in the violation of Palestinian rights, and we must engage them as such.

Solidarity: We must open our doors (and the doors of the SG) wide to the legions of Palestinian, Israeli, Jewish, Muslim, and Christian human rights defenders who are standing in solidarity with the people of Palestine and their human rights and stop the unconstrained flow of Israel lobbyists to the offices of UN leaders, where they advocate for continued war, persecution, apartheid, and impunity, and smear our human rights defenders for their principled defense of Palestinian rights.

This will take years to achieve, and western powers will fight us every step of the way, so we must be steadfast. In the immediate term, we must work for an immediate ceasefire and an end to the longstanding siege on Gaza, stand up against the ethnic cleansing of Gaza, Jerusalem, and the West Bank (and elsewhere), document the genocidal assault in Gaza, help to bring massive humanitarian aid and reconstruction to the Palestinians, take care of our traumatized colleagues and their families, and fight like hell for a principled approach in the UN's political offices.

The UN's failure in Palestine thus far is not a reason for us to withdraw. Rather it should give us the courage to abandon the failed paradigm of the past, and fully embrace a more principled course. Let us, as OHCHR, boldly and proudly join the anti-apartheid movement that is growing all around the world, adding our logo to the banner of equality and human rights for the Palestinian people. The world is watching. We will all be accountable for where we stood at this crucial moment in history. Let us stand on the side of justice.

I thank you, High Commissioner, Volker, for hearing this final appeal from my desk. I will leave the Office in a few days for the last time, after more than three decades of service. But please do not hesitate to reach out if I can be of assistance in the future.

Sincerely,

Craig Mokhiber

End of transcription.

Emphasis (bolding) is my own. I have added links, where relevant, to explanations of concepts the former Director refers to.

[robo-writing]

Someone asked me to elaborate on this post, so I will :3 (18+)

Logan is a man who has always been a pack animal—a sheep in need of a flock, if you will. As much as he can deny it, he thrives off of a need to belong, a need to be needed. He’ll never admit it, but the signs are there.

Being fiercely loyal, his devotion, violent towards anyone or anything that threatens his peace. With the X-Men he’s protective, but with you? It’s something else entirely.

When Logan finds a partner actually willing to stay with him—broken, animalistic thing that he believes himself to be—he holds on tight to them and refuses to let go. It’s an odd mix between a child holding onto its favorite doll and a dog sinking its teeth into its favorite chew toy—but the intent is the same regardless.

You’re his, and he’s never gonna let you go.

To say he would kill for you is truly an understatement—he would wage war for you, would watch the viscera river down his arms in streams—a privilege he offers to you and you alone, the only woman in the world he’d ever trust with his leash. It scares him, how much control you have over him, but it excites him all the same.

The best part? You truly have no idea how much power over him you have.

Even the simplest things have him bending over backwards for you, calling for him from across the house in that melodic voice he loves so much just to ask him for help.

“Could you help me with dinner?”

“Mind grabbing this for me?”

“I’m too lazy, sorry to be a bother—“

And the answer is the same each time—“You’re no bother princess, just say the word.”

He wants to scold you sometimes at the mere suggestion that his answer would ever be no. When it comes to you, he doesn’t think the word is in his dictionary. You have him deeply, truly, well trained, so much so that he’d gladly kneel at your feet if it meant you’d look down at him, because at the end of the day you’d still be looking at him.

Embarrassing really, that the big bad wolverine is secretly a lovedrunk puppy, one that’d dig his thumbs into the arches of your feet, smiling to himself when you let out that deliciously drawn out moan when he hits the right spot, right there, thank you.

However, that same puppy turns into a feral hound whenever he perceives a threat. Whether it be friend or foe, he’s one step behind you the moment you show any kind of discomfort. Even the slightest hint of hostility and Logan’s right there, chest puffed and glaring daggers at whoever was stupid enough to try, and that’s on the best of days.

On the worst of days…it’s a different story entirely. You’ve become far too familiar with the dulled sound of skin meeting metal, that familiar snikt before you’re forced to stand between Logan and his next victim. The two of you have gotten kicked out of your fair share of establishments, but Logan apologizes in a way only he can—with his mouth against your cunt.

Every lick, every suck, every touch, an apology. Muttering into your pussy, worshipping it, his tongue against your clit his own personal prayer, the sound of your moans his reward for being so devout.

“Sorry for getting us in trouble doll—“

His palms smooth over your trembling flesh, rough and calloused, just the right amount of pressure to keep you grounded.

“Sorry for getting you banned from your favorite shop—“

His fingers leave divots in your thighs, pulling himself further against your mound. His nose bumps against your clit with each pass, and the feeling leaves you gasping for air.

“Sorry for being so protective—“

Again and again, his mouth brings you to heights you never thought possible.

“Sorry for being so rough, just can’t help myself.”

In more ways than one, he really can’t, can’t take the man out of the beast if he’s more beast than man. Can’t teach a feral dog to socialize, but you can teach it who his master is.

And boy, do you fucking teach him.

You give him the best lesson of your life whenever you praise him, spread your legs and pull his head deeper into your needy cunt, dig your nails into his scalp just the way he likes it and moan for him while your thighs shake and your pussy squirts against his taste buds.

“Good boy, Lo’—good fucking boy—“

If he had a tail, it’d be fucking wagging.

[autisticrosewilson]

"Oh Steph wouldn't like Jason just because they have similar backgrounds because he kills people/is a criminal/fights the bats!!"

This is in the 90's BEFORE he even tortured her. She doesn't go through with it, but she sees the evil he's capable of and its enough for her to justify it. She only doesn't because it "goes against what Batman taught her" but well.

That's the same man who would let her dad's friends infest her house for MONTHS until BLACK CANARY came to Gotham and handled it

A grown man who would go on to verbally degrade her, withhold the tools he gave everyone else, keep her intentionally isolated and then use her lack of resources against her.

So yeah. I'm sure Steph's faith in Batman and his teachings have wavered plenty. Just because DC casually discarded the way she was treated so she could play happy family with the boys, but she has NO REASON TO. Before she was aged down there was definite tension between her and Tim, and while Babs worked to get that relationship back, Bruce did no such thing. "Oh I'm just as proud of you as I was with the boys" when he thought she was dying doesn't fucking change how he treated her.

And of course, there's her own forray into betraying the family and being a criminal in The Next Batman series.

That's without getting into how she was compared to Jason, the way she watched a murdered east end kid be toted as another violent, reckless, idiot who didn't think and got himself killed.

"Oh but he tried to kill Tim!" First of all, you didn't read that comic. Jason was TESTING him, they were 2 years apart MAXIMUM, and Tim FOUGHT BACK. Jason gave him a little cut and a nose bleed that he slapped a bandage on and was fine. Damian also started his first meeting with Tim antagonistically and even though he was actively hostile to her, Steph still formed a close sibling bond. Her first meeting with Tim she threw a brick at him. He spent a not significant amount of time belittling her and telling her she wasn't cut out for hero work when she came back. This is the same guy who hallucinated Jason just so Jason could be like "Oh I got myself killed don't be like me!" Can we be real she doesn't give a shit. I guess you could count Hush but. I know they retconned it so that was Jason but when the fuck would he have had the time to do that between death, catanoia, the All-caste, and his murder tour.

Stephanie understands better than anyone that desperate circumstances lead to desperate people who do bad things. Stephanie understands being belittled and compared to a rich white boy who never had to fight to survive like you did. She understands being isolated from the hero community. She understands the evil that exists and the ways the system is corrupt, and that the bad guy never STAYS caught. And it's not like she has any big problem with people who kill, Babs said in 90's she would fucking LOVE Joker to drop dead and Dinah has killed multiple times. She literally switched places with Lady Shiva? These are both women Steph looks up to. You don't think Steph would feel any admiration at all for someone who gave Bruce a taste of what it feels like to be shown up? Someone who made Roman's life hell? Someone who made Tim put action behind his shit talking? An alley kid who came back and refused to be another statistic, who showed everyone who spent the last decade calling him stupid and reckless EXACTLY how cunning he can be? None? At all?

I just find it a little hard to believe.

[marvelseries19]

VANISHING POINT

Chapter One - Castaway

Chapter one | Chapter two | Chapter three | Chapter Four | Chapter five |

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: The mission was successful, however, your return home will not be as easy as you may believe. In fact, you're not sure you would be able to get back.

A/N: It's been a while since I've been excited about writing. So, here is the first chapter. I hope you like it. I rewrote a few times, but I think this is as good as it gets. I would appreciate feedback on it, and any comments, suggestions, questions, or just conversations about it are welcome. There are some posts that I would like for you to check out, there is some info and ideas that I wanted to let you know. If you saw a typo or something, no, you didn't. Enjoy :)

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries, language, etc.

Word count: 1.2k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The Quinjet hummed steadily beneath your fingertips, the vast stretch of ocean below endless and unforgiving. The ride back to the compound was at least full of beautiful views.

It had been an easy mission, just surveillance on a suspected HYDRA base. It took a week to complete, and now you were on your way home.

You leaned back slightly, exhaling. Just a few more hours, and you would be back home. Back with her.

Your fingers idly reached for the chain around your neck, your thumb grazing over the cool metal of the ring that rested against your collarbone. Natasha’s ring. Your ring.

"So you don’t forget who’s waiting for you," she had murmured the night before, fastening the delicate chain around your neck, leaving a soft kiss at the nape of your neck. You had smiled, shaking your head, but you had worn it beneath your suit every day since.

You were still lost in thought when Control’s voice crackled into the cockpit.

"Quinjet 9, this is Control. We just lost your tracking signal. Do you copy?"

Your brows furrowed. That’s not good.

"Yeah, I’m here. Everything looks fine… But let me check." Your fingers moved swiftly across the controls.

"Check your navigation relay. We’re showing nothing on our grid." A knot of unease formed in your stomach.

"Navigation relay is showing an error," you reported, your voice tight. "Stand by. I'll reboot—" The comms crackled, then cut out.

Silence.

Your stomach dropped.

"Control, say again? I'm losing you—repeat last!"

A new sound sliced through the cockpit—a shrill, piercing alarm.

Your radar flashed red. Missile lock. Your blood turned to ice.

"Shit—"

The first blast struck the Quinjet’s side. The impact threw you forward, your head slamming against the seat as the ship lurched violently. The left engine flared and failed instantly.

Alarms screamed. The Quinjet spun into freefall.

"Unidentified hostiles—taking heavy damage! Engines failing—I’m going down!" You shouted into the comms, straining to regain control.

"09, respond! What’s your location?! Agent Sloane, respond!"

You gritted your teeth, forcing your shaky hands over the controls, trying to reroute power. But the ship was already lost. The only thing you could do was brace for impact.

Your fingers clutched the ring against your chest.

Another explosion. The world blurred.

The ocean rushed up to meet you.

And then... Nothing.

—

The tension in the command center was thick enough to suffocate. Maria Hill stood with her arms crossed, eyes locked on the central monitor where Quinjet 9’s tracking data had once been.

Now, just static. Nick Fury stood beside her, his jaw tight, watching the same feed with unreadable eyes. Agent Dawson swallowed hard, headset pressed to his ear as he scanned multiple screens, waiting for anything-any sign of life.

Then—a red alert.

Dawson’s heart dropped.

"No, no, no..."

He straightened, turning toward Hill and Fury. His voice was steadier than he felt.

"We lost Quinjet 9."

Hill’s eyes narrowed. This couldn't be happening. "What do you mean 'lost'?"

Dawson hesitated. "No comms. No signal. No trace. It’s just... gone. We don't know where it is."

Silence.

Fury exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. "Shit."

A muscle in Hill’s jaw twitched, but she gave a curt nod. "Start a search. Now."

Dawson hesitated. "Are we letting Agent Romanoff know?"

Fury and Hill exchanged a look.

Hill's voice was quieter now, almost resigned. "We'll tell her soon."

But Natasha Romanoff was already walking toward them, worried about not being able to contact you.

And the moment she saw their faces, she knew something had happened.

—

The first thing you felt was pain.

It dragged you from unconsciousness, a dull, throbbing ache that rolled through your entire body in relentless waves. Your head pounded, the world tilting dangerously even though you weren’t moving. The distant sound of waves crashing against the shore filtered through the ringing in your ears.

You forced your eyes open.

Blurry at first. Then, sharper—too sharp. Sunlight burned against your retinas, forcing you to squeeze them shut again. You tried to shift, but the moment you did, agony tore through your right side.

Your breathing hitched.

Ribs—definitely broken. You pushed through the pain, blinking against the light, taking in your surroundings.

Sand. Golden, coarse grains clinging to your skin. Your tactical suit was torn and streaked with blood and seawater. You were half-buried in the surf, the edges of the tide touching your boots. Further up, debris from the Quinjet was scattered across the beach—twisted metal, shattered glass, pieces of what was once your cockpit.

Shit.

You bit back a groan as you tried to sit up. A sharp, white-hot burst of pain shot through your right shoulder.

Dislocated.

Gritting your teeth, you cradled your arm against your torso, barely holding back a scream. Your ribs protested with every movement, but you had to keep going.

Your left hand found your chain, fingers fumbling until they closed around the ring.

You exhaled shakily.

Natasha.

She had no idea where you were. No one did.

The Quinjet had gone down off-radar. You had no comms, no signal, no way of knowing if anyone was even looking for you yet.

You’re on your own.

For now, at least.

Your forehead throbbed, and when you reached up, your fingers came back slick with blood.

You checked yourself over as best you could. Right shoulder, dislocated; ribs, at least two broken; head, bleeding, probably a mild concussion; and finally your legs, sore but not broken. Good. Small victories.

Breathing through the pain, you forced yourself to move. You needed shelter. Water. Some kind of plan.

But first—the shoulder.

You swallowed hard. There's no way around it. It had to go back in.

You found a rock near the treeline, rough and sturdy enough for leverage. Your breathing was ragged as you planted your feet, braced your body, and slammed your shoulder back into place.

White-hot pain was felt behind your eyes, swiftly dragging you into darkness. Resetting your shoulder—or other joints—was nothing new, but never under circumstances like these or with this many injuries.

The agony was too much for your body to handle. So to protect you, it shut off.

—

A few months ago

"You’re fidgeting."

Natasha’s voice was amused, but there was something softer in her tone, something fond.

You rolled your eyes, stuffing your hands in your pockets. "I don’t fidget."

She smirked, stepping closer, the city lights casting a glow on her freckled cheekbones. "You do when you're nervous."

You sighed, exhaling a shaky breath. It was a stupid thing to be nervous about. You’d faced assassins, HYDRA, and alien invasions, but somehow, this moment felt more terrifying.

You pulled the ring from your pocket. A simple band, strong, unyielding.

Much like her.

Natasha’s breath caught.

"I know we never really talked about it," you said, swallowing past the lump in your throat. "And I know we’re both terrible at normal, but—"

She cut you off with a kiss, her fingers curling around yours, closing them over the ring.

When she pulled back, her voice was barely a whisper.

"I was waiting for you to ask."

—

You were jerked back to reality by the sharp, relentless pain in your ribs and shoulder, the ache grounding you in the present. But the memory of your marriage proposal still lingered, a warmth that cut through the agony like a lifeline.

You flexed your fingers. It worked.

Barely conscious, body trembling, you let your fingertips brush against the ring resting against your chest. A reminder. A promise.

And with that, you forced yourself to your feet.

[hattersrabbit]

FAMILIARITY

absolute trinity x reader | sfw

CW! gn! reader, slight angst, character x reader romantically involved, multiverse shenanigans, drabbles, spoilers for absolute comics

Summary! Absolute Trinity meeting their s/o from the mainstream universe

BATMAN

"Bruce..."

His name was soft off your lips. The heat was hot on her skin as you looked up at the tank of a mine in front of you. The Batman from your home was less big, actually a lot.

"You know me...?" His voice felt hostile. Albeit it wasn't your Bruce it was him. He was big and still handsome. "You’re different from where I know you." You smiled at him.

He was still confused it seemed.

"You can take off your mask, Bruce." You asked hesitantly.

"How can I trust you?" His lips morphed into a scowl.

You faltered but you raised your head, “I’m not sure what’ll make you trust me, but I do know your parents would be very proud of you. I know that, and my version of you knows that. Even if he doubts it.”

Bruce stared at you blankly. His giant hand raised to bull down his cowl to reveal a very young man with still some wonder in those eyes. Short black hair and baggy eyes.

You stepped forward and cradling his face between you hands. Bruce didn’t know why but he allowed you himself to lean down for you.

“You’ve been working hard.” You smiled quite sadly, “Things never change do they.” You said it like it was a fact instead of question.

He titled his head with narrowing eyes. “The other you is rich, but also just as sad. He works so hard and is always blaming himself. Doing everything to make sure Gotham thrives. Things never change.”

He nodded. His blue eyes blanking as they stared at you. Only seeing love in those eyes of yours. No matter what he’s done, or perhaps violent, whether it was him or the other him you’d love him.

“He treats you good?”

“Always. He cares too much, so much it’ll kill him if he’d ever to lose me or anyone else he cares about.” You reassured.

Bruce found himself thinking that when he met his world’s you he’d protect you too. If this was you and your original then he’d protect you too.

Yeah, he couldn’t lose anyone else otherwise he’d lose it too.

WONDER WOMAN

“Woah you’re so tall and pretty!” You giggled when looking up at the woman with flowing dark hair, blue eyes, and red tattoos.

Diana, but not your Diana. Someone who belonged to the darkness, but good. She was intimidating but she was warm like the sun. Just like your Diana.

“Why thank you.” It was her, definitely. “You’re not from here. You came through with magic. May I ask how that happened?” She mused with a tiny laugh as you got a look at her prosthetic arm.

“A man named Savage made a device that sent people to different universes. It broke in the fight and I got sucked in.”

You played with the parts of your hero costume as you stared up at her tall stature. “My Diana, she tried to save me but couldn’t reach me.” You thought of your Wonder Women.

Just as beautiful and dressed in blue,yellow, red, and white. Flowing black hair and her blue eyes. She looked like a goddess and looked like light.

