#might do the prime souls next

[whosboo20]

Silly doodles of this anger issues angel

[imagine-darksiders]

Transformers Prime: Optimus + Reader. Chapter 1.

So, I read @lovinglonerhybrid 's post here. And it absolutely had me in a chokehold, so this is based off that premise. I'm in the UK so please excuse my ignorance of American states lmao.

So, there is a part 2 to this, but I'm going away for 4 days and wanted to get some of it posted before then.

You've broken down fifteen miles short of Jasper's city limits in the dead of night. Deciding to hike in to town, you feel the earth rumble beneath you, and over the horizon, something enormous approaches...

Chapter 1: 9352 words.

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It’s a rare and covetous thing, to find even a single moment of peace in the midst of an intergalactic war.

The gap from one of those precious moments to the next seems to grow wider and wider every time, until their frequency is so negligible, it becomes hard to recognise them for what they are anymore.

For everything Earth could have offered Optimus Prime, he hadn’t been expecting it to relinquish the gift of peace so willingly. But he’s glad – more than glad – to accept them when they come, even if he’s only stealing glimpses of tranquillity on the sand-swept road leading out of Jasper.

Low-beam headlights lazily trace over the faded tarmac ahead of Optimus’s tyres as he trundles along Highway 49, one of only two roads that surround the small, sleepy city of Jasper. It’s a very routine patrol, one he obligingly excused Bumblebee from taking after his poor scout all but begged Optimus to give it to someone else, beeping out promises that he’ll take double shift tomorrow night, if need be.

All this on the back of Miko announcing another of her ‘slumber parties’ at the base, much to Ratchet’s noisy chagrin and Optimus’s private amusement. And, of course, when Bumblebee found out that Rafael would be staying the night too… Well…

‘You’re too indulging,’ their old medic had admonished from his workstation, the broad expanse of his back turned to the Prime, ‘He ought to learn he can’t always have his way.’

But it was a harmless indulgence, and Prime was more than happy to take over the patrol in this instance.

Besides, he had an arguably selfish reason for doing so.

If he’d admitted as much out loud, Ratchet would have scoffed and sent a pulse of chiding dismissal crashing into Optimus’s EM field. ‘You don’t have a selfish component in your body,’ he might say.

But this… Optimus muses, gazing skyward as he trundles down the highway in vehicle mode, letting the crisp, night air slide through his grill and cool his powerful engine… This is the appeal of a solo patrol.

Every now and then, there are times when the Decepticon activity goes quiet, Fowler has nothing to report, and Optimus can almost pretend that he’s just another Cybertronian enjoying a long, quiet drive through the Mojave wilderness. And while he remains ever vigilant, keeping every sensor poised outwardly in a constant surveillance of his surroundings, the old bot still permits at least one sense to wander.

Somehow, it’s always his sight.

Oftentimes he catches himself doing it. Other times, on nights that are quiet and still and clear like this one, there’s a wire-deep longing that overrides his logic gates, and the Prime won’t notice that he isn’t keeping his processor and his optics on the dusty road ahead of him. He’s too busy stealing long, pensive looks at the stars above him, scattered like a-hundred-billion souls sprawling across a curtain of crushed velvet.

It’s out there… somewhere… riding a lonely orbit on the furthest reaches of the galaxy’s Centaurus arm.

Cybertron.

Home.

Their first home, he amends gently, depressing his accelerator to speed up when he realises he’s starting to crawl. Earth is as much their home now as Cybertron ever was.

Sagging on his suspension with a low hiss, Optimus drags his hidden optics back to the road ahead, and all at once, he nearly lurches to a halt, his exhaust pipes sputtering out a hollow sound to betray his surprise.

There, parked several feet from the road a few hundred yards ahead of him, is a vehicle.

Prime’s senses sharpen to a startling focus.

Pumping his brakes, he slows down again, and the roar of his engine fades to a fluctuating hum.

A Decepticon…?

He doesn’t feel anything trying to breach his EM field, nor does he pick up on any resistance when his scanners hone in on the vehicle – ‘Ford. F250. A Pickup truck.’ Year….? Optimus’s focus narrows to a pinprick… ‘Eighty-seven.’