“My Diana? Another version of me, good [ ]?”

“Yes, my Diana is a lot less dressed in darkness and born in Paradise Island, a land full of women called Amazons.” You noted how she froze when she heard you speak.

You wavered over her expression. “You aren’t from Themyscira. From Hell maybe?”

“How did you figure it?” Diana’s brows were up to her forehead as you giggled. “You’re whole getup kinda screams hell. But you’re still my Diana. I can see that.”

Diana hadn’t met you in her reality. She hoped you existed here, and was just as kind as you.

A smile that made you shine like the sun. A sun that Diana only experienced when she arrived her on Earth.

“I see. Well I’m glad your perception isn't me being evil.” She summed up. Her arms bulking as she crossed her arms. Your eyes glittered in excitement as she did so.

“Of course, because no matter how my Diana looks I’ll always love her.” The heat from your cheeks were loud. Diana couldn’t deny the flush of her cheeks.

Truly you were the birth of the Gods. A treasure she would protect; in every universe and any version of you.

SUPERMAN

Clark, or Kal-El floating in the air with blue eyes that were haunting. He didn’t give off that golden retriever aura like you were so used to.

He wasn’t all that huge, and this Superman was lean yet fit. Those eyes weren’t all that calming but haunting. Bright gold was shining off of his suit. Long hair and fair amount of stubble on his chin and jaw.

He was distant.

So unlike your Kal-El. In fact there was no Clark Kent. Simply the his Kyrptonian identity.

If was it was there then it was nonexistent.

Suddenly you felt a red cape surround you. Kal-El coming down and wrapping it around you. Your clothes were ripped. How you got here, but all you knew is that a machine by Gorilla Grodd broke and here you were.

That last memory being Clark being too late in saving you. Tears flowing from his eyes as you escaped into a blue light, and here you were.

“Kal-El…”. You shakily spoke.

“You know me?” He spoke. His voice still as he stared at you blankly. His mind twisting in gears. “Yes, but not mine. I can see that. I’m not from here.” You looked around to see the torn down buildings.

“You’re so much different from my Kal-El. My Superman is much more smiley, but I can see there’s goodness in you.” You looked hopeful into your eyes.

“This world is ugly. Some of these humans are ugly.”

His words made you still. Kal-El looked at you when he felt you falter. Shock in your eyes. That expression fatally fell to a sad smile.

“This world has been cruel to you.” Your hand drifted to his face. He didn’t know why but he allowed himself to melt into your touch. “But you still want to help. Humans are horrible but still fighting will make a difference.”

His expression seemed somewhere else. Like he was hearing someone else’s voice. Blue eyes flickering everywhere for anyone around you two. They came back to you and looking your eyes, locking eyeballs.

A hopeful look in them, “In your world, is it good?”

“Yes, and evil. But we do our best because even the tiniest effort can make the difference, Kal-El.” You gave him a smile. Cupping his face to which he melted.

A loud explosion was heard from elsewhere. Immediately you found yourself in his chest. His suit feeling different, and not made out of cloth like your Superman.

Kal-El made up his mind. Until you could return back to your universe he would protect you. Your world needed your goodness, and so did his other version.

After all it was true. Even if his suit said otherwise. Because maybe a world can be saved from themselves.

Just one step at a time.

[keferon]

Hello, tag reader here, I would like to hear the Terran rant and also maybe a bit more about this brainwashing idea?

I already wrote the Terran rant HOWEVER

LET ME YAP ABOUT EARTHSPARK AND BRAINWASHING SOME MORE

For two seasons all the adult bots we see are already friends with Megatron. We don’t know how they became friends we don’t know if they were hostile towards him at first. We don’t know if he had to go around apologising to everyone or maybe they just accepted him because it was tactically necessary. We have no idea. It was never shown.

All we know is that all Autobots accept Megatron. Pretty much. And all the kids accept him too because they’re in the same position as us - they don’t know anything about the war. They only have their silly comics and the words of adults.

And it’s a bit suspicious but again. The past was never shown. We don’t know what happened.

And then Prowl shows up. And it’s a big thing because Prowl doesn’t know the war is over! He wasn’t there when Megatron switched sides! So I naturally was very excited to see his reaction because. JUST THINK about it. Prowl is a DETECTIVE. There’s no way he would just go “Okay bruh I guess Megatron is with us now” without asking any questions right?? Hahaahaahahahah NO. Prowl immediately goes “Okay bruh” and doesn’t try to get any more important information. He acts bratty towards Megatron yes but he never tries to learn any more.

Which leads me to the thought. Isn’t it suspicious how perfect everything is around Megatron? Isn’t it weird how friendly and accepting everyone are? How they aaaall believe him no questions asked?

Isn’t it interesting how worried Megatron was during the Starscream episode in season 1? Starscream was pretty much the only one willing to share the fact that Megatron was a bad person in the past. Starscream also acts VERY surprised when Hashtag actually BELIEVES him. Which means that he tried more than once to tell people the truth and they dismissed him again and again and again.

Doesn’t it look like some kind of brainwashing to you? Doesn’t it feel like all those characters are being hit by invisible “I trust Megatron” beam? Because for me it does~

And what is even more interesting. Megatron is clearly used to this kind of behaviour. He expects it from everyone.

When during the first meeting Prowl naturally assumes that he is an enemy? Megatron gets OFFENDED. Because how dare you looking at the former leader of the Decepticons who is still wearing Decepticon badge and ASSUME he’s with the Decepticons??? He not only gets offended he also says with completely straight face that Prowl has to earn his forgiveness. And when he doesn’t immediately see Prowl apologising and accepting his authority? He gets violent. INSTANTLY.

Which is. Not the behaviour you might expect from a redeemed villain who admitted the fact of being wrong in the past. He walks around saying to everyone how good he is now but the moment someone makes him look bad? He chooses violence to shut that person up. And makes effort to make them look WORSE than him.

I find it incredibly fascinating. I think there’s no way it was written intentionally and most likely it’s just me losing my mind. But there’s such a unique potential in here. And as I keep saying. I don’t think they will go there. But they could. Easily.

Upd. OH AND THE FACT THAT HASHTAG LEARNED ABOUT MEGATRON’S EVIL PAST AND THEN NEVER EVER MENTIONED IT??? All other kids heard that as well but they didn’t really believe it I think. But Hashtag believed. And then straight up ignored that information and proceeded to move on without any trouble. She SAW WITH HER OWN EYES that Megatron was ready to kill Starscream and then it never made her teust him less in the future? It’s like her mind was reset. Isn’t it fascinating HUH

[feralmode]

okay i just read the bonus chapters from the rainbow crate books and the scene with andrew and aaron in bee's office really added some helpful context to the scene where andrew confronts kaitlyn in the library. before reading the bonus chapter, i was confused by how violent and angry/hateful andrew is towards kaitlyn. obviously he and aaron have this deal and it's important to him, but it doesn't really explain why he takes it out on kaitlyn.

but after reading the bonus chapter, i feel like 1. he genuinely thinks that kaitlyn is a threat to aaron. coming from neil's perspective, it's easy to think of kaitlyn as harmless, because he's had a couple of interactions with her where she's been bubbly and friendly towards him, and the rest of the foxes seem to like her and think that she and aaron are good together (see: matt saying all of the foxes bet on aaron and kaitlyn getting together). but andrew, as far as we know, has never actually interacted with kaitlyn. if what he's saying is true about aaron's previous girlfriends, then it's not just that he wants to hold aaron captive, he really does think that kaitlyn might mistreat aaron and cause him to relapse because this is a pattern he's seen play out with aaron before. obviously his reasoning for never actually meeting her and figuring out for himself if she's treating him well are more nuanced, but it makes slightly more sense that he would be so openly hostile towards her. he knows that aaron has a history of allowing women to hurt him and andrew has promised to protect him.

and then 2. kaitlyn is the reason aaron outed andrew to bee. the fact that andrew trusts bee so implicitly with all of his worst secrets and is afraid to tell her about neil is frankly devastating, but i don't think aaron is right that it's because he thinks bee will reject him for being gay. i think it's more that if he acknowledges it to bee, she'll force him to see it for what it is, which is genuine affection.

he's been denying having any positive feelings for anyone for so long - all of his close relationships are built on the facade of mutual reliance and deals, so he never has to acknowledge that he cares about them. with neil, getting close to him falls under the purview of the deal, but having an intimate relationship with him is solid proof that what he feels about neil is based in genuine emotion and not just in their deal (sidenote: the fact that andrew is seemingly being honest when he claims that he and neil haven't "fucked" is very interesting but i can't get into that right now). he doesn't talk to bee about it, because he's promised not to lie to bee, so he doesn't tell her anything he's not willing to be truthful about. the fact that aaron took that choice from him, pushed him to confront his feelings for neil, and leveraged neil against him, is enough to make him enraged, and he ends up taking it out on kaitlyn (which i have to believe is at least partly because he can't actually take his anger out on aaron without damaging their relationship, which we know is important to him).

i think that session, realizing that he's not willing to give up what he has with neil, and bee's response reminding andrew that he deserves to try to be happy, are ultimately what lead andrew to stop saying that it's "nothing" and to the conversation when neil says "i'm not as stupid as you think i am" and andrew says "and i'm not as smart as i thought i was." because he fucking knows!!! that he has feelings for neil!!! and it feels threatening but he's learning to accept it!!!!!!!! with bee's help!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

anyway this series will eat me alive thank you and good night

[buckets-and-trees]

No Way Out

Characters/Pairings: mean Alpha!Bucky x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 5.9k Summary: Your first time witnessing a council meeting under Bucky's new regime. He sends a clear message about how things will go. (not a stand-alone read)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse; reluctant attraction; power dynamics; manipulation; threats; semi-violent murder; explicit smut: exhibitionism, cock-warming, vaginal fingering, orgasm denial, unprotected vaginal intercourse and insemination, oral (female receiving), cum appreciation; beefy Bucky (is a warning)

Author Notes: Been a few months since the last part, but I couldn't let Alpha April pass without tossing you back into this verse and its cruel White Wolf now, could I?

Previous: Entanglement | Series List

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The massive doors to the council chamber swing open, and all eyes turn to you and Bucky as you enter. The room falls silent, the previous murmurs of conversation dying instantly. The council chamber is imposing with its high vaulted ceilings, ornate woodwork, and a large oval table dominating the center. Around it sit two dozen men and women.

You recognize most of the faces - regional leaders, mayors, the city council for the capital, military leaders, heads of major industries, and a few of your father's most trusted advisors. Some were loyal to your father, others were known opportunists, and a few are new faces - Bucky's people, no doubt. Their expressions range from surprise to curiosity to barely concealed hostility as they take in your presence. 

Bucky's hand remains firmly at the small of your back as he guides you toward the head of the table. There are two chairs there - one slightly larger than the other. The symbolism isn't lost on you or anyone else in the room.

At Bucky’s side, you keep your head high and shoulders squared despite the scrutiny of those assembled. The tension in the room is palpable as Bucky pulls out your chair first. The gesture appears courteous, but you understand it for what it is - a display, establishing your position as his omega while simultaneously marking you as subordinate.

"As some of you may have heard," Bucky begins without preamble once you're both seated, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber, "my omega and I have completed our bonding ritual. She will be joining our council meetings as an observer for the foreseeable future." 

Murmurs ripple through the assembled council members. You catch snippets of whispered conversations - "didn't waste any time," "strategic alliance," "what does this mean for us?" - before Bucky silences them with a sharp look. 

"I expect her to be afforded every courtesy befitting her station," he continues, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She knows this territory and its people. Her insights will be valuable as we move forward with our integration plans."

You notice several council members exchange glances. You keep your face schooled in a stoic expression. You are navigating this dynamic and figuring out exactly what the extent of your position - or your station as he put it - really will be. You suspect you are both tool and asset, a prop and a resource. 

Bucky begins the meeting with a territorial status report. Various council members deliver updates on security, resources, infrastructure, and economic matters. You listen intently, mentally clock which council members that are new representation seem competent and which ones appear to be merely parroting what they believe Bucky wants to hear. Among all - old and new - you note which ones seem genuinely concerned about their people's welfare and which ones are merely posturing. You're familiar with most of their districts, having visited them with your father during his governance tours.

Throughout it all, you're acutely aware of Bucky beside you. His presence is commanding, his attention laser-focused on each speaker. When he asks questions, they're precise and probing, revealing a depth of understanding about territorial governance that surprises you. You'd expected a warlord with brute force, not this strategic mind that seems to grasp the complexities of civil administration.

"The agricultural sector in the western region is still underperforming," reports a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses. "There’s been a notable decline the last two years, but there’s a marked different in production since you came to power - numbers are down fifteen percent from the same month last year."

"Causes?" Bucky asks sharply.

"We believe it's a combination of factors. We have reports of labor shortages, continued drought conditions, and equipment failures," the man replies. "Additionally, there is some resistance from local farmers to the deliver on the quotas," the man explains, shuffling through his papers nervously.

You notice how he carefully avoids mentioning that the "resistance" is likely passive protest against Bucky's regime. The western region had been particularly loyal to your father. 

Bucky's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "And what solutions are you proposing?" 

"We've increased water rations for irrigation and implemented penalties for farms that don't meet their quotas. We’re sourcing new equipment in some cases. We're also bringing in workers from the northern territories to address the labor shortages."

You feel a flare of indignation. The western farmers are already struggling, and penalties will only worsen their situation. Before you can think better of it, you shift slightly in your seat. Bucky notices immediately, his eyes flicking to you before returning to the council member.

"And how are these northern workers being compensated?" Bucky asks. "Are they being given fair wages and adequate housing?" 

The thin man shifts uncomfortably. "They're being provided with basic accommodations and standard compensation packages for migrant workers." 

You recognize the euphemism for what it is - exploitation. Your father had worked hard to eliminate such practices. 

Bucky leans forward slightly. "Adjust the compensation to match local rates and ensure proper housing. We need those workers content, not brewing resentment. And the equipment - I want a detailed inventory by the end of the week of what's needed." 

The man nods quickly, clearly surprised by the directive. 

"As for the quotas," Bucky continues, "I want them reassessed based on current conditions. Punishing farmers for factors beyond their control is counterproductive." 

The meeting continues with reports from other regions. Throughout it all, you mentally catalog the information, noting discrepancies between what's being reported and what you know of these areas. You're particularly concerned about the reports from the eastern mining communities where production is supposedly up, but there's no mention of the respiratory ailments that historically plague those workers without proper safety protocols. 

When the discussion turns to security matters, the atmosphere in the room shifts noticeably. Rumlow steps forward from his position near the wall where the STRIKE team members stand at attention. 

"We've neutralized three resistance cells in the past week," he reports with cold efficiency. "Seventeen arrests, five casualties during apprehension. Intelligence suggests two more cells operating in the southern district." 

Your stomach clenches at the casual way he mentions the deaths. You wonder who these "resistance fighters" were - ordinary citizens pushed to desperate measures, or truly violent insurgents. Under your father's rule, public protests had been permitted within reasonable boundaries. Now, any dissent is labeled as terrorism.

"Details on the casualties?" Bucky asks, his voice neutral.

"Three armed combatants, two collateral during a firefight in a market square," Rumlow responds without hesitation.

You feel a chill run through you. Civilians. Dead in a market square. You keep your face carefully blank, but inside, your mind races with images of the bustling southern market you've visited many times.

"Interrogations?" Bucky asks. 

"Ongoing," Rumlow replies with a slight smirk that makes your skin crawl. "We've extracted some useful information already. Names, safe houses, potential targets." 

"And the southern district cells?" 

"We're tracking them. Should have locations within 48 hours." 

"I want the weapons traced," Bucky orders. "And I want to know who's coordinating these cells. They're too organized to be operating independently."

"Yes, sir. We're pursuing several leads."

Bucky nods, seemingly satisfied. "Good. And remember our approach - surgical precision. Civilian casualties undermine our objectives." 

You feel a flicker of surprise at his words. It's not the ruthless response you expected. 

"Sir," Rumlow acknowledges, though you detect a hint of disappointment in his tone. 

As the meeting progresses, you notice several council members glancing at you perhaps wondering where your sympathies lie. You keep your expression carefully neutral, though inside your thoughts race. 

The Mayor of Oakridge reports on about infrastructure concerns in his district, Bucky shifts slightly in his seat beside you. His large hand slides onto your thigh under the table, the heat of his palm burning through your skirt.

Keeping your expression neutral despite the unexpected touch, you continue to focus on the presentation. But then Bucky leans in close, his breath hot against your ear.

"Come sit on my lap," he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. "I want you warming my cock while we finish this meeting."

Your body goes rigid, eyes widening at his words. You turn your head slightly, certain you must have misheard him. But his expression is deadly serious, his eyes dark with expectation. There's no hint of teasing or arrogance in his face—just the clear command of an alpha who expects to be obeyed without hesitation.

Your heart hammers in your chest as you glance around the table. At least eight more representatives still need to speak. 

His fingers tighten on your thigh, not painfully but with unmistakable dominance. “Omega,” he growls quietly.

You feel heat flood your cheeks, there is no room for argument. The expectation in his eyes is clear—this is a test of your obedience, perhaps even a reminder of your place after he granted you the concession of attending this meeting.

With your heart in your throat, you slide from your chair as gracefully as possible. All conversation stops as you stand, and every eye in the room turns to you. The silence is deafening as you move to Bucky's chair. He pushes back slightly from the table, making room for you on his lap. 

You perch sideways across his thighs, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity despite the humiliating position. Your movements draws many curious glances, but enough of the men and women around the room remain focused on the mayor's report. Your legs feel like jelly as you stand, smoothing your skirt in a futile attempt to prepare for what's to come.

Bucky pushes his chair back slightly from the table, creating just enough space for you to take the place he wants. His attention remains focused on the report while also monitoring your actions. 

You glance down at his lap uncertainly, and Bucky gives you a subtle nod of confirmation. His eyes flick down to his groin then back up to the speaker who continues explaining their infrastructure needs. With trembling fingers, you reach for his zipper, carefully sliding it down to avoid making noise. The sound seems deafening to your ears, but the council meeting continues around you as if nothing unusual is happening.

His cock springs free, already mostly hard. You wrap your hand around his impressive girth, giving it two slow strokes, feeling it stiffen further in your palm. Bucky's breath hitches almost imperceptibly, the only indication that he's affected by your touch.

Moving with as much grace as you can, you shift to stand between his legs and the table. Your hands reach for the hem of your skirt, and Bucky assists, pushing the fabric higher up your thighs. In one swift motion, he hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them down. You step out of them, and he pockets the delicate fabric.

With his cock fully erect between you, Bucky guides you as you carefully lower yourself onto his lap, feeling the blunt head of his erection press against your entrance. Despite the anxiety of your situation, the humiliation of it, your body responds to his touch, and you're still wet enough from when he played with you in the car that he slides in with minimal resistance. You bite your lip to suppress a gasp as he fills you completely, stretching you around his considerable girth.

Bucky's large hands grip your hips, adjusting your position. Then one large hand smoothes up your spine, and he guides you forward until you're leaning against the edge of the table, your forearms resting on its polished surface. The position forces you to bend at the waist, allowing him to see over you to the council members continuing their reports.

Which is when you register that the room finally has become silent, and all eyes are on the tw of you coupled together. 

"Continue with your report, Mayor Harrison," Bucky says, his voice remarkably steady despite being buried deep inside you. 

"The southeastern bridge requires immediate structural reinforcement," the mayor continues, his voice strained as he determinedly stares at his papers. "We estimate costs at approximately—"

The tension in the room is palpable as you sit impaled on Bucky's cock, trying desperately to maintain your composure. The council members' expressions range from shock to discomfort to poorly concealed fascination. Some avert their eyes, focusing intently on their notes or the table before them. Others stare openly, either unable to look away or deliberately watching to gauge your reaction.

Shame burns through you, but so does desire, both hot and consuming. This public display goes beyond anything you could have anticipated. It's a clear power move by Bucky - demonstrating his complete dominance over you while simultaneously establishing his authority over the council. The message is unmistakable: he can do whatever he wants, to whomever he wants, whenever he wants.

Your muscles clench involuntarily around Bucky's thick length as humiliation and unwanted arousal battle within you. Part of you wants to disappear, to melt into the floor, but there's nowhere to hide.

And there’s an undercurrent of something else there inside you, too. 

As the next dignitary begins his report, you begin to grapple with the dark, primal thrill that’s also coursing through your veins—the same electricity you felt when Bucky first claimed you in the town square after seizing power. You remember the hot shame that had flooded you then, but also the unexpected thrill of being the focal point of his dominance, the object of his desire amidst his conquest.

Then again at your bonding ceremony, when he'd claimed you before the assembled dignitaries, his mouth hot on yours, his hands possessive and demanding as he marked you publicly as his. You'd felt it then too - that forbidden pleasure in being displayed as his prize, his most valuable possession.

Then again at your bonding ceremony, when he'd claimed you before the assembled dignitaries, his mouth hot on yours, his hands possessive and demanding as he marked you publicly as his. You'd felt it then too - that forbidden pleasure in being displayed as his prize, his most valuable possession.

And now, as you sit impaled on his cock, the power dynamics are undeniable: you, the conquered omega, servicing your alpha while he conducts business as though you're simply an extension of his throne.

The meeting continues, your body responding to every subtle shift of Bucky's beneath you. You manage to maintain an outward appearance of composure, though inside you're a storm of conflicting emotions. Occasionally, Bucky's hand move to your hip, adjusting your position slightly when you begin to tremble.

Finally, as the last council member concludes their report, Bucky speaks up, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber. 

"That will be all for today's general council," he announces, his tone brooking no argument. His hand squeezes your hip firmly. "Except for..." His finger points to several faces around the table. "Martinez, Davis, Williams, Campbell, Richards, Cho, Price, Jackson, and Franklin. The rest of you are dismissed."

There's a moment of confusion as those not named gather their materials and leave, casting curious glances at those who remain. The door closes with a heavy thud, leaving you, Bucky, and the nine named council members alone in the suddenly silent chamber. 

The tension thickens as the remaining council members exchange nervous glances. You recognize each face - Martinez from Trade, Davis who managed Military Resources, Williams from the Eastern District, Campbell who oversees Transportation, Richards from the Treasury, Dr. Cho from Health Services, Price from the Southern District, Jackson from Energy, and Franklin from Communications. A perfect cross-section of your father's government.

Bucky's hand slides up your back, firm and possessive, until it reaches your neck. His fingers wrap around the nape, not squeezing but holding you in place as he addresses the room.

"I imagine you're wondering why you're still here," Bucky says, his tone conversational despite the tension thrumming through the room. His fingers trace idle patterns on your hip as he speaks.

"You nine share something in common," Bucky continues, his voice eerily calm. "Each of you provided information, access, or assistance that made my takeover of this territory possible." 

A wave of horrified realization washes over the faces of those assembled. Some pale visibly, while others shift uncomfortably in their seats. You feel a cold shock run through your body as you process his words. These nine people—trusted advisors and officials—had betrayed your father, betrayed their territory... betrayed you. 

"Some of you acted independently," Bucky explains, his fingers still tracing patterns on your skin. "Others coordinated. But all of you decided that your personal gain outweighed your loyalty." 

Your body is rigidly tense as the implications sink in. These were people your father trusted enough with pieces of his territory, with governing his people, stewards you had worked alongside. People who had smiled to your face while secretly undermining everything your family had built. These nine people—respected officials you've known for years—had helped Bucky overthrow your father's government. Had delivered you into his hands.

"Sit up straight, Omega," Bucky commands, his voice in the quiet chamber.

You comply immediately, straightening your spine while remaining impaled on his cock. The movement causes him to shift inside you, and you bite your lip to suppress a moan.

"I want to thank each of you," Bucky says, his voice deceptively pleasant. "Your assistance made my conquest considerably easier." 

The council members shift uncomfortably, exchanging nervous glances. Some look relieved at what sounds like gratitude, others more wary. None of them will look at you. 

"That said," Bucky continues, his tone hardening, "your actions demonstrated something troubling about your character."

Martinez starts to speak. "Sir, I assure you our loyalty—"

"Is for sale," Bucky interrupts. "You betrayed the man who trusted you with power and position. You betrayed his daughter," his hand squeezes your hip for emphasis, "to me. While I benefited from your treachery, I'm not foolish enough to trust traitors."

A cold silence falls over the room. You can see the realization dawning on their faces as they begin to understand this isn't a meeting of appreciation. 

"So I've arranged this little demonstration," Bucky says, his hand sliding up to grip one of your breasts over your clothing, and your breath hitches. 

"I'm going to fuck my omega now," Bucky announces, his voice echoing in the chamber. "Right here, in front of all of you who thought it clever to betray her father and deliver her to me."

A collective intake of breath fills the room. Several council members shift uncomfortably in their seats, still unable to meet your gaze.

Bucky’s metal hand slides up from your breast to cup your jaw, turning your face toward his. His eyes lock with yours, something unreadable in their depths before he turns back to address the council.

"I want you all to see exactly what you've done – who you've betrayed and to whom."

Bucky simultaneously stands while manhandling you easily with his preternatural strength, pressing your torso flat against the table in front of him. He withdraws his cock, then thrusts slowly back in. Once, twice, groaning on the third thrust that he draws out even more slowly. 

Your body betrays you, growing wetter around his cock as the reality of being displayed like this — being used as an omega in the most traditional, primal sense — awakens something you've tried to deny. The sheer audacity of it, the public nature, the way every person in this room now understands exactly who owns you — it's horrifying and intoxicating all at once.

You did like it before - both times - and you like it now. 

"I want no misunderstandings about who holds power here," Bucky says, establishing a steady rhythm as he moves you on his length. "No confusion about my control."

Your cheeks burn with humiliation as fucks you, but your body ripples with pleasure. The fabric of your skirt bunches around your waist as Bucky's hands grip your hips firmly.

Bucky's thrusts grow more forceful, the table unforgiving beneath your splayed body. Your fingernails clutch at the polished wood as you try to anchor yourself. The shame burns through you, but so does the pleasure, both sensations intensifying each other until you can barely distinguish between them.

You can feel the attention in the room on you as Bucky's pace increases. The council members' expressions range from horrified fascination to shamefaced avoidance. Some stare at the table, others at the ceiling, but they can't fully escape the sounds of skin against skin, the wet noises of Bucky's cock moving inside you.

Bucky grips your shoulder and pulls you back against his chest, one arm wraps possessively around your waist while the other goes to your throat. His lips brush against your ear as he speaks. "Look at them," Bucky commands, his voice a low growl at your ear before his hot tongue licks at the sensitive spot just behind your earlobe. "Look at the people who sold you out." 

You force your eyes back open, meeting the gaze of each council member in turn. Some look away immediately, unable to bear your scrutiny. Others meet your eyes briefly before dropping their gaze in shame. Only Price from the Southern District holds your gaze, a defiant tilt to his chin despite the obvious discomfort in his expression.

"You all thought yourselves so clever," he remarks, his pace unrelenting as his cock fills you over and over. "Trading information for promises of power, for guarantees of safety. Did any of you stop to consider her fate? The woman who would have been your leader one day?"

Martinez shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "We were assured no harm would—"

"Silence,” he has no need to shout. His power in this room is absolute. 

"Did you think I wouldn't remember?" Bucky continues, pumping in and out of your cunt. "That I would be foolish enough to forget exactly who played what role in betraying their territory?" His voice drops lower, more menacing. "In betraying my omega?"

His words send a shock through your system. My omega. Not just the territory's former heir apparent or the governor's daughter, but his omega—as though your betrayal personally offended him, as though you had belonged to him even before he conquered your lands.

"What you fail to understand is the gravity of your betrayal." His voice drops lower, more menacing. "This isn't just any omega you handed over to me. This is my omega."

The possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver through you. There's something different in the way he's speaking now, something that wasn't there before.

"You thought you were simply delivering a territory, offering up a political pawn," Bucky remarks. "But once I set my sites on her, she was going to be mine.”

His hand tightens your throat, not squeezing but holding you firmly against him as he speaks. Your own hands move up instinctively to cling to his bicep, encouraging his ownership. "I would have conquered this territory regardless. Your assistance merely hastened the inevitable.”

His voice drops to a dangerous whisper that somehow carries throughout the silent chamber.

"Let me be absolutely clear," he says, his rhythm never faltering as he continues to fuck you. "Your lives mean nothing to me compared to hers."

The declaration hangs in the air, shocking even you. The council members' faces drain of color as the implication sinks in.

"I may allow you to maintain your positions while you remain useful," Bucky continues, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "But make no mistake—your continued existence is not guaranteed."

His words send a ripple of fear through the assembled council members. You can see it in their faces—the irrefutable comprehension that their calculated betrayal has placed them in a far more precarious position than they anticipated.

His pace increases, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he nears his climax. You're helpless to stop the pleasure building within you, your body responding instinctively to your alpha's dominant display.

"Can you smell how wet she is," Bucky growls in your ear, loud enough for everyone to hear. "How her body knows exactly who she belongs to? Claimed and bonded not once, but twice."

You whimper at his words, the humiliation of having your display warring with the undeniable pleasure coursing through your body, the forbidden thrill in being watched, and the satisfaction in their own fear. Your inner walls clench around him involuntarily, drawing a satisfied groan from his lips.

With a final, powerful thrust, Bucky buries himself deep inside you, his body tensing as he finds his release. You feel the hot pulse of his seed filling you, marking you from the inside in this most primal display of ownership. Your body trembles on the edge of your own climax.

Bucky's hand slides from your throat to grip your jaw, turning your face to the side so he can claim your mouth in a bruising kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, dominant and possessive, as his hips pump more slowly, emptying every last drop of his seed into you. 

When he breaks the kiss, he addresses the council once more. "Consider this your final warning. Your only value to me is your continued competence in service to this territory. Fail in that, or show even a hint of further disloyalty, and you will find an untimely end of service.”

Bucky withdraws his cock from your cunt, and you whimper, distraught at being denied your own release. 

"You're all dismissed," he says coolly. "Except for you, Price. You stay."

The council members scramble to gather their materials, eager to escape the tension-filled chamber. They all avoid looking at you as they file out.

Price remains seated, his face a mask of defiance despite a flicker of fear evident in his eyes. He was always one of your father's more outspoken critics, often challenging policies in council meetings. 

"You seem to have something to say," Bucky remarks, his pace slowing but not stopping as he addresses the man. "I saw it throughout the entirety of our meeting.”

Bucky takes a seat again and pulls you back into his lap. He pushes your thighs wide, encouraging your legs to fall on either side of his knees, leaving you open to him. 

Bucky's fingers slide between your folds, still slick with his release, and begin to circle your swollen clit with deliberate, measured strokes. His ministrations send jolts of pleasure through your oversensitized body, causing your hips to buck involuntarily against his touch. 

“Get on with it, Price."

Price's jaw tightens, his eyes darting between Bucky's face and his hand working between your thighs. He straightens his shoulders and meets Bucky's gaze with a cool stare of his own.

"I've been loyal to this territory for twenty years," Price says, his voice steady despite the charged atmosphere. "I supported your takeover because the former Governor’s policies were weakening our defenses and economy. The southern district suffered most under his leadership." 

Bucky's fingers continue their relentless attention between your thighs as he listens, making it difficult for you to focus on Price's words, but you work to concentrate. Your breathing becomes more ragged as pleasure builds within you.

"Is that so?" Bucky asks, his tone deceptively casual - you feel the display through your bond. "And your solution was betrayal rather than advocating for change through proper channels?"

Price's eyes flicker to your cunt momentarily before returning to Bucky. "The proper channels were closed to us. The southern district's petitions were repeatedly ignored." 

You want to protest, to defend your father's administration, but a particularly skilled movement of Bucky's fingers sends a particularly strong wave of increased pleasure through your core. 

"And yet," Bucky responds, his voice hardening, "my intelligence indicates you never filed a single formal petition with the governor's office. Not one in the past five years." 

Price's face pales slightly, but he maintains his composure. "That's not true. I personally delivered multiple petitions—" 

"Save it," Bucky cuts him off, his fingers still working between your thighs. "I have copies of every petition filed in the last decade. Your name isn't on any of them." 

Your breath catches, not just from the pleasure building between your legs, but from the realization of how thoroughly Bucky had studied your territory before he ever set foot in it. He'd known the inner workings, the political alliances, the weaknesses to exploit. He'd been gathering intelligence for years, not months. 

Price's expression shifts, a flicker of panic crossing his features before he regains his composure and defiance. "There were unofficial channels—"

"Rumlowe," Bucky calls out calmly, not taking his eyes off Price. The STRIKE team leader steps forward from his position near the wall, his expression impassive. "Show Price what happens to those who lie to my face."

Price's eyes widen in alarm as Rumlowe approaches, drawing a wicked-looking combat knife from his tactical vest. "Wait—you can't—"

In one swift, practiced motion, Rumlowe is behind Price's chair, the blade pressed against the man's throat. Price's hands grip the armrests, his knuckles white with terror.

"Tell me the truth, Price," Bucky says, his voice dangerously quiet. "One last chance."

Price's eyes dart frantically around the room, searching for mercy he won't find. "I... there were no petitions," he admits, voice shaking. "The southern district was actually thriving, but I wanted more power, more—" 

Bucky gives a nearly imperceptible nod. 

The blade slices cleanly across his throat, blood immediately spurting forward in a crimson arc. A choked gurgle escapes his lips as his hands fly up instinctively to the gaping wound, but it's already too late.

You gasp in horror, your body involuntarily tensing, but Bucky's fingers only increase their pressure against your clit, circling faster as his other arm locks around your waist to hold you firmly in place.

"Eyes on me, Omega," Bucky growls in your ear, his voice low and commanding. "Focus on what I'm giving you."

Your gaze snaps to his, unable to disobey. 

Your eyes locked with his, you only hear as Rumlow and another STRIKE member drag Price's limp body across the polished floor of the chamber. Bucky's fingers never stop their relentless attention on your clit, the horror of what you've just witnessed somehow intensifying the sensations coursing through your body. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. 

"That's it," he growls, his voice dark with satisfaction. "Let go for me." 

The orgasm hits you with devastating force, tearing a cry from your throat as waves of pleasure crash through you. Your body convulses in Bucky's firm grip, inner walls clenching desperately around nothing as your body shudders with aftershocks, your mind caught in a haze between pleasure and horror.

As your breathing begins to steady, Bucky lifts you from his lap with ease, handling your body as if you weigh nothing. He turns you to face him, then guides you to sit on the edge of the polished council table. His hands remain on your hips as he positions himself between your spread thighs, the evidence of your coupling still glistening on your inner thighs. 

With deliberate slowness, he places one hand on your sternum and pushes you backward until you're lying flat on the cool surface. The position leaves you vulnerable, exposed, as you stare up at the ornate ceiling of the chamber where your father once governed. 

Bucky looms over you, his powerful frame blocking out the light, casting his face in shadow. His eyes, however, remain piercingly bright . 

"I hope you understand your position now," Bucky says, his voice low and resonant as he traces a finger along your inner thigh, collecting the mixture of your fluids. "And the true nature of this new regime."

His words hang in the air between you, weighted with significance. This isn't just about your body or your pleasure—it's about power, control, and the new order he's establishing. It’s cruel, yet measured as you saw him handle the formal meeting with the full council with unquestionable competence. 

He moves back, settling into his chair once more, but instead of pulling you onto his lap again, he lowers himself until his face is level with your exposed cunt. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of your combined spend glistening on your folds and thighs. 

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh, making you shiver despite yourself. 

Without warning, he leans forward and puts his mouth to your cunt, his tongue laving a broad stripe through your folds, gathering your combined release. The sensation is so unexpected and intense that your back arches off the table, a strangled moan escaping your lips.

His hands grip your thighs firmly, holding you in place as he devours you, his tongue alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, precise flicks against your oversensitive clit. 