It’s red - a faded, dusky red like some of the sun-baked sandstone at Red Rock Canyon. As Prime’s massive form rumbles on through the night, looming closer and closer to the mysterious truck, his lights reflect off something situated above its rear bumper, the presence of which quells his flaring codes and eases his rigid frame.

A number plate.

Thick, black numbers and letters stand out against the white rectangle, though it isn’t the sequence that alleviates Optimus’s suspicion, it’s their mere presence.

No Decepticon he knows would ever suffer the ‘indignity’ of having a human number plate stapled to their bumpers.

Primus, even the Autobots have foregone the accessory after Fowler gave up trying to keep Bumblebee from losing his, Ratchet from ‘misplacing’ his, and Bulkhead from bending his irreparably whenever he transformed. Optimus had given it a go, for a time… mainly because he was growing worried that their overworked liaison would quite simply combust if he had to intercept one more phone call from ‘concerned civilians’ who were reporting a semi-truck driving through Jasper without its registration.

The Prime’s number plate came to its own crumpled end when he sat down on his berth one evening without removing it first.

One genuine, slightly sheepish apology to a very fed-up liaison later, and Optimus was informed that he and his team no longer needed to wear the plates.

So, the presence of one on this truck is a good sign. It’s less likely to transform and cause an incident.

That does, however, open up an entirely new avenue for concern to creep in.

A crash, perhaps?

Several dark skid marks indicate that it must have veered off the road after a hard, panicked brake.

He can’t pick up any biological signatures either. Even when he casts a wider net, all his sensors catch are the heat signatures of a few tiny, Earthen mammals scurrying about over the sand before they dart into various rock formations when he rolls by. But just because he isn’t picking up the presence of a living human, it doesn’t negate the possibility of a human being inside…

Frame suddenly taut, Optimus trundles to a cautious halt on the road alongside the truck, his engine idling like some great, murmuring beast in the quiet of the desert.

A throaty hum seems to escape his smokestacks as he peers down at the smaller truck, contemplative… considering… Then finally, relieved. There doesn’t appear to be anyone inside, judging by what his headlights illuminate through the cab windows.

What is it doing out here?

It definitely wasn’t here yesterday when he made the drive into Jasper. It isn’t a vehicle he recognises either, and he’s been doubly vigilant of late regarding all the civilian cars, bikes, trucks, vans, and even agricultural vehicles in and around the town.

Privately, he’s been compiling a catalogue of them all, for his own reference.

If there’s a threat to his human charges lurking about in their hometown, Optimus needs to know about it. A Decepticon disguised as a civilian vehicle would be an effective method of infiltration.

Casting one more, cursory ping out into the night to check that he’s definitely alone, he at last begins to unfurl himself into his bipedal mode. Metal plating slides away from his grill, pulling back and rolling along the body of the semi as he rises onto newly revealed pedes. The mechanical whines, whirrs and buzzes are terribly loud and alien amongst the desert’s natural ambiance, but soon enough, the air falls still once again, and a monolithic Cybertronian stands in the place where a Peterbilt used to be.

Soft, cerulean light spills over the abandoned truck as Optimus settles his optics upon it, easing his enormous frame down into a crouch and draping one arm across his knee with a ‘clunk.’

At first glance, he hadn’t noticed anything especially odd about the truck save for its unexpected presence. Leaning sideways, he casts an optic over the front bumper and finds nothing out of place, no damage to indicate a crash, no broken headlights or crushed bonnet.

It’s the same story with the truck’s bed. Only when Optimus hauls himself upright and treads carefully around it to inspect the other side does he notices the glaring problem.

The whole vehicle is canting onto its offside front tyre, a tyre that sports a rather sizeable puncture, considering how flat it is. And from the looks of it, this one was only ever meant to be used as a temporary spare. A quick glance into the truck’s bed reveals what he assumes must be the original tyre, flat as well, with the silver head of a nail jutting from the centre tread block.

Optimus clicks his glossa softly for the owner’s run of bad luck.

Right away, he sends a ping to his team, advising them to be wary of stray nails along this stretch…

He receives several pings in return. Immediately comes Bumblebee’s frustration, buzzed over the airwaves like a sulking sparkling who’s been told his toy was broken. Given the Scout’s inclination to race at top speed all over these roads, Optimus doesn’t doubt he’s just vexed at the shuddersome notion of having to slow down.