"Mine," he growls against your flesh, the vibration sending shivers through your core. "Every part of you belongs to me now." 

Your hands clutch at the edge of the table, desperate for purchase as he methodically takes you apart with his mouth. The room that just witnessed a cold-blooded execution now bears witness to an intimate moment. The dichotomy is jarring – death and pleasure, power and submission, all converging in this chamber that once represented order and governance.

Bucky's tongue works relentlessly between your thighs, his hands spreading you wider as he feasts on you. Your second climax builds faster than the first, your body still sensitive from his earlier attention. When it crashes over you, it's more intense, more consuming. You cry out, unable to hold back as your thighs tremble around Bucky's head. He doesn't relent, working you through the waves of pleasure until you're gasping and squirming from overstimulation.

Only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he rises to his full height. His eyes, dark with satisfaction and something deeper, more possessive, roam over your disheveled form sprawled across the council table.

"That's what loyalty to me earns," he says, his voice a low rumble. "Pleasure. Protection. Power. You will do well not to forget it, Omega.”

“Yes, Alpha,” you breathe. 

He helps you sit up, his hands surprisingly gentle as he adjusts your clothing, smoothing down your skirt and tucking stray hairs behind your ear. The tenderness is jarring after the brutality you've just witnessed, the public claiming, the execution. You're still trembling, your mind reeling as you try to reconcile the different facets of the man before you. 

"Come," he says, offering his hand to help you off the table. "We have other matters to attend to." 

You place your hand in his, allowing him to guide you to your feet. Your legs feel unsteady, and he seems to sense this, wrapping an arm around your waist to support you. The room still smells of copper and sex, a potent reminder of power asserted and lives ended. 

As you walk toward the door, you notice the blood has already been cleaned from the floor, no trace of Price remaining. The efficiency is chilling - as if he never existed at all.

You can’t help but wonder what else will be wiped away, wiped out, just as that dissenter and liar was today. 

next part: UNDER SIEGE

There's more story for you and Alpha!Bucky, but I'm desperately excited because this is the final piece that I wanted to share for this verse before introducing you to other alphas in the world of Fine Line. You're not ready. 😏

Introduction to General Ari Levinson: Rank and Promotion [7.5k]

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[assassin-artist]

meeting him like this just about killed me emotionally btw

ok listen, a little bit yapping because i think about him too much and this encounter makes me so so sad. if u dont know, morton has a chance to show up at your door either as a friendly recruitable companion, or in a hostile state and will attack as soon as u open the door. the chance to get his hostile state goes up every day that u dont recruit him i believe.. which i have many many thoughts about

i assume the red on him is someone elses blood bc he's gone insane and potentially is just attacking anyone on sight (which is why he attacks us as soon as we open the door). the green would make sense if it's meant to portray acid, since we know he has an acidic bite of some kind, and the description of him biting with 'disgusting teeth' (which i personally took to mean he has some kind of weird human-bug amalgamation for a jaw/mouth)… but also i think it'd be neat if the green was actually his own blood. first of all because i like the idea of a mutated creature having odd colored blood, but secondly because i don't think he was ever much of a fighter before we meet and recruit him. in our team he starts out pretty weak and a lot of his dialogue throughout the game when we're in dangerous situations is him saying we should leave. he seems like the kind of character that runs away when something is there, and comes back to loot once the danger has passed.

ALSO i reaaaally like his dialogue when he shows up in a hostile state… the stuff i wrote is his quote in-game if you ask who's at the door. he sounds like he's really struggling with himself, maybe like he's torn between attacking or not. maybe there's a liiiitle bit of his original self (or, original after being changed by the visitor) in there but it's wrestling with whatever has caused him to become so violent. a character who is known for his incredible vocabulary suddenly struggling to speak a coherent sentence. growling, even, if the "rhrgn" is anything to go off of. he can't think of anything more intelligent to say than a simple "just… just let me in…"

if you attack morton when hes a friendly NPC he drops some money, some clothing, and some food. he collects a lot of things, not just junk and trinkets, and he uses the food and clothes as trading items to get other peoples junk, so its normal for him to drop those kinds of items after killing him in his normal state... HOWEVER... if he shows up in his hostile state and u kill him, the ONLY thing he drops is junk. like he ran out of food and other items, or like maybe he just stopped collecting those things... i think its so interesting...... not collecting, not trading with others, and being isolated from others is potentially what drove him mad (if we're assuming it wasn't some other outside force, like a cursed attacking him and maybe infecting him with something)... i know i made a joke about how the power of friendship is whats keeping him sane, but every day i think about it is another day where i go wait.. maybe its for real that he.. he might genuinely need companionship or else he'll lose his mind

or maybe im just reading into it too much bc i think he's fascinating. who knows

[urblondiebaby]

YOU BELONG TO ME

Pairings: Humanity-less stefan x reader

“Ugh, would you just leave me alone already?”

It’s bold of you to talk to him like that. Stupid too, especially in the state he’s in.

Your boyfriend was someone you would describe as a saint. Kind, cute, caring. But without his humanity, he was the opposite. He was hostile to everyone, getting on your nerves, especially when he shoved Matt to the floor when he tried to give you your homework back. He caused a scene in the hallway, practically threatening to rip out Matt’s throat if he so much as looked at you again.

Ripper Stefan was violent and territorial. You didn’t know what that meant for you.

Stefan’s hand found your shoulder, pulling you to turn and look at him. He lowered his head, making fiery eye contact to get his point across.

“Let’s get one thing straight, you belong to me.”

Stefan’s words send a chill down your spine, your soft, cuddle boyfriend, who used to sing along to You Belong With Me, is nowhere to be found and you’re left with this possessive shell of him.

Right now, he didn’t love you, he just knew that he wanted you and he was damn sure he was gonna have you.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” you sneer. “I don’t belong to you, Stefan, so do me a favor and fuck off.”

You felt brave turning away from him, as if your words would sink into him, maybe make him feel something and switch a flip inside of him. Your words did flip a switch in him, just not the one you were hoping for.

Stefan’s large hand grasps as your arm. With an easy, singular tug, he pulls you back under him, forcing your back into the lockers behind you. They slam against your back, the sound overpowering your scared gasp.

“No, no. Don’t talk to me like that.” Stefan tsks, caging you between his arms. “You’re not in control here.”

Left defenseless, your eyes shoot around the halls, looking for someone, anyone, but the hall is empty.

Harshly, Stefan grips your chin. “Don’t do that,” he demands, tauntingly. “It’s just me and you, baby.”

The pet name falls off his lip in mockery. It makes you feel pathetic and despite what you tell yourself, you’re afraid. Stefan grins. “I can hear your heart racing.”

“Maybe because I’m fucking terrified,” you snap, voice low, trying to calm yourself. Stefan reaches out for a lock of your hair, twisting it around his finger before he lets it fall back into place.

“Good,” he whispers, an inch from your face. His eyes flicker over your lips for a split second his eyes meet yours and his lips twitch into a smirk as he fits his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales softly, and your foot bounces against the floor anxiously.

Stefan kisses at your neck with fake innocence, moving up to your jaw before focusing on your pulse point. His teeth scrap against your skin gently. Against your will, your eyes gloss over. You whimper. “Please don’t.”

“Do what, sugar?” he asks, “Bite you?” He jumps toward with his last remark, relishing in how you flinch.

You nod, fearfully, looking down at the floor rather than your scary boyfriend.

Stefan’s head cocks to the side ever so lightly, his eyes searching for your own. When they meet, you can see the familiar lustful haze in your boyfriend’s green eyes, but they’re darker than usual. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you refused to look away. Glaring at him through your eyebrows, Stefan cherishes your attention, licking his lips with excitement.

“Mr. Salvatore,” a voice calls from behind Stefan’s mean silhouette. “I think it’s time you get to class.”

You sigh with relief, your head falling back against the locker. “Ric.”

Stefan hardly looks away from you, barely sparing Alaric a glance as he eagerly tries to engage your intense eye contact. “In a minute.”

“No, now.”

“We’ll finish this later,” Stefan whispers in your ear, nipping at it as a threat disguised with playfulness as he pulls away.

If looks could kill, Alaric would be dead the second Stefan turned away from you, bumping his shoulder as he headed to class.

“Thank you,” you gush, hiding your face in your hands, desperate not to cry.

Alaric looks at you with sympathy. “Get to class,” he says. “We’ll deal with him after.”

in my tvd phase 🫀🫀

unedited

[dolphin-diaries]

i apologise if this is too venty or oversharing. i've been reading your and talia's essays while in the middle of my own gender-crisis and while i recognise them as the most comprehensive and sensible framework i've seen to understand how the patriarchy works - and i regret how this might come off as a whiny "what about me" - when patriarchy forces us into these strict biodestinies, what's the point of transitioning or trying to express your gender outside the box? again i do not mean this as a gotcha or declaring that people shouldn't transition ever, but the closest thing i've got to describing myself is "dykegender" and i know declaring myself as one would be met with raised eyebrows and "humouring the crazy" at best and being violently regendered into broodmare at worst. it's already so hard to explain and declare myself and just be seen as a lesbian, and i'm struggling to see if there's any benefits to openly being a deviant woman-dyke-thing vs swallowing my (relatively minor) dysphoria

thank you for reading this. thank you for your writing. i hope i come off as sincere and with respect.

I'm glad you find our writing thought-provoking. And yeah, first of all, I want to say that I empathise with your feelings--I think a lot of queer people struggle with existing legibly, because queerness is made illegible by the patriarchy. So your "what's even the point??" question makes sense.

Because I don't know you, I'm going to have to make some assumptions and answer from multiple angles, sometimes over explaining myself, because I don't know what baseline you're coming from. I hope that's okay.

Firstly, transition can actually change the way people gender you, even in places where trans-ness is very invisible. But based on what you wrote, I'm going to assume you're dissatisfied with simply shifting your perceived sex from woman to man or vice versa. Secondly, if you have physical dysphoria, addressing that will help you even if no one else on the planet recognises that as anything of importance. It's still your body to live in 24/7, and you'll be happier if you like living in it.

When it comes to the function of patriarchy, you probably understand that Talia and I talk about the overarching emergent system. Its details differ by location and culture and subculture--the core large-scale tendencies stay largely the same, but their expression and severity changes. More to the point, not all people follow patriarchal prescripts all the time or at all. So, an environment that does not denigrate you because you call yourself dykegender, and that does not treat you or women like would-be broodmares, is possible--I can attest to that from personal experience. Even if people in such an environment don't understand what your specific gender means, trust me they are capable of not treating you like shit. You are not submitting yourself to the judgement of the entire world at all times, and you do not need to measure the worthiness of your actions by the worst treatment you get or might get.

In other words, finding friends and community with people that do see you is possible--they exist, you're reading essays by some of them. I will not deny that there will still be people that meet you with confusion and hostility, but to say that their existence makes the entirety of your being a lost cause is a bit fatalistic. I feel like the good times we have in our queer communities, big and small, are not less worthwhile or fulfilling because of the suppression we face outside.

Lastly, I'm going to give you advice that you might scoff at, but hear me out. The thing with writings about social constructs of patriarchy and disability and so on is that they're not good at inspiring contentment and affirmative happy fun times. That isn't their purpose. But human beings need some amount of affirmative happy fun times, especially in crisis. That leads to some human beings sticking their heads in the sand and never emerging to face reality again, but you seem to have the exact opposite tendency.

So I will recommend that you seek out lesbian genderfucky fiction in whatever way you prefer to consume fiction. Talia and I both write that occasionally, but this isn't a plug and I don't know what you like. Regardless, the psyche is a muscle that needs rest, and escapist and cathartic fiction is a form of rest in which your mind gets to try on different realities and experience them in a safe environment. And, in seeking out people that create fiction resembling the kind of worlds you'd like to live in, you can also connect with people that also enjoy that fiction--meaning, they're probably like you, and will understand you. This isn't per se about fandom, but rather shared dreams and aspirations and communities. Even when you're isolated in a terrible situation IRL, that can give you solace for the moment and eventually strength to try and change your circumstance--and friends who can help you do that, including materially.

[ebony-blood]

OH MY GOODNESSS I was wondering, if you can pretty please do a lost boys X reader (poly if your comfortable with it) but she’s a wallflower? Like maybe she moved to Santa Carla and she’s bullied? Maybe a sprinkle of insecurity but ends up meeting the lost boys at the boardwalk and they just. Can’t. Leave. Her. Alone? She’s their mate and she’s so flustered cause the HOTTEST guys she’s ever seen are paying attention to her? Pretty pretty please?🥹🥹🥹 I’ll love you forever

Poly! The Lost Boys x Shy! Fem! Reader

Author's notes!: I had to look up what 'Wallflower' means lol, for those who don't know, a Wallflower is basically someone who kinda hangs back during parties because they are too shy. TW: READER IS FEM!! Bullying, mentioned violence, vampire stuff, the boys being obsessed right from the start. I tried so hard not to describe Reader in this, I try to be as inclusive as I can, but if anything is mentioned it's because I'm tired lol, I'll fix it, just bring it up in the comments and I'll track it down o7. This probably sucks, I'm sorry.

You had moved to Santa Carla looking for a fresh start a few weeks ago. You weren't used to the weird styles, the smell of weed and gas that seemed to constantly cover the streets, the loud boardwalk parties, none of it. So naturally, you kept to yourself, hanging back during parties and avoiding eye contact, unfortuantely, Santa Carla was not a place people like you, shy wallflowers, were treated right. 

Some people ignored you at best, they’d glare at you when you waved or smiled at them, they’d ignore you if you asked questions, they avoided you. But a lot of people were downright cruel to you. They mocked you at parties, some openly tried to take things from you or would push you around. People were never openly violent with you, at first, but after a few weeks they started getting more violent, pushing you around and screaming in your face. It was mostly the people who were either on drugs or drunk. It was mostly the men and their girlfriends who were openly hostile and mean to you. You wished you’d never moved to this place, it was gross, the people were indifferent at best and downright cruel at worst, and you missed people you knew in your past. You wish you weren’t like you were, so quiet and shy. Hell, it had been years since you could look in the mirror and see someone you didn’t view as hideous looking back at you, but Santa Carla made it so much worse.

It was yet another late night in Santa Carla. Another night of wandering the boardwalk while you tried to avoid the harassment you got from people. You weren’t surprised every time you were shoved aside, or shouted at by a familiar group. Honestly, you didn’t wanna deal with that tonight, you wanted to walk around, maybe go see whoever was playing a show that night and see if they were actually good, and then head back to your apartment, but it seemed whatever form of fate you believed in had a different idea, because the group just wouldn’t leave you alone, shouting random shit, from ‘Weirdo’ to one girl just straight up calling you ugly. You were fighting back tears.Why the hell were people so needlessly cruel? Whatever, it’s nothing new. 

You stopped by some area where people on the beach park their bikes. You took the biggest breath you possibly could when you realized your tormenters weren’t following you anymore, so you could finally breath. 

That was until you heard voices, four guys, you guessed. You looked in their direction and, for the first time since moving to Santa Carla, you got that butterfly feeling in your gut. That wasn’t a thing you had felt since high school. You swore the bullies you faced then laughed the feeling out of you, but these four seemed to knock the breath you had just taken out of you. Damn, they were hot. Three of the four men were blonde, one had curly hair, one had fluffy hair, and the third guy had a haircut that kind of reminded you of Billy Idol, he was smoking a cigarette. And then there was the one that seemed to be trailing behind, observing people around them while the other three, mostly the ones with curly hair and fluffy hair, laughed and joked. The fourth guy had long, dark brown hair. You stared for a minute longer before snapping yourself out of whatever daze you had been in. 

They had stopped walking, they were staring right at you, and you immediately prepared your apology in your head. Quietly standing up, and then one of the four, the fluffy-haired one, said something you assumed wasn’t meant to be said out loud.

“Holy shit, Marko, she’s hot.” 

You looked over at the four, confused, the man was immediately smacked across the back of the head by the one with the cigarette.

“Don’t say shit like that out loud, dumbass.”

You were staring at the four, your face suddenly warming up at the idea that they were talking about you. You figured it was a stupid thought, there were other hot girls around the boardwalk, why would any of these four think you were hot? Then, the one with the cigarette cleared his throat.

“Sorry about that, doll. Paul can’t seem to keep his mouth shut around pretty girls.” He said, glaring back at the one with fluffy hair, you assumed he was Paul.

The one with curly hair snickered a bit and looked over at Paul, before the one with the cigarette spoke up again, he quickly shut up then.

“I’m David, The guy behind me is Dwayne, and those two are Paul and Marko.” He said

You nodded softly, even their names were hot, what the hell? David and the other three were staring at you with a confusing amount of attention. 

Paul had an almost immediately obsessed or enamored look in his eyes, like you were just the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, Marko also looked absolutely in love with you already, both had the same look in their eyes, the other two, Dwayne and David didn’t seem in love, if they were, they were hiding it well enough. 

“So, where ya off to, sweets?” Paul said, giving you a soft grin.

“Oh, I was about to head home,” You reply, and they all suddenly seem to perk up a bit.

“Oh, really? Well, maybe, instead of that, you could come and hang out with me and the guys?” David asked, motioning to their bikes. 

Something about these four felt…supernatural. They carried themselves with such confidence, and something unseen seemed to be pulling you to them. You thought for a minute. Was it a good idea? Maybe not. It felt too good to be true, four hot boys, paying attention to you? They stared, waiting for your answer. Against your better judgment, you made your choice.

“Sure, I don’t see why I couldn’t.” 

Paul and Marko got visibly excited. Paul grabbed your hand quickly and led you over to their bikes, the other three following behind him, laughing at Paul’s excitement. You were carefully put on the back of one of their bikes and David got on in front of you, looking back at you when you wrap your arms around him.

“Hold on tight, alright?” 

You could only nod before the four sped off, David following behind the more rambunctious two, with Dwayne behind him. 

At the time you didn’t know it, but come the end of the next week, you’d be theirs, and you’d have no complaints about it.

This got so long lol.

Sorry it ended like it did, it's 4 am here and I'd dying.

more coming tomorrow <333

[moonshine-nightlight]

Voluntary Sacrifice

inspired by this prompt/setup by @snowkissedmonsters as well as their art

The local werebear is in heat and its become a town concern. You, who's always been fascinated by him and doesn't much to lose reputationally, volunteer to help him through it.

If only he believed you were doing so voluntarily, instead of being forced by the council.

Can you convince him of your sincerity before the full moon rises?

Male werebear x human reader, Heat, NSFW

Status: Complete (One-shot)

Length: 12k

AO3: Voluntary Sacrifice

Prompt:

You live in a human town in a fantasy world. In recent history, werecreatures enlisted to fight alongside humans throughout a bitter war in the territory. The result of that alliance is a (sometimes tense) tolerance between these two species who generally do not get along.

In the wilderness near your town, a werebear veteran has made his home. Bearish in appearance and manner, he vastly prefers solitude and is actively hostile to visitors. Sometimes he comes into town to sell meat and pelts from his hunts. The other humans are frightened, but you find him fascinating and peculiarly handsome.

A slew of livestock deaths precede an emergency town meeting. There's no question who the culprit is, or why. The town elders understand that a werecreature in heat is aggressive and dangerous. The town's interspecies liason officer, a veteran who fought beside the werebear, explains that it's not a deliberate attack on the town's livelihood, but even so, the maulings cannot continue. It may only be a matter of time before a human is injured.

The liason suggests hiring one of the workers at the town brothel to act as a "heat soother," but the brothel workers don't want the job. There's still a stigma over non-human creatures. The werebear is dangerous, violent, monstrous. Who knows if a human mate would even survive.

Tentatively, you volunteer for the role. You have no living family that could be shamed, you're naturally infertile so there's no concern over cubs, and... Well. You like the idea of it, though you keep that last point to yourself.

You are escorted to the werebears cabin by the eager liason officer, who's just glad the precarious human-werebeast alliance is no longer in jeopardy. Answering the door, the werebear looks surprised to see the two of you...

Then annoyed.

I told you, he growls at the liason, I will not take a forced mate.

The officer coos and assures the bear that you are here voluntarily, which he seems to doubt very much. He throws you both out of his cabin and slams the door.

/

“Good luck!”

You stare after Anton, the liaison officer, as he rides away, at a complete loss of what to do now. You’ve felt a headrush of sorts, like sliding down a hill in winter, since you first resolved to volunteer to help Temar and his slamming of the door in your face was an abrupt stop before you even reached the bottom. You cross your arms, telling yourself its because of the mild chill, not out of anxiety or embarrassment.

But you are, so so embarrassed. You don’t know exactly what you thought his reaction to you might be, but stonewalled indifference and complete refusal to even entertain the idea of mating with you wasn’t one of them. Heat licks at your cheeks from the way he’d looked at you, his lip curled in a snarl, something more than even just annoyance in his eyes. You’d felt the urge to shrink right then and there and only surprise kept you frozen upright.

You know you weren’t as young as the other unaffiliated women in town, weren’t as pretty, weren’t as agreeable, but surely he couldn’t smell your infertility or whatever made you feel so out of place with everyone else. What about you had been so offputting he’d not even considered you for a mate? You’d almost hoped that whatever made you so unappealing as a human mate might make you more appealing to a werebear. So much for that.

You’re not one for much dignity as it is, no one to stand on high graces, and you try not to let others’ opinions bother you, beyond where they interfere with your own ability to make your living. But even you can’t bring yourself to try to convince him to mate with you when he so clearly has absolutely no interest. Did you sacrifice what little standing you did have a reasonable and respectable person by volunteering for this only to not even be able to manage it? Was it for nothing?

You had only found the courage to approach him because of the surface-level reason of slaughtered livestock and fear for a person’s injury, but now, now you felt almost responsible for not being able to prevent such an occurrence. All because Temar found you unappealing.

You can’t leave without even saying more than a hasty word to him though. Maybe there’s some other way you can help. You’ve wanted an excuse to get to know him better for years, since you first saw him. Even before that, when someone stopped by your shop with some of the pelts they’d bought from him.

Beyond his attractive appearance being more than enough to draw your attention, he’s lived such an interesting life. The liaison was liberal with his stories and his own accomplishments in the war, but he never short-changed his friend. You also found the stories of people who have crossed him or questioned him entertaining more than scary. His refusal to play along with the petty etiquette of the town was funny, as were people’s puffed up reactions. Perhaps you should have expected this reaction after all, maybe he just doesn’t like humans.

The thought against brings embarrassed heat to your face once more as you remember how he’d looked in the doorway. His beard and mustache, short but full, the scar across his nose, those dark brown eyes. His hair was shaved on both sides, but long in the middle, pulled back into a loose bun and peppered with gray like his beard. Tall as you remember, but stockier—his frame particularly broad in the narrow doorway. You’d always found him especially handsome. There was no question what sort of were he was.

Before today, the closest you’d been was at the general store, behind him line for some flour, putting to rest the rumors that werecreatures only ate meat. His presence had fascinated you, large but contained. Wild but settled. Immovable, but not aggressive. Deliberate. You’d found your mind drifting to thoughts of him that night. Your mind liked to turn the idea of him over, half speculation, half pieced together clues from overheard gossip. When you were particularly lonely or even just particularly cold, it was comforting to know he was on his own too. He seemed to prefer it even. You preferred your solitude most of the time as well—half caught between feeling like an outsider for the inclination, half relieved since that’s where you ended up. You wouldn’t mind another friend who felt so, a bit of company you didn’t need to perform in front of. And it would be nice, to be useful to someone else who had no one.

You know he needs help now, more than ever. The liaison had assured them at the meeting that Temar was making every attempt to contain himself. Which reassured you that you’d not missed a callous trend in his nature, but also made you want to help more—not help with the abstract problem, but help him. The next best solution that had been discussed—and would likely need to be implemented now that it turned out you’d failed, you realize with a sinking heart—was to institute a town wide curfew until this ran its course. But maybe there is still some way you can aid him, even if not by soothing his heat directly.

You stand up straight, pushing off the railing you’d been leaning against, and resolve to at least try to talk to him. After all, you understood his continued solitude, but it felt silly during the meeting, that he wasn’t there to lend his own input. Surely he had the most insight into his situation. He must know what he needed. You raise you hand to knock on the door when it opens before you even get the chance.

“If you ain’t gonna have the sense leave, then get in,” a gruff voice orders.

Your feet are moving before you fully register the words. Relief floods your veins. Well, that was easier than you expected. Perhaps things were turning around.

/

They were not. Any hope you had for some softening of his attitude was quickly dashed.

It had seemed promising: the smell of cooking food, the heat that filled the main room from the large fire, the sound of crackling logs. All ease some of the tension in your bones immediately—not to mention that same deliberate air Temar had, the one that made you feel steady and safe. Safe enough to want what you want, without your usual instinct to hide such thoughts and feelings until you were alone lest others use them to hurt you.

You try to focus on the room itself, from the handmade furniture—you’d have recognized Ben’s work if it was—to the scant decoration. The cabin was simple, unadorned, but solid. It suited him. It made the few personal items he had stick out all the more. The large blanket and rug to make the room feel lived in. The well-cared for hunting gear in the corner. The collection of copper kitchenware, clearly used often.

Nearly as soon as you finished your preliminary survey of his home, he makes it very clear he still did not want you. “No notion of what’s going on in that fool Anton’s head, leaving you on my porch like bottles of milk,” he sighs, looking disgruntled and you fight the urge to apologize. He tucks a strand of hair that escaped his bun behind his ear and your fingers itch to do the same. You clench them tighter behind you, upset at how wild your thoughts are in the face of his rejection. “Fess up, what did they tell you? I don’t know what those old fearmongers at the counsel did to make you come here, but I’ll not hold it against you—only them.”

You tilt your head as you watch him pace over the fire, trying to keep your eyes on his head, not how well he fills out his trousers. You realize belatedly that you must still need to clarify. “There was a town meeting, but I volunteered, like Anton said,” you reply tentatively. He’d heard what his friend said. Right? Maybe that was why he’d refused? Not because he found you so abhorrent.

Temar scoffs. “Anton wouldn’t recognize subtle coercion if it stabbed him the back.”

You frown, starting to get a little frustrated with his seeming inability to hear you properly. “Be that as it may, I can. It’s the truth.”

Temar raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Right,” he says flatly. “Just like five years ago, when I moved here and Miss Ketevan was left on my doorstop around harvest time. She just wanted to offer some apples before high tailing it out of there once her grandfather was out-of-sight. Must have been crying and yelling for some other reason.”

Your frown deepens. The last of your family had died around then and you’d not joined a town meeting for a full year, plenty busy with grief and figuring out how to run the dye shop without any guidance. Keti was a younger than you but had a reputation as a troublemaker so she had been in the gossip plenty. Her grandfather, Carlos, was on the counsel and had seemed to consider her something of an embarrassment.

You thought she’d run off with the milkmaid, not because she was a failed sacrifice to the new werebear neighbor. It does throw into relief some other statements at the meeting. Like Anton’s emphasis on volunteers as he’d stared Carlos’ down, which had led to no one but you speaking up—not even the brothel workers. They’d not said but you knew they feared clients shunning whoever they sent, let alone however they felt about the stigma and fear associated with werecreatures.

 “I have no idea what did or did not happen five years ago, I wasn’t at any of those meetings nor at your house,” you say with a shrug. “Keti’s moved to the other side of the river, according to her sister, and is quite satisfied there. None of which was brought up at the meeting today.”

“What do they have on you?” Temar asks, squatting to stoke the fire, as if you just didn’t want to tell the truth his face. Ignoring everything you were saying while still trying to get answers from you. You liked tell about how stubborn he was in gossip. You liked it less at this moment. “If I can aid you and you can go on home, you’re welcome to ask.”

“They don’t have anything on me,” you reply slowly, trying to match his even tone so he doesn’t think your lying. The embarrassment that comes with volunteering so plainly to mate with him comes and goes in waves, but having to repeat it to him is a different flavor all together. “I am here of my own free will.”

Temar scoffs and huffs. “If you don’t want to tell me then fine.” He heaves himself back to his feet and peers out the window. “Sun’s going down. You can stay here for dinner and for the night. That better satisfy them, because you’re leaving first light in the morning.”

You turn away from his back, staring blindly at the countertop covered in ingredients for dinner. The one you interrupted with this piss-poor intrusion. He was likely just trying to give you an out, an excuse to save some dignity. You should’ve known you’d have no skill at seduction, not that you’d believed you’d need it. You’d hoped he be satisfied enough, in need enough that you’d suffice by being willing and not unattractive. Or so you thought. How pathetic. “I just wanted to help,” you say softly, more to yourself than him.

You sigh before walking over to the counter and picking up a knife. “Thank you for your hospitality,” you manage, your voice stiff with discomfort, but unwilling to completely give up yet. “Allow me to assist with the food.”

Dinner preparation is tense, quiet, but a relatively smooth affair. Temar’s already got the chicken dumplings nearly done so you leave that to him and handle the rest.

He only speaks to point you toward where things are when you ask. You’re happy he’s letting you do this much as you’ve more than got the message he’d prefer to do it all alone. You try to concentrate hard enough not to think about anything else.

“These dumplings are delicious,” you say belatedly, after you’ve already scarfed down two of them. They really are, hot and flavorful.

Temar grunts in response and you can’t help but pout, wondering if he thinks everything you say is a lie. You try at some other small talk, but nothing gets more than a yes or no out of him—after the first few, he just makes some vague noise of acknowledgment as he steadily eats through three times the portion of food you got, which had been more than generous. You’d been skeptical of how much he was making until you’d seen how much he was eating.

Did he also have to eat more before winter, like a normal bear? Was he going to sleep through it too? You swear he still came in with pelts, but you don’t really know. You’re more than aware that he’s not likely to give a straight answer if you ask. You ask anyway.

He gives you a look like you’re touched in the head. “No, I don’t hibernate. I stay in more, sleep more since its dark more, but I’m not actually a bear.”

“I know!” you protest, blushing, “but I’ve heard there’s overlap of some kind, forgive me for not being an expert. You’re the only werebear I know by name.”

“You know nothing,” he retorts, words finally bursting from him in a fit of frustration. You’re taken aback, but eager for any information given his recent impression of a clam. “You say you volunteer and yet you don’t know the first thing about werebears, let alone heats. You expect me to think you know what you’re saying you got yourself into when its clear no one explained anything.”

“Well, then you tell me,” you bat back, fed up by now with being treated as a criminal for even entertaining the notion you might be a suitable mate for him. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t have called me a liar even if I’d written a book on werebears and their heats.”

As his way seems to be, he ignores you to keep focus on whatever incorrect train of thought he has stuck in his head. “Even if you’re ignorant, didn’t your family object? Doesn’t someone have sense or self-preservation?”

You glare. Of all the—. “No—” you reply hotly before he cuts in.

“I thought that was something y’all paid attention to,” he drawls, waving with his fork. “ Fraternizing with the werecreatures is still a no-no right?” He leans forward, eyes bright, like a predator finally spotting their prey. “Is it them that the council is leaning on?”

Unfortunately for him, its a false sighting. “Don’t have any,” you reply bluntly, crossing your arms over your chest. “They died. About five years ago.”

You wonder if he’ll make the connection and to your surprise, he seems to as his brow furrows. “I see.” He leans back in his chair as if surrpised to notice he’d moved at all.

“Besides, I’m grown,” you’re annoyed you even have to remind him. He’s treating you like a child, ignoring you, calling you ignorant, making you out as a liar. Like a fool. You’ve long resolved not to let anyone treat you like a fool. “I make my own choices.”

He scoffs in that same manner that’s truly getting under your skin. “Right. How could I forget.”

“I don’t know,” your voice is sharper than its been all evening. “Seeing as I keep reminding you.”

Discomfort creeps into his frame and he looks down at his plate to mutter, “What even made them come up with this plan? Was this Anton’s idea?” He warms up to this new wrong idea—it was Jessaly on the council who had mentioned “heat soothers” seconded by Carlos. Anton only stepped in to mention volunteers. “Because if so, I’ll be having words with him next chance I get, strong words. I anticipated an order to leave town or to be taken to jail or a fight. I’m surprised the council even risked the chance for cubs.”

That last part completely derails you from your planned support for Anton. “Oh,” you can dismiss that concern easy, so you don’t hesitate to, “I can’t have children.”

That stops him completely, freezes him in his chair. “What?”

His reaction surprises you. “I thought…” You thought he could smell the infertility on you. You thought that was part of why he’d refused, like the others. If he couldn’t tell, you still didn’t think he’d have a reaction like this, like everyone else. “I can’t. My monthlies stopped only a few years in and a doctor confirmed the nature of the issue. It’s noted in the records because my engagement to—” You don’t even want to say his name, for all you don’t blame your former fiance. You hadn’t even been that excited about the marriage, but the reality of no marriage ever, well, that had been more of blow the coming years dealt to you. You manage a shaky smile. “No risk of children with me.”

You meet his eyes valiantly and he stares back. You hope you’re right when you don’t see any blooming realization that you’re broken, that you’re any more undesirable, but you’ve long given up trying to tell. Still his focus makes you babble, “I don’t want children anyway.” That at least is the truth and the reminder steadies you. You thought you’d gotten over the worst of this self-recrimination years ago. You were happy not to have that burden, that expectation, that danger in your life. You just want Temar to think well of you, and this always changes how people perceive you, no matter how much you wish it didn’t. That is what truly gets under your skin. Your shoulders drop some tension as your smile softens, becomes more genuine. “Better me than someone who did. It worked out for the best that way.”

If only it meant no partner, no chance for sex beyond work at the brothel—which you were not interested in despite them asking—or  visiting one, which you have in years past. Or the affairs some of the less reputable had tried for in the past. They always made it clear in the end, even if you were alright with the infidelity—it was only because you were ‘safe’ that they wanted you.

“Neither do I,” he says, causing you to look up at him. His expression turns defensive as he clarifies, “That doesn’t mean anything anyways. Still the most foolish idea I ever heard.” He stands up abruptly to refill his plate with a fourth helping.

You eat the remainder of the meal in silence.

Finally, your plate is clean and your belly is full. You manage to take Temar by surprise by snatching up his plate in addition to yours, bringing them over to the wash basin before he could do some himself. You’re determined to do something useful while you’re here and he’s feeding you.

Maybe all lack of eye contact was for him and not you. Maybe you’ll have better luck staring at the water. “So, is there anything you’ll actually let me do to help?”

Another huff, almost a growl of frustration, and Temar replies, grit in his tone, “I told you I ain’t taking a mate just because the town’s made my heat their business this year.”

You don’t even bother arguing the point again and consider his words. You hadn’t thought about other years. There’d never been notice of it so you assumed it wasn’t actually an annual event. What made this year so different? Instead of asking, you return his own volley. “I heard you. I didn’t mean that, though I must mention that the town is only involved because it has become their business this year.”

Temar doesn’t answer, but you can feel his gaze on your back. Being the focus of his attention is electrifying. “Other than having a mate,” you remind yourself outloud. “Are there other things that I can help with? Measures to be taken, information to be shared. Anything?”

There’s silence behind you before he stands up from the table, the scrape of his chair loud. You hope to the gods he’s actually doing something, thought of something in response to your question rather than just leaving. Although technically, you suppose, that would also be a response to your question.

You methodically scrub the dishes while you listen to him move about the main room of the cabin. He sits back down at the table, bringing something with him. You can’t dry this tankard any more thoroughly so you turn around to see if he’s simply ignoring you or not.

He’s bent over something on the table, a piece of paper? You frown and walk over to get a closer look. As if he can sense you, once you’re close enough he points one thick finger at the paper. “Who’s land is this?”

You frown as you study what you realize is a map of the town. Unlike most you’ve seen, it doesn’t have roads or even real buildings on it. Abstract symbols represent structures—you think—and the town center and main street buildings are one big marker. Nothing indicated for individual stores. It takes another minute to realize the outlined shapes covering the map are the property lines, not buildings, roads, or rivers, though some overlap with where you know those to be. Leave it to a werebear to have a map of the town by territory.