Arcee and Bulkhead respond in kind as their leader absently moves his attention to something strange obscuring part of driver’s window, letting their concern wash over his field.

‘Popped a tyre, Boss?’ Bulkhead’s message hits his comm, informal and probing, but with the warmth of care behind it.

Optimus is quick to send a pulse of reassurance back through their shared channel. He’s fine. If one little nail was all it took to take a Prime out of commission, they’d all be in serious, serious trouble.

The channels go quiet after Arcee and Ratchet send their short, concise responses, and once again, Optimus is alone on the road, peering down at a small sheet of paper that’s been taped to the inside of the truck’s front window.

Gradually, he furrows his optical ridges until they almost click together into one, solid line, the apertures inside each optic whirring and shrinking as he reads the words scribbled on the paper.

He recalls the first time he encountered the languages of Earth as they were written. The looping letters, graceful and elegant, chasing one another across the front of the letter Agent Fowler gave him as part of an unofficial welcome to the United States.

Optimus had held the paper so delicately between two of his digits, blinking down at the dark ink soaked into repurposed cellulose fibre. It was beautiful.

When he remarked as such, Fowler made a noncommittal comment that you could tell a lot about humans from their handwriting.

Optimus would sometimes find himself glancing over the children’s homework when they left their books out unattended on the table in their recreational area.

Jack’s neat and sensible cursive. Miko’s chaotic, glittery script that rose and fell and ventured outside the lines because she was usually paying more attention to her music than the words she wrote in her textbook. And Rafael, of course, with his quick, almost frantic stokes of the pen as he tried to scribble his thoughts down as fast as his brain could make them, only to end up losing his confidence halfway through a sentence, doubled back, drew a single line through the words, and started again on a fresh page.

This handwriting though… written in blue, splotchy ink and stuck with a piece of scotch tape to the truck’s window, makes Fowler’s words ring true in Optimus’s processor.

He can tell a lot about the human who wrote it.

‘Please don’t steal/break into my truck,’ it reads. The word ‘please’ has been underlined several times. ‘Not worth much, it’s all I’ve got. Tyre is flat, spare tyre too, so can’t get far anyway. Walking to town to find help bcos phone died and I don’t have a charger. Be back soon. Thanks.’

The ink has run in several places and rendered some of the letters illegible, as if water has been dropped on them from above.

Optimus isn’t naïve. He’s seen the children cry, more times than he can bear.

Then underneath all that, in much smaller writing stuffed underneath the first message like an afterthought they forgot to leave enough space for…

‘P.s, if the truck is still here in 3 days, assume I’m dead.’

With a sudden groan of his metal frame, Optimus braces a servo on his knee and hurriedly pushes himself to his pedes once again, helm swivelling sideways to stare down the length of the road.

The truck’s nose is pointed in the direction of Jasper, but the town itself is still about a fifteen-mile drive…

Surely they wouldn’t make the journey on foot…

But if the note is any indication, then…

His processor flashes again to the children; Miko in particular, and the alarming disregard she has for her own safety. The boys are guilty of that as well, though to a lesser degree.

Suddenly, there’s a very high likelihood that there might be a human wondering through the vast Mojave, alone. Worse still, Bumblebee had reported just last week that there’s been an increase in Decepticon patrols in the area around Jasper. No doubt Megatron has been ramping up his efforts to locate the Autobot base. Their growing presence in the vicinity of town makes these roads particularly treacherous…

Optimus ex-vents roughly, more troubled than frustrated.

Blue optics narrow at the road ahead, and once again, the peace of the desert night is filled by the sounds of living metal collapsing back in on itself.

A powerful engine roars to life. Somewhere nearby, a startled jackrabbit darts beneath the safety of a sagebrush, hiding herself amongst its silvery leaves.

Unblinking, her wild eyes stare after the great, thrumming beast as it moves on down the road.

—————-

You’ve had a lot of ideas in your life.

Some good. Some bad. Some that have paid off, but most that have gone nowhere at all.

Perhaps you were growing tired of going nowhere…

What else would have possessed you to up and move all the way to the middle of Nevada state on the back of a job offer that came from a man your uncle purported to know?