“If you don’t know—” he says, huffing per usual.

“Apologies if I need more than a minute,” you huff back, more than fed up and far more assured after the time spent with him that he has no plans to kick you out tonight. “I’ve never seen a map like this.”

He quiets down and you manage to follow your memory of the road out to… “The Meskal’s Farm, Evanna and Leon.” You also manage to make the connection, although you’re not sure he meant for you to. They’d been the most recent farm that had suffered from slaughtered livestock.

Temar brings over a slate with some notes in chalk already written out. He’s got shorthand notes, similar to those on the map, but all unlike any you’ve seen before. He jots down what must be their name above some already existing notes. You squint, trying to make sense of the letters and numbers. “Two ewes and one lamb,” you correct, hoping you decoded right.

He freezes and you hold your breath for annoyance or anger, but instead he merely erases one number and writes in another. “I assume this was discussed with the council?”

“Yeah,” you see no reason to beat around the bush. As you continue to squint at his notes, leaning over his broad shoulder to see better. “The Oche’s steer had to be put down, but they salvaged the meat. Anton reassured them it was edible and bought some himself so the rest of the town followed suit.”

“Still, I’ll be paying my debt, it just might take some time,” Temar replies gravely. “I’ll not have anyone say I don’t pay what I owe or think I don’t owe it, like some uncivilized beast.”

“I can pass that along,” you offer, still reaching for some way to contribute, to help. His integrity touches your heart, makes that urge to give aid stronger. Anton had something vague to the affect, but the town had little confidence in Anton’s assurances. You have confidence in Temar’s.

“I would appreciate that,” he sounds a little belligerent, a little abashed.

You smile, happy to have found anything useful to do and lean in again, to study his map more closely. You mentally map out the other families who had damage and notice they’re all in a line from his property west and against the forest. He does seem to be attempting to keep to limited area. How much control does he have? Could you help corral him somehow?

You reach to point. “Is this the river or—” You start to lose you balance from the awkward angle you’re at. Your other hand reaches for the next closest thing to steady yourself—Temar’s shoulder.

Next thing you know you’re knocking into the table and he’s standing several feet away, a snarl on his face. “Don’t.”

You’re stricken by the vehemence from a such a small, almost-touch of his person. It had been too easy to forget he disliked you so, is so offended by your very presence. “I’m sorry!” It’s as if he thinks you were attempting to trick him. You hasten to clarify, hands raised in surrender. “I wasn’t trying—”

Temar leaves the room before you even finish speaking.

/

Temar braces himself before he goes back in the main room, his forehead pressed against the solid wood of his walls.

He’s hoping he’s gotten used to your scent, built up a tolerance, but knows it’ll only have gotten stronger for each moment you’ve been here. Gods know he’s only become more susceptible to it. How anyone in all his life has such a bewitching scent, he’ll never know.

The second he’d opened his front door, he’d wanted to drag you inside and never let you out. The beast inside instantly proclaiming Mine. Only mine. He’d barely heard anything Anton said over the roaring in his ears. The slam of his door had been as much panic defensiveness as it had been frustrated aggression.

The line between those two does seem to blur most during heat.

You stayed out there, looking so lost and somber on the porch, lip caught between your teeth as you thought. He’d had to get you to stop before he took over the task for you. An early sign of heat madness surely because of fucking course it was far worse having you in his home. Where his beast said you belonged. Where you could say all the words he was salivating to hear as truth even though he knew them to be false.

Those council assholes would pay for putting him through this torture. Temar knew he was a werebeast and yet this was inhumane even for his kind. He tried to find a proper target for his aggression, but you’d given him nothing to work with, persistent in your tale. As if a kind, quick-witted, pretty thing like you would ever subject yourself to a beast like him unless you felt you had no other option.

Distractions haven’t been helping, trying to keep his eyes off you was impossible to sustain, and stonewalling didn’t ever seem to deter you for long. It’s as if you were perfectly designed to get past all of his defenses. There are still so many hours until sunrise—if Temar’s even going to last that long, even be able to let you go at that point. After you’d seeped into his home, his life. You seem to fit so well.

You play at being kind like a master actor and he hopes that’s not all a front. You’re smart, independent, but oh so willing to help. Duress, he reminds himself, you’re here under duress. The fuckers in town must have forced you here somehow. He can’t believe how low they’ve stooped, taking advantage of your lack of family, of your infertility to make you into a sacrifice. The perfect sacrifice.

His beast still wants to try to breed you, undeterred by logic, but it’s his human head that’s unfairly tempted by the knowledge. When he’s in his rational mind, he stands by what he said. The risk of children, others with his condition, his ostracization from society is something he’d never condemn an innocent soul to suffer. Not mention he likes his solitude, likes only being responsible for himself and only answerable to himself. It’s why the council involving itself is so frustrating. Its why the idea you might be here of your own free will is so appealing. Lack of such a child-bearing risk is even more appealing, more alluring than he’d ever realized it would be. Than it had any right to be. Why are you so damn perfect for him?

Clearly distance was not helping. Perhaps it was even making his beast stronger, without you to look at him and, for all your knowledge of his nature, expect a rationale man to look back.

Temar walks back into the main room, feeling like a man condemned, only to immediately regret his choice as he rigidly locks every muscle he can to prevent his beast from pouncing. He’d thought you’d stopped trying to seduce him with your faux willingness and pretty eyes. Your soft, steady kindness…

Even he’d admitted to himself once alone that you likely hadn’t meant anything by hovering so close, by trying to steady yourself on him. Your fall onto the table, not to mention the complete startlement on your face from his reaction. But what the fuck is this?

“What are you doing?” he asks through clenched teeth, hoping the beast inside isn’t giving away the feral lust coursing through his veins.

“What?” You look up, surprised he’s back, but there’s no embarrassment in your face. If anything, your expression smooths back to usual faster than he feels it has a right to. “Oh, I hadn’t realized how wet my apron had gotten from the dishes, sorry about the wasted water.”

“Why have you removed it?” Temar’s voice was strangled as the words passed through his lips. Ordinarily, he knows it would barely register with him, but you removing any article of clothing has his beast pulling at the chains he’s trying to use to keep it inside where it belongs.

“Well, I didn’t know how else to dry off,” you reply, brow furrowing in confusion as you dab at yourself with part of the folded-up apron. Temar can see the damp stains where the water had soaked through the light green fabric underneath. “Besides, I don’t want to catch anything, sitting around in wet clothes. It’ll be dry by morning if I leave it by the fire.”

Temar’s mind is already overrun by the reminder he’d invited you, like the numbskull he is, to stay the night. You’re unlikely to sleep fully dressed. You’ll take more than just your apron off in his home. You’ll strip down to your chemise. He can see the edges of it under your dress—white cotton poking out. Nothing more under that except soft skin—skin he isn’t allowed to touch.

Temar tries to combat the pleasing images of you splayed naked in his bed with images of your bruised and bloody from his claws, his strength, his carelessness. They’re impossible to sustain with you so hale and unbothered in front of him. The comfort of his den discourages such violence from his thoughts, his heat poisoning his mind against him. You aren’t here by choice, he reminds himself.

It’s hard to believe when you cross his room with self-assured confidence, bending down to arrange your apron by his fire, acting as if you’ve no fears to worry you. Your hair is ruffled from either the dishes or taking off your apron and you pat at it absentmindedly. Temar wants it spread across his sheets, his pillow, mussed and messed by his hands while he claims you for himself. The town clearly doesn’t appreciate you, doesn’t value you what they have. He’d treat you right. He’d make sure you loved being his.

With a shake of his head, he blinks and the image before him resolves to you seated on a chair, delicately rebraiding your hair. He can’t keep his eyes off the swift movements of your fingers. Temar imagines what it would feel like if you did the same to him, this simple careful, everyday task. You look up at him from under your full eyelashes, looking perfectly innocent and not a creature pulled from his greatest nightmares and most sincere dreams. “So do you have a plan for managing however many days are left? Have you gone into heat in previous years? How did you manage then?”

The flush that blooms on your face is endearing and attractive. Temar wants desperately to know what you’re thinking when you say ‘heat’. You’ve avoided saying the word nearly the entire time you’ve been heard. Temar knows the rumors that fly about the human population about werebeasts, about heats, he’s overheard it all. From eating human mates to potent fertility and everything in between. Which ones have you heard? Which do you believe in? Likely none of the violent ones or you’d find the prospect far more intimidating than whatever bullshit the council is using to coerce you.

“Temar?”

“You’re right, I’ve already managed to work out a solution on my own, making you presence doubly wasteful.” You flinch at his words and every instinct screams at him to sooth you, to take it back—whatever is needed to make his mate stay. Temar turns rather than continue to watch your reactions to his harsh words. Despite knowing its necessary, it hurts to see your hurt and only encourages the beast to want to soothe, to steal your mind from any hurt by drowning it out with lust and heat. “Follow me.”

“You’ll sleep here,” Temar points out, continuing to refuse to look back at you or his bed for that matter.

His control would surely shatter if he saw you so close to it. He imagines how easily he could push you down on the furs and sheets until he had you spread out like a feast for him and him alone. How he would savor you. How he wouldn’t let you up until he was more than satisfied. A glutton of lust.

The cold metal of the door knob jolts him out of his thoughts. “I’ll be out back.” The crisp air, the brisk breeze, blow your scent from Temar and clear his head. He nearly sighs with relief as he walks off to the right, purpose in his steps, a reminder of his duty as he follows the familiar path.

“Here.” Its clear no matter where you thought he was leading you “pit” was not on the list. Your eyebrows lift nearly to your hairline as you stare down, allowing him precious seconds to gaze at you without a mask of stoicism or frustration, only naked hunger.

“You asked where I weathered heats of the past?” Temar neglects to mention that the first couple years in town rendered his heats short and taxing. Just a handful of nights around the late summer full moon, when the first chill to the air heralding the coming winter. Between his beast’s discomfort with new territory and his own war memories haunting him, his heats were not a concern. It’s only last year that his heat was how it used to be in his youth.

Wild. Hungry. Enduring.

This year is worst yet, not only because of the tight grip it has on him and how he can tell, despite more than a week in, that he has days to go, but also due circumstances outside of his control.

You’re smart enough to spot it. “Did something happen to this…?”

Temar puts you out of your awkward misery. “There was a flood after that storm a couple weeks ago. It dislodged that tree and a wall collapsed.” He’d hoped his heat wouldn’t return with the vengeance it did and so had put off excavating. “In the end, the den took longer than I thought to rebuild, to dig deep enough again. Still not sure I have,” he confesses when you look at him with such open, receptive eyes.

You frown and squint down at the den and Temar doesn’t like the reminder of how dark it’s getting. This entire evening has been a distraction, from the knock on his door, to the meal, to now. He ought not neglect the den any longer, not let his beast draw this out until it can overpower his conscience.

He puts down the ladder, hands grateful for something to do besides itch to settle on your hips. “I’ll be needing to get everything out of here, before the moon finishes rising.” Temar descends as quickly as he can, jumping the last few feet and turning to survey the den.

It was nicer before, he thinks with some dismay, some shame at you seeing such a bare hole in the ground. It’s primarily filled with tools for digging and fortifying, none of the minimal furs and blankets that should be givens for a den. The roof had been damaged when the tree fell in so he hopes it doesn’t rain. Temar resigns himself to waking up covered in dew. It’ll still be better than waking up covered in blood, even after verifying it was all from livestock.

“Temar?” His name on your lips draws his attention back up, like a flower to the sun, like a fish to water, like blood to a bear.

“Can I help you clear it out?” Temar just stares at you, part of his mind still surprised you’re here. Still here. Still offering to help. Help him. You cross your arms again and Temar wishes it didn’t look so good on you, the way it pushes up your chest, makes your arm muscles more prominent. What sort of shop did you say you had again? “Look, I’m another pair of hands, ain’t I?”

“Technically,” he allows, speaking without thinking. All his thought concentrated on your form above him, ripe for the plucking.

You seem to take that as permission and start climbing down the ladder. Temar turns so quickly to avert his eyes from your ass that he forgets to forbid you from coming down. You touch down lightly and Temar reluctantly faces you again, a puppet on the strings of his inner beast, to soak in the sight of you in its den.

The cabin belongs to Temar, the man. The den belongs to Temar, the beast.

Something of that must come across on his face as you pause, one hand on the ladder. “Does it break a rule, for me to be down here?”

A den is a personal, sacred space, with only those closest allowed entry. The beast does not allow you to lie. “No.” A prospective mate is more than a natural allowance. It’s expected.

You nod with satisfaction. The beast preens in approval at your persistence, at your ease in its den. “Then I’m helping. What’s next?”

Wordlessly, you point to the table with the hand tools.

“All of these?” you ask, even as you begin to gather them.

Temar turns away, unable to watch you ascend, and focuses on the final wheelbarrow he needs to move out, the planks he’s using as ramps he’ll need to remove. “Gotta get everything out of here so it don’t get broken.” Also so he can’t use it to escape. When he’s more beast than person, the use of tools doesn’t come naturally, but he’s relentless. Safer to keep them out of reach. That’s the real challenge—keep himself out of reach.

“Right.” There’s a pause while you move around behind him. Temar tries to focus on the feeling of the smooth wood of the wheelbarrow handles, the shudder of the wooden planks below as he moves it out of the den. “How come the walls are like this?”

You must be gesturing to the flat stones embedded in the dirt walls. “Harder to climb, although I haven’t had time to finish the back wall that collapsed yet. Claws don’t do well on smooth stone. A lot if the grout needs to be redone. Something for tomorrow.”

“Smart,” you say, sounding impressed.

Temar grunts in response, trying to focus on pulling the crude ramp out of the den and not on puffing up at your approval. Not seeing how else he might earn your esteem, might otherwise impress you.

“What’s it like,” you ask, quietly but clearly. Temar had been wondering if you’d ask. Waiting. “When…”

You trail off so he’s not sure if you meaning being a werebear or being one in heat. He supposes the answer isn’t terribly different. “Simpler, harsher, more vivid,” he says, “Less control when in heat than the rest of the time. In the army, we were trained to control the transformation, taught how to keep our minds more intact—it doesn’t work like that for heat. Getting locked up is how it was dealt with even there.” Not that they lasted long back then for anyone.

“I’ve heard of the loss of control.” You don’t specify if you mean in general or in heat, but Temar supposes it doesn’t matter either way.

Perhaps this would be a good time to remind both of you what’s at stake, how dangerous Temar is in heat to anyone vulnerable around him. “Just a beast at that point.” Temar doesn’t look you in the eye as he keeps talking, heading back down into the den now the planks are out and it’s the only way down. “Can’t understand human speech. Can barely tell human from animal. No reasoning with me. I’ll do what I want when I want to. Damn anyone else.”

Not that you’re as intimidated as he wishes you were. “What about other weres?”

“Aye.” Temar doesn’t mind confirming that, not when he knows it can’t encourage you. “Thats a mite different. We can handle each other better, can find that sliver of common ground. Family can calm you, your own territory, and of course, if you’ve got everything you want, you won’t go roaming for it. Won’t get angry and frustrated you can’t find it.”

“That all the time, or just in heat?” He can still hear the shyness in your voice whenever you say heat, but its obvious your curiosity is too great. Temar surveys the den while he considers his answer, hands you left over plates and cutlery from his noontime meal, eaten down in the den while he worked furiously to get it ready for tonight. He’s careful not to let his fingers brush yours, not to look you in the face, lest he see some fear there that hadn’t been before. Lest the beast see a lack of such fear. Temar truly felt caught between a rock and hard place.

He can see the question you’re dancing around and cuts to the quick, praying you’ll be sensible and leave since he wouldn’t be able to make you anymore. He’s not sure he even could back on the porch. “Its dangerous for any human to lay with a werebeast. Injury from strength or claws or teeth is impossible to prevent. Even if you’re mates.” He reminds himself as ruthlessly as tells you. It was rare, but it happened. Heartbreaking accidents. “Even if you’ve known each other for years. Someone in my troop had killed their husband in a heat frenzy once.”

“Not always though,” you reply, too hopeful by far, too logical not to notice the exaggeration. “It can’t be or weres would have died out.”

“No, not always,” Temar allows. “The tendency towards multiple children in a litter helps. But usually longer held relationships fare better. If the were isn’t in a bad mood, isn’t stressed—if the partner cooperates right.”

He hands you the last item that needs out and once you get to the top, he says, “Pull up that ladder, now.”

You pause, standing stock still and for a second he wonders if you’ll even listen. Temar’s not sure he has the strength to ask a second time.

“Sure.” You pull up the ladder.

His human mind eases at that, at the sight of you more than seven feet overhead, out of reach. His beast disagrees, seething in displeasure and unfulfilled lust. Naturally, you can’t leave well enough alone and sit down, legs dangling into the den. He knows he could grab your ankle at this, yank you down and—

Temar turns to study the den once more. It won’t stick in his mind with you clouding his judgment the way you are. He narrows his eyes, forcing himself to assess if its deep enough, the walls defended enough. “I still need to get the cover fixed, if that damn blacksmith ever manages to be around when I stop by. The back wall needs to be stoned, but if I try to climb it like it is, it’s just as likely to crumble which’ll keep me in just the same. It’ll do. It had better more than satisfy those bastards on the council.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose it will.” You shrug, as if you’d forgotten about them. “Will you let me visit? After I leave in the morning—” you add swiftly as if to cut off a correction Temar for once wasn’t offering. “In case there’s anything else I can help with? I meant it when I said we could help each other out. I admit I do not relish the chore of fetching all fuel for my fire in these coming months and perhaps I can provide something for you? I’m a skilled weaver in addition to my work with dyes. If you would not be opposed?”

How can you forget the council so easily? Dismiss them offhand like that. Why do you speak of ‘after’ so lightly? As if you expect to see him again, as if that’s something you might want. Temar’s thoughts turn in circles once more over your duress. He must remember you cannot be here by choice. It’s getting harder by the minute. By each minute you sit on the edge of his den, not a care in the world. Not a notion of his steadily deteriorating self-control. His lack of giving any indication of his growing need has gone from helpful to sinister, a wolf in sheep’s clothing no longer trying to reassure, but to lure closer its prey.

“Perhaps,” he manages to say.

You continue to talk, but the words’ meaning slip through his fingers. The change is pushing itself on him while he wiles away a few more minutes in your presence. Just to try to burn off excess energy, Temar turns to push one of the stones in better, to align it flat with the rest of them. Except… he can feel your eyes on his back while he does so.

Your scent to spikes.

He wheels around, wildly, and belated realizes the height you’re at, brings your loins far more to a height with his nose than ever before. Did his display of strength inspire something of lust in you? His beast roars for you once more at this indication of receptiveness.

The moonlight colors your hair, emphasizing your etherealness, the wonder at your very presence. How much Temar wants to hold you in his hands, claim you for his own. How much he wants to bring you down to earth, push you under him and take his pleasure from you.

He takes a step closer and it feels like the first sprung leak in a dam. The first domino to fall. The spark of fire on dry, dry tinder.

“R-un.”

In retrospect perhaps the most provocative thing Temar could have done was instigate a chase. Actually, the most provocative was definitely you listening and running.

You pull your legs up swiftly, battling your skirts to get your feet under yourself with a haste that surprises even yourself. Only one word and a glimpse of those glowing eyes, and you’re dashing for the cabin. Adrenaline pours into your veins as you the image of the fur rippling out over Temar’s body as he gave that last command fills your mind. 

In retrospect, the fur had been spreading steadily since you’d taken away the ladder without you fully registering it. His voice had been changing, although that you’d noticed plenty. The lower tone was a little harder to make out, even more pleasant to listen to, stirring up those lascivious thoughts that hadn’t left your mind since the town meeting was called. You swear his muscles had swelled too. The way they had moved beneath his shirt, which fit tighter with each minute that had passed. You’d felt spellbound, even though you swear that’s not a rumor associated with weres, and unconcerned by said compulsion.

Given the seriousness with which Temar gave the order as well as his earlier apprehension, you feel guilty for the mad sort of excitement rather than fear that courses through you. A roar, harsh and throaty, comes from the den behind you. It's one of rage and frustration. A beast that’s just realized it's been trapped. That it can’t get to what it wants. A loud thud follows. A growl of continued frustration hurries you on, feet pounding the ground as you run. You can almost trick yourself into thinking you hear your own name mixed in with the next roar that comes from where you’ve left Temar behind.

Due to your haste and unfamiliarity with Temar’s land and the fallen gloom, you end up missing the door along the back of the cabin and re-enter through the front. You lock that door with shaking hands and a pounding heart. The sounds of nature, of wind, of the echoes of Temar’s growl, are replaced by quiet solitude and the crackle of the fire, still burning in the hearth. You attempt to catch your breath. You try to let the mundane familiarity of the cabin and the silence calm your nerves. It’s not working very well.

You’re not sure what prompted his yell or his roar. Temar had said if he had everything he needed, he wouldn’t want to go searching for it, so it must have been his inner beast’s continued frustration at the lack of a desirable mate, which you continue to attempt not to take personally.

You’re still keyed up from the experience and seeing him actually start to transform, which still held some magic to you having never witnessed such a thing before, as well as all your interactions with him this evening. Temar seemed somewhat open to the idea of being friends, which was nice, you remind yourself. He is still immensely fascinating to you—this night has only made that more apparent. He feels less onerous to be around than some of your other acquaintances. He doesn’t put up any fronts and you feel like you don’t have to either. Even when he was clearly frustrated or angry—which you believe is exacerbated by whatever physical and mental toll his heat is putting on him—he never raised his voice. Temar only ever physically moved away from you, not towards you. 

Speaking of physicality, he was so strong. The way he moved, carried, and shoved the tools out of his den had been impressive. The skill and strength it must have taken to make it in the first place, from the manual labor of digging it out, to stonework, to the manner of transportation in and out were all impressive. You’ll have to make sure to stop by Nicolas’ forge tomorrow to ensure Temar can get his roof fixed. But for now, your mind’s eye lingers on how his muscles had flexed, how easily he might be able to move you about, lifting you, arranging you to best please him.

You shake your head to try to rid yourself of such thoughts when none of them are going to come true. Temar is the one who’s having a hard time, not you here in his home. He hadn’t complained about the den, but you can tell it must be a far cry from what it was before the damage, it saddens you to think of him out there and alone. You long to comfort him, even though you know he doesn’t want your comfort. His roar had only proven his frustration and unhappiness, how unfulfilled he must be, stuck in the pit. You swear you can still hear yet another roar mixed with your name. 

You take another look around the room and sigh, finding it far less interesting without him present. You’re still wound up from today’s jostling ship ride of events. Your hormones are out of balance after plans and hopes of helping Temar through his heat. While ending your night alone in Temar’s cabin, in his bed, while he’s stuck out in a hole in the ground isn’t where you expected or how you wanted the night to end, you suppose it's better than him still out in the woods where he might cause more damage or hurt someone.

Your hands go to your buttons as you start to undo them. An early night is in order. Just because Temar doesn’t want you, doesn’t mean you have to go unsatisfied. Your outer clothing drops to the floor, leaving you in your underthings. Draping the cloth over the couch, you wonder if he might be able to smell what you get up to in the morning. Would it be cruel to leave such a trace behind? you wonder as you slip over to the bedroom door. Or would it be your due after his refusal?

Something to worry about in the morning. You’re too hot and bothered to care much now. You turn the knob and enter the dark room. Your eyes just barely adjust enough to make out the outline of his large bed of furs when you’re pushed back against the door, slamming it shut. 

An almost subsonic growl fills the small room as you look up and up to meet glowing yellow-green eyes. Your heart hammers in your chest, even faster than it had when you’d been running only a few moments ago. A cloud moves from in front of the full moon and the beast that Temar must be now looms over you.

Heavy hands—or are they paws now?—pin you to the wall, one spread over your sternum and the other engulfing your hip. Your hands reflexively reach out and curl around his arm, fingers sinking into dense, soft fur. With the hand pressing against your chest, you barely manage to make a sound more than a surprised inhale, anything else compressed by Temar’s savage strength and your own shock. 

Fight or flight seems to have tried to kick in only to unexpectedly leave you both at ‘freeze’ while you stare one another down. The moonlight illuminates his face, throwing into relief the complex mix of man and beast Temar now is. The same black salted with gray that had been evident in his beard is now more evident in the thin layer of fur covering his face. His jaw is larger to accommodate the sharp teeth and prominent fangs now present. His mouth is open as he pants and huffs, eyes fixated on you. You can still see the man in the beast, but he’s more than he was only moments ago.

You hold perfectly still as Temar leans down and starts to huff and sniff at your neck, shifting his fingers as he does so. You can feel his claws snag in the looser weave of your chemise as he does so. Has he always smelled like the forest? you think in a shocked haze, like the pine trees and the freshly turned earth with an undercurrent of musk. He growls into your neck while you stay pinned like an insect on a card, unable to do anything else when confronted by the reality of his transformed appearance, of his touch when he had recoiled from you so vehemently before.

You jolt when he manages to do more than growl, when you realize it isn’t your imagination that puts your name on his lips. Heat sears through you to hear the need in his voice, the demand, by the idea that you’ve managed to make such an impression on him that he managed to speak at all. Then those lips cover your own in an uncoordinated but wanting kiss. Instantly, your mind is wiped clean of rejection, and disinterest, and undesirability. Those ideas can’t exist in tandem when he kisses you like he’s starving. 

When you break apart, you breathlessly gasp out his name, a hand cupping his jaw. You suck in shallow breaths, as if you only just stopped running, as if he’d been chasing you since he’d told you to run. You tremble with shameless lust at being sought after specifically—he hadn’t just been demanding after vague wants but for you.

He manages your name once more, tongue and jaw and teeth making the word hard to understand except that all your senses are straining for him, desperate for anything to help you understand him, to understand this change. “Mate.” 

You don’t know if it's a question or not, but it's all you’ve been offering since you first showed up on his doorstep. “Yes,” you reply breathlessly, suddenly more desperate than ever in his hold. Desire burns through you for him. You tug futilely at his jaw, push desperately against the massive paw on your chest to reach him. “Temar. Mate.”

You don’t fool yourself into thinking your strength is what moves him, but perhaps your words do manage to penetrate his mind because he presses his lips to yours once more, immediately deepening the kiss. He fucks into your mouth with filthy promise. Your head is held between the door at your back and him, hot and massive, crowding you, boxing you in, cutting off any escape. Escape is the absolute furthest thing from your mind.

His grip on you strengthens, the hand on your sternum moving to bracket your neck. His thumb rests lightly against the column of your throat, the claw drawing a line of danger on your collarbone. His fingers hooked over your back, their claws digging into the meat of your shoulder. They haven’t broken your skin but you know they could, the sting of them makes you want to arch both away and into them. 

You tremble as you realize how securely and sinfully caught you are by this werebear, by Temar. You know that he could hold onto you like this for hours and nothing you could do would be able to force him to let go. You never want him to. Instead you melt in his hold. His hand pinning you by your hip is likely the only thing keeping you on your feet and not just a pool of lust at his.

His need is evident given the way his hips rock against your own. The press of him against your whole body is unlocking some hidden need in you and you attempt to push back, to rut against him in return. You feel desperation growing in your bones, in the heart of you, something wild and wanting that can only be sated by him. Temar rumbles his approval, moving more deliberately against you until a growl of frustration escapes him.

When he pulls back, readjusting his hold on you, you open your mouth to protest, to say something, anything to get him back. It’s reflexive after how this night has gone, but unnecessary now. Temar picks you up with no apparent effort, only impatience, and tosses you onto the bed. 

You land with an oof, scrambling to think around the rolling heat that moves through your body threatening to drown you at such a display. You’ve barely made any sense of yourself after being flung through the darkness when he’s dropped low and moved on top of you. His movements are strong and decisive as he pushes your chemise up. He noses his way between your thighs, spreading them apart to make room for him. You barely have time to consider being embarrassed about being exposed, at how wet you know you are, when his wide tongue, inhuman roughness obvious, covers your cunt.

Your yelp of surprise turns into a long drawn out moan as he licks at you, vigorously, hungrily. He places a massive hand on each of your thighs, claws stinging just enough to quicken the pulsing need between your legs. You twitch and shiver as he pushes your legs further apart to accommodate his bulk. Your heated skin finds the remaining fabric bunched around your waist too much and you hastily try to shuck it the rest of the way off as fast as you. It's the most uncoordinated you’ve ever felt due to the manner in which Temar is concentrating on sucking your mind out of your head via your cunt.

Free at last of the uncomfortable and restricting garment, you reach down, fingers threading into Temar’s wild mane of hair on instinct alone. You don’t kow if you’ve even stopped moaning since his tongue attached itself to your cunt. Simultaneously, it's too much and not enough and all you can do is try to hang on for the ride he’s determined to take you on. Sweeping you down into the heat of feral lust with him. 

One of his hands leaves your thigh to clamp down across your stomach and hold down your hips. Your fingers tighten as he holds you in place to take what he wants from you. His unwavering focus is on eating you out, so starving for you that for now even the beast is content with your taste, leaving his hips rutting against the bedding. 

Temar wrings sounds from you know you’ve never made before. You never want anyone else to even try. Fuck, so good, you think. Or maybe you say aloud because you swear he grunts his approval and his tongue somehow manages to reach deeper. 

The black pad of his thumb rubs your clit perfectly and you scream you shatter. He growls triumphantly as he greedily drinks down every last drop of your release

You feel unspooled and languid, molten in your pleasure. Temar too seems satisfied with the meal he’s made of you for now as he pulls back, licking his lips. His fingers tighten their hold on your hips as your only warning before he flips you over. Dazedly, automatically, you try to brace yourself. He grunts in approval at how he has successfully maneuvered you onto your hands and knees. Right where you wanted to be ever since you first understood that he was in heat without a lover. Since you realized you wanted to be that lover.

One of his hands leaves your hip to stroke up your spine and you shudder at the feeling of calluses, iron strength, and claws. Instinctively, you arch into the motion, wanting to encourage him to touch you as much as possible. You’re so grateful you’ve already tossed your chemise gods know where. “Please,” you gasp out.

He rumbles with approval and as if having heard your unarticulated thoughts, drapes himself further over you. He pulls you against the cradle of his hips with one firm motion eliciting a squeal from your lips. It's evidently not close enough, as he wraps his fingers around your shoulder and pulls again until he can rut his cock against where you feel oh so empty. 

With you where he wants you, Temar releases his hold on your shoulder to lurch you both forward, him bracing you both with that hand on the bed. It leaves you clearly trapped under him. You close your eyes to savor the position and you’re struck by the image you two would paint, were you able to see. Perhaps that should be more intimidating or even frightening than it is, but you like the heavy weight of him, the power evident in his body as he cages you in. 

The ache between your legs only grows more acute. “Temar,” you plead, attempting to move your hips against him despite the hold he still has on one of your hips. The gnawing hunger and persistent emptiness are starting to hurt, desire buzzing along your every nerve. 

“Mine,” Temar proclaims as the head of his cock finally catches perfectly and he starts to drive into you. The stretch and ache of him causes your moan to fracture under the strain. It’s been so long, but you're so wet it almost doesn’t matter. He’s so thick, so long, you’re losing all sense of anything outside of where the two of you are joined. The last few inches cause a pleasurable burn as you clench around him. Gods it's been too long since you were filled like this, if you’ve ever even had someone with his girth before. 

Temar growls contentedly once he’s fully seated inside you and you gladly take the precious few seconds to adjust. Soon enough, he pulls nearly all the way out of you causing a desperate whine to build up in the back of your throat until he thrusts back in, ripping a ragged sound from your throat that might resemble his name. 

He picks up speed with each movement of his hips, getting surer and stronger each time. You feel your whole body move and jolt with his each and every thrust. Your hands scrabble fruitlessly at the bedding under you, trying to brace yourself or get a grip but you can’t, uncoordinated and weak from your previous orgasm as well as the overwhelming way Temar is fucking you. 

He’s going to ruin you and you’re going to thank him.

His control seems to be fraying the longer he’s inside you. You can see the claws tipping his fingers get longer where they dig into the bedding and you can feel the way they dig into your hip. The pain is the perfect counterpoint to the pleasure of him finally hitting that perfect spot inside. You can feel your inner walls flutter from the sensation. Temar must like that because he groans and makes a noticeable effort to strike that same spot repeatedly.

The unrelenting attention pays off immediately as you can feel your need wind tighter and tighter while your mind empties of thought except for the sensation and heat Temar is bringing forth from the depths you. The continual barrage of his cock finally shoves you over the edge of pleasure once more and you obligingly shatter.

He groans as your clenching around him seems to be all he needs to let go. He hilts in you one last time and you feel him come hard. He fills you up with his seed, warmth spreading, and continuing to make little half thrusts, as if trying to make sure it stays deep within you. You’re still coming down from your orgasm but the sense of satisfaction expands in your chest now that Temar’s reached his peak too.

You close your eyes, limp underneath him, but more content than you’ve felt in ages, in perfect harmony with your werebeast mate.

At some point, you feel him tip you both over onto your sides, though he keeps his cock firmly seated within your heat, keeping you full. Temar’s rumble is full of satisfaction and he engulfs you in his hold, making it clear neither of you are separating anytime soon.

You don’t know how long you lay there on your side, blissfully fuck out, still full of him. You don’t care. You enjoy floating in the hazy afterglow. Eventually he slips out of you, pulling a gasp from you and a whine from him. He nuzzles against you, as if to comfort you. You’re too boneless and witless to do anything more than nuzzle him back. 

At some point you do notice him start to move against you once more. His large hands are running along your body, as if committing it to memory. It’s not until he starts to focus on your nipples, rubbing his thumb in increasingly tight circles. Desire starts to zip through your sluggish veins and you whine, twitching in his loose hold. He seems to appreciate your reaction, nudging your head with his until you turn it to face him better. He catches your mouth in a consuming kiss, more coordinating than any previously but just as hungry. It's deep and filthy and leaves you vibrating for me.

His hand covers your cunt, still swollen and wet from your combined cum, in addition to the desire within you he’s stroking back up into a blaze.  Your sensitivity causes your hips to stutter as you’re caught between wanting more and being too tender for it. He loses interest in using his hand once you’re pushing towards him more than you are moving away. Pulling you down his body once more, his fur causing goosebumps to ripple across your flesh until you’re back where Temar at least seems to think you belong: in the cradle of his hips.

“Oh! Temar, you—mm, o-oh,” you attempt to say something to address the reignition of his desire, but before you can, his stiffening cock has managed to press against your cunt just right, moving through your lingering wetness and the spend that’s leaked out of you since said cock last left you.

“Mate,” he intones, lust certainly back into his voice. He pulls you up off the bed, securing you to his chest with the hand still clutching your chest. You’re not sure his other hand he's left your hip since it settled there. “More.”

“I, yes,” you reply, trying to pull yourself back together. Of course while in heat, he’d want to—you cut your own thoughts off with a surprised moan as he pushes back into you. Your fingers clench in the sheets as your sore, but slick muscles allow him back inside. The overstimulation is giving your head a rush. 

Luckily, this time Temar seems more deliberate and rhythmic with his thrusting rather than frenzied and desperate. His other hand resumes kneading your chest and rubbing against your stiffened nipple. The change in angle seems to keep him from going too fast and luckily requires none of your strength. In fact, the sensation of him fucking you while you lay limp in his grasp is quickly bring your own lust back at a dizzying pace you don’t expect.

He shifts and the angle gets even better, causing you to moan loudly in encouragement. You sag against him, your bones feel liquid from the way he’s been relentlessly thrusting within your cunt. His grunts and your pants fill the room. You’re still so hot, with sweat rolling down your back only to be absorbed into his fur. The sensation ensures you never forget who and what is taking you. You glory in it, in knowing he chose you.

You feel like he’s determined to fuck you until you can’t see straight, can’t move and you’re beyond willing for him to try. 

Gods, he’s going to make you forget your own name.

Something curls deep in you, winding around itself with each passing second he continues moving within you. He hunches forward, just enough to press against you, to change the angle some minuscule amount, and that spring releases. You fracture around him. As before, that appears to be all he needs to push as deep as he can and spill his seed in you one more time. The sensation of his release, of the desperate way he continues to try to fill you are the last things you remember before the pleasure pulls you under.

-/-

In the morning, or given the angle of the sun, the afternoon when you wake after a sleep longer than an hour, Temar surrounds you still. You’re in no rush as you take the time to regain your bearings and take stock of your aches. Without opening your eyes you can tell he’s looking at you. “Regret?” you ask simply, stock still in his hold, voice scratchy from overuse. You lost count of how many times aTemar fucked you last night. It's all a blur of heat and desire.

“No,” Temar rumbles, adjusting his hold. “Mine.” The added growl behind the words even in his human form sends a shiver down your spine and reignites the ache in your muscles in the most pleasing manner. 

It's more than you were hoping for, and yet you can’t help but ask, cautiously, “For the rest of your heat?” Some small part of you is still expecting to be sent on your way far sooner than you’d like to be. 

“I suppose you’ve convinced me,” Temar replies, the amusement in his voice unable to stay hidden under his put upon reluctance. “If you’ve made this foolish choice, I suppose I’ll let it stand—for now.”

“You may be stubborn, but I think we can agree I won this battle,” you point out. You finally blink your eyes open for long enough to look over your shoulder and meet his brown ones. He looks indulgent when you cup his cheek. “What makes you think you’ll fare better in the next one? I’m not sure I want for this to end with your heat.”

“I thought you’d say something of the sort,” Temar replies with a roll of eyes. He nips at your ear and pats you on the hip. “We can discuss after your bath.”

You hum, pleased immensely by the prospect. “See? Perhaps it’s you who is mine after all.”

---

Extra thanks to everyone who followed along with the original posting! all your comments and tags and asks were super encouraging!!

[cherrylibby]

Fire & Sky

Continuation of the: spirt fire & smirks series

The sky was clear, but the tension crackled through the comms like a brewing storm. The mission was always going to be risky — low altitude, tight turns through hostile territory. But you and Jake had done this a hundred times in training. You trusted your skill. You trusted him.

“Stay on my six, Spitfire,” Jake’s voice came through your headset, steady, even as adrenaline thrummed beneath his words.

“I’m right here, Hangman. Just don’t show off too much — I don’t need to see your ego in high-def.”

Even with the danger, you heard the smirk in his reply. “Can’t help it. It’s part of my charm.”

And then it happened. The sharp ping of warning alarms. The gut-wrenching sound of impact.

“Missile incoming—Y/N, break right, now!”

You pulled hard, but it wasn’t enough. The enemy fire clipped your plane’s wing. The jet shuddered violently, metal screaming as it lost control.

“Mayday! I’m hit! I’m hit!” you called, trying to stabilize, but you were going down fast.

“No. No, no, no— Y/N, eject! Now!” Jake’s voice cracked through the comms, panic breaking through his practiced calm.

You barely had time to respond before you yanked the ejection handle, the force ripping you from the cockpit. The last thing you saw was the ground racing up to meet you.

“Where is she? Where the hell is she?” Jake barked into the radio, his jet banking hard as he scanned the terrain below, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

“Hangman, we’ve got a fix on her chute location. Coordinates incoming.”

But it wasn’t fast enough. Not for him.

Jake pushed his jet harder, eyes scouring the dense trees where your parachute had disappeared. His hands gripped the controls so tightly his knuckles were white.

She’s okay. She has to be okay.

“Y/N! Spitfire, do you copy?”

Static.

“Baby, please…” he whispered to no one, to you, to the universe.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, he spotted the tangled mess of your parachute caught in the treetops. His breath hitched. There — a flash of your flight suit. But you weren’t moving.

The second his boots hit the dirt, Jake was running. He didn’t wait for backup. Didn’t think about protocol. All that mattered was getting to you.

“Y/N!” he called, voice ragged. Branches tore at his flight suit as he pushed through the brush.

And then he saw you — crumpled beneath the chute, blood at your temple, your breathing shallow.

“God, no… no, no, no…”

He dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they hovered over you, afraid to touch, afraid he’d hurt you more. But he had to.

“Spitfire, sweetheart, I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Your eyelids fluttered, a groan escaping your lips. Jake exhaled a shaky breath of relief.

“Hey, stay with me, alright? Don’t you dare check out on me now.”

His hands cupped your face gently, brushing dirt and blood away. His voice broke as the tears came, unbidden and unstoppable.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered, forehead pressed against yours. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought I was gonna watch you fall outta the sky, and I—I can’t do that. I can’t do any of this without you. You hear me?”

You tried to speak, but he shook his head, brushing more hair back, his thumb stroking your cheek.

“Save it, baby. Just focus on breathing. Help’s on the way. I’m not leaving your side.”

You managed the faintest of smiles, and Jake choked on a sob, kissing your forehead.

“I love you,” he breathed, words that had been on the tip of his tongue for so long. “I love you so damn much. And I’m gonna get you outta here. I promise.”

And as the medevac team arrived, Jake held onto you, heart pounding, refusing to let you go. Because this mission wasn’t over — not until you were safe, in his arms, where you belonged.

The beeping of the monitors was steady, a metronome that both calmed and tortured Jake as he sat slumped in the stiff plastic chair beside your hospital bed. His elbows rested on his knees, hands steepled in front of his mouth, as if he were praying — maybe he was.

You were pale against the white sheets, bandages at your temple, a deep bruise blooming along your jaw. The doctor said you’d been lucky — a concussion, some cracked ribs, a lot of cuts and bruises, but you were going to be okay.

Jake hadn’t left the room since they brought you in. His flight suit was still dirty, torn at the sleeve where he’d shoved through branches trying to get to you. His knuckles were scraped. His eyes were red from the tears he’d tried to hide, from the fear that still gripped him like a vice.

And then — the softest sound.

A groan, barely audible.

Jake shot upright so fast the chair nearly tipped over.

“Spitfire?” His voice was raw, hopeful, disbelieving.

Your eyes fluttered open, squinting at the too-bright lights, dazed and confused. “Jake…?”

He was at your side in an instant, sinking to his knees so you could see him, so you knew he was right there. His hand found yours, fingers trembling as they laced with yours.

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. I’m right here. God, you scared the hell outta me."

You blinked at him, trying to focus, your voice hoarse. “What happened…?”

“You went down. The mission… your chute — but it’s over. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

Your brow furrowed as the memory came back in fragments. And then, despite the pain, you gave him the faintest smirk. “Did you come charging through enemy lines for me, Hangman?”

Jake let out a broken laugh, the tears brimming again, this time from relief. “Damn right I did. I’d tear the whole damn world apart if it meant getting to you.”

You squeezed his hand, your strength returning bit by bit.

That’s when Jake lost it — really lost it. His head dropped to rest on your hand, shoulders shaking as the emotions he’d bottled up finally spilled out.

“I thought I lost you,” he choked out. “I thought— God, I kept seeing you fall, kept hearing you call Mayday… and I couldn’t get to you fast enough. And all I could think was, I never told you. I never said it right.”

Your heart ached at the sight of him like that, so vulnerable, so Jake beneath all the bravado.

He lifted his head, eyes glassy but steady, his thumb stroking the back of your hand.

“I love you. I love you so damn much, Spitfire. I don’t want a second more of not saying it, not showing it. I’m yours. I’ve been yours since the first time you rolled your eyes at me.”

Tears welled in your eyes too, but this time they were from something softer, something beautiful.

“I love you too, Jake,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Always have.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years, leaning up to kiss your forehead, gentle and lingering.

“I’m never letting you go,” he promised, voice firm now, no trace of hesitation left. “You’re stuck with me, darlin’. Forever.”

And as you drifted back to sleep, safe in the quiet hum of the hospital room, Jake stayed right there — holding your hand, guarding your heart.

Because this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Are you taking requests for kraven? Maybe dating hcs where reader is lowkey insane?

Reader might come off a little more deranged/ morbidly curious rather than insane. But yeah enjoy whether this was.

You came across as a typical upstanding citizen of society, nothing out of the ordinary but not everything about you was ordinary when animals -whom are good judges of character- were adamant in avoiding you, running away as fast as they could if you were nearby and or show hostility towards you in hopes that you’d leave them alone.

You unsettled them as you were silent chaos waiting to break out, other people just get an unnerving feeling about you that they’re quick to dismiss when you show them a side that’ll make them less skeptical of your true nature. It was rather easy to fool others by putting on a charade that they can digest.

Sergei -upon first meeting- had a feeling that something was off about you as his eyes took you in, you looked normal but yet something within him told him to be weary of the fire within your eyes as you smiled at him.

Then again your meeting came at a time where one thing and one thing only was preoccupying his mind, so human interaction with anyone that could potentially get hurt by his father’s associates was far removed from his mind as he was quick to pick up where he had left off.

But it wouldn’t be long before you were too deeply involved with his plot against his father and you would have to remain close by the burly man for your own safety in fear that his fathers men would come back and finish the job that they should’ve beforehand.

However you seemed unfazed by all the violence and blood that came from Sergei’s lifestyle, almost coming across as numb when you saw how he’d tear through people as though they were nothing, your eyes would be wide slightly in morbid fascination at how effortlessly limbs were torn off and sent flying elsewhere.

Had it been anyone else would’ve ran away and seek for shelter for their own safety, get away from all the chaos and destruction happening before you. But you were a little different as you would only sit yourself down on a nearby surface and watch Sergei go to work in awe of how truly violent one man could be to cause so much bloodshed.

Sergei would naturally be a little pissed that you were so close to the violence, so close to getting hurt and looking about as unbothered as you were being told something that didn’t affect you directly. Like nothing truly disturbed you because you’ve already seen your fair share of chaos and carnage in comparison to a normal civilian.

It was eyebrow raising to say the least but your safety was his bigger concern as he held you by your shoulders and looked at you with wild eyes, expecting you to flinch but you didn’t, if anything you only smiled at the man as you hugged him tight; not caring for the blood that stained him as you knew simple but effective methods to get rid of such a stubborn substance.

‘You could’ve gotten hurt.’ He tell you.

‘No I wouldn’t.’ You replied so certainly, a little too calm for someone who’s seen people die before their eyes. ‘I have you.’ You added.

‘You act unfazed by such displays of violence,’ Sergei starts, ‘I wonder why, you don’t seem to have any background in anything that could have you withstanding the sight of a man with his entrails hanging out.’

You merely shrugged. ‘I might just have a strong stomach and the idea that you know so much about me and my background should off put me from you as being creepy, but I kind of admire a man who wants to learn all about his prey before pursing them in a hunt.’ You cackled as you messed with the fur lining of his coat.

Sergei removed your hand from his coat, holding them in his own as your fingers caressed the bruised and bloody knuckles tenderly. ‘Having a strong stomach is one thing love but your reaction alludes to a darker side of you that I have yet to see, almost as if the thrill of the hunt excites you along with the harm it causes others too.’ He adds in a low whisper as though he finally had you figured out, his eyes narrowed by his hold on you was still gentle and protective as though he was trying to protect you from your darkest version of yourself.

You pecked his lips innocently. ‘The hunt does thrill me, though only when I get to see you at what you claim as your worst and still feel nothing but love and affection for you my beloved Sergei.’ You tell him as you squeezed his hands, memorising their roughness and each individual callousness they had with the idea of worshiping a man of such raw power and strength. ‘You’ve always fascinated me, and you only continue to fascinate me even more.’

‘I’m not safe company.’ He tried to tells you.

‘I don’t care whether your safe company or not, they’re going to come after me regardless if you explained that I have no ties with you, and this-‘ you gesture to the dead bodies nearby. ‘Will only tell them that there is something between us. A connection that they can exploit to their advantage against you, so if anything I’m in safer company with you than without you.’ You replied.

Sergei knew you were right, the damage was already done and more people will only be after you and him because of it. However this doesn’t solve the itching feeling that he got from that darkness within your heart, that curious nature that you possessed that could borderline dangerous.

Who was he romantically involved with and why did it send his senses haywire into whether keep you safe from that inner darkness or keep himself away from that very same thing?

[space-blue]

Feyd thoughts from Fenring scene

I was sharing thoughts to a friend while rewatching the Feyd and Fenring scene and figured I'd share it here too, it's my blog innit.

He's walking on his own in a completely empty corridor. Upon being followed he ambushes and pulls a knife, meaning he immediately assumes he's in danger. Calm and collected attitude at this prospect, clearly not his first time.

But he also doesn't toy with her, doesn't threaten her beyond asking about her presence, he's not showing any sadistic traits.

He openly asks if they've met because he recognises her, isn't being coy.

Instead of being violent, he tells her the rules: 'You're not allowed in this section', meaning at least he knows not to be openly hostile to guests.

He's suspicious she got past the guards. He asks about that in a higher pitch, but extremely bland face. He doesn't sound upset or happy or angry. More like low key worried.

From there Margot uses the voice.

She reveals he's shunning his own celebrations, AND he refuses to say why despite being asked with suggestive voice.

He immediately recognises the use of the voice on him and calls her a Bene Gesserit. How? He doesn't answer when she asks what makes him say that. We have to keep in mind that his mother (who he killed) was BG, and since we don't know when she died, it's possible he received some training from her.

He instead says he dreamt about Margot, harkening back to Chani dreams from Paul. Meaning we can safely assume he's just as plagued with semi-visions as Paul was in Dune 1 before going to Arrakis, and we can safely assume that's not common knowledge.

Immediately goes 'Don't mock me woman' when she teases him. BUT crucially, she says "a pleasant dream I hope?" which is not mockery but closer to flirting? It's like he genuinely takes that as a literal tease, when the actual teasing is when she says "I wouldn't dare!" which he doesn't comment on, maybe because he's used to many forms of grovelling.

He also reacts as if the voice is a physical pressure, like when you come down on a plane and your ears get blocked, and tries to shake it off:

Again with 'I know your BG tricks'

Margot asks, again, and gets no reply, again. She even says "tell me" in a normal voice. There is no cut or weird editing afterwards, so we can assume that Feyd didn't answer either time he was asked.

Instead he takes his bearing and looks around. He is not aggressive or panicked when he admits to not recognising the place.

Dude is designed to blend into his surroundings. Bonkers he doesn't wear gloves at this stage.

Risk taking : he steps unprompted in the door entrance, and she then says "come to me, kneel," etc. BUT we know he KNOWS about the BG tricks, so we can suppose that he's actually making the decision to go in despite knowing full well she can and will control him.

There's plenty of hints that he may still be heavily under her charm, but there's also evidence he can resist the voice she uses on him (he never answers her repeated questions, tries to fight it off).

He never reacts agressively. He says "where are you going?" with some heat when she leaves though, which to me hints at loneliness. He was all alone avoiding every harkonnen under the moon on his birthday despite being the king of the night, meets a random chick he dreamt about, and now she leaves? Spiced suggested though he may ask because he's not used to people leaving without being dismissed. But imo these can blend.

I lean towards Feyd being quite resistant to the voice because they sent Margot in the first place. Yes, Mohiam wants a child made, but in her excuses, she does't say "I want him bred". Instead she says she's a motherly figure and he might have killed her because he killed his mom. If the voice was such a perfect tool of control, that wouldn't really be an issue, especially once you have him under the Gom Jabar.

There may be an element of "These men [Paul and Feyd] are one generation away from the KH and can't be toyed with carelessly".

He also killed his BG mother, which means he's capable of killing a sister and not any small fry.

So they send a sexy woman to woo him and yet she still has to ask multiple times about what he knows of the BG.

Regarding his dreams, it's also possible Feyd is so compliant and keen to follow Margot because he might have foreseen a freaky good time with her.

One is left to wonder if he looks at Mwaddib walking into the throne room with such intensity not because he's hot for him (he doesn't yet know it's Paul), but because he may have SEEN this scene in dreams. We know Paul was very affected by the spice in the air and food on Arrakis. We also know he made frequent false visions (Jamis helps but it ends up being Chani. Chani and him cut ambiguously in the killing scene. Seeing himself in Chani's place in the final combat scene...) So we can also imagine Feyd may be overconfident in taking in the Emperor's challenge because he's dreamt of this too. Just spitballing.

The BG call him a sociopath with a side of hollywood competency. He has a bit of the BBC Sherlock and Hannibal Lecter disease. He should not be as tame or as competent as he's described and shown if he had the full disorder.

It's very interesting to look at the Fenring scene with sociopathic traits in mind and see how they apply or don't.

He's not getting his need for validation avoiding the party, but he just survived an attempt on his life by his Dear Uncle before getting his freedom dangled in front of him. Lots on his mind.

He's not prone to anger outburst in general. His behaviour isn't very erratic either. Both of these classic traits were probably curb-stomped by the need to fit the mold imposed by the Na-Baron position.

But he definitely has a high sense of his superiority and is opinionated. He speaks up unprompted during the Baron's interview, and again behind the Emperor with 'he's bluffing'

High propensity for violence: check. Whole film, basically. He can be prompted by anger (against Rabban), perceived threat (arena), reactive/defensive (against Margot trailing him). Violence in reaction to fear isn't shown.

Difficulty maintaining relationships : the only people he seems fond of are his once shown, once mentioned pets he brings with him. His family relationships are what they are, and he has no friend to go to on his Birthday.

Generally fearful, vulnerable to anxiety and rejection, easy to humiliate : what a cincher. This is him reacting defensively to Margot's flirting. The BG say fear of humiliation is one of his levers, and if you give him a strong attachment to an honour code, it's very easy to manipulate.

IMO this feeds into his displays of vanity (black teeth, tailor made pretty pets). Also since black is seen as a rich and beautiful colour on their world, his all black outfits with clean cuts may not be as muted as we think they are.

the end... for now.