‘Oh yeah, Terry? Did a job with him a few years back for some cattle baron out in the sticks. ‘Course, Terry always wanted his own dairy… Want me to tell him you’re lookin’ for work?’

Turns out, Terry did end up getting that dairy he always wanted. And as it happened, he was looking for a farm hand.

Does it count as nepotism if you’re fairly sure your uncle had only met your future employer once?

Beyond a certain point, you simply couldn’t care less.

A job is a job, even if it is out here in the desert near a town you’d never heard of a month ago.

Dust-caked trainers trudge to a weary halt in front of a large, green road sign.

The moon, thankfully, hangs fat and luminous in the cloudless sky. So at least you don’t need a torch to see, not now that your eyes have had time to adjust the darkness cloaked over the desert.

With your run of bad luck, you half assumed the heavens would have opened by now and given the Mojave a nice, little dose of rain.

“Well,” you mutter aloud to yourself, peering up at the green sign with a grimace, “Could be worse…”

‘Jasper – 10 miles,’ reads like a slap to the face.

Still… It’s better than the fifteen miles.

You must have walked at least five already, dragging your legs behind you like extra baggage that doesn’t want to cooperate.

It has to be beyond midnight now. Well beyond, you suppose.

You’ve been walking for the better part of two hours, slow and sluggish and exhausted. The journey getting to Nevada had been tiring enough, then as soon as you crossed state lines, your tyre caught a puncture going over a particularly nasty pothole that had snuck up on you.

After an hour spent in the blazing sun jacking up the truck and changing to the spare, you set off again for another several hours of travel. Then, twenty miles out of Jasper, just as you dared to celebrate being home-free, the unthinkable had happened.

Who hits a pothole and drives over a nail in the same, damn day? Apparently, the same person who forgot to buy a charger adaptor for the truck.

No charger? No phone.

No phone…? No calling for help…

Your chest expands and deflates with a bone-tired sigh, turning your gaze back onto the long, dark road ahead of you. Tears sting at the inside of your eyelids, and for a moment, you consider letting them fall, if only to ease some of the pressure building up behind your temples. But crying hysterically about the unfairness of the world hadn’t un-punctured your spare tyre, so why would it help the situation now.

“Come on,” you coax yourself, hauling one leg out in front of the other. Rinse. Repeat. “Not far now.”

Just a few more hours…

The going is slow, tough, draining. Even the dark shapes of rocks start to look enticing as you pass them, letting your eyes slide over to them as you wonder just how safe it would be to fall asleep in the desert by the side of a road.

Ever since you broke down a few hours ago, you haven’t seen one, single vehicle out here.

‘Which,’ you hum, pursing your lips and tipping your head back to peer up at the bleary sky far above you, ‘Isn’t so bad…’

The stars are numerous, and startlingly clear out in the wilderness. The moon as well seems brighter here, unobscured by clouds. She makes for a quiet companion on your journey towards Jasper, her starry brethren endlessly stretching out to each corner of the horizon.

Suddenly, you feel very small. A hopeless traveller trying to find port in a sea of sand and rock.

Swallowing roughly, you hike your tattered rucksack high onto your shoulder and tear your gaze from the stars.

It’s quiet out here, save for the rustle of sage bushes disturbed by the warm breeze, and the skittering of rocks as night-time animals go about their hunts.

Perhaps that natural silence is why the sudden introduction of an entirely new sound unnerves you so much.

You jerk to a halt, ears straining to hear something approaching from the distance. Underneath the thin, worn soles of your shoes, you start to feel it; the road thrumming with gentle vibrations, growing stronger every second.

Lighting quick, you whirl around to face the way you’d come, hands flying up to grip anxiously at the straps of your rucksack.

You’d have thought you’d be excited to see those headlights rise up above the horizon line. At last! A stroke of luck! A potential ride! Potential help.

Instead, it’s as though the sudden appearance of two, dazzling lights blooming into view as they crest over the hill finally jar some sense back into your dizzy head.

The haze of fatigue lifts slightly, pushed away by little bursts of adrenaline as your brain fights to wake you up to an unconscious threat.

You’re alone out here. Defenceless, phoneless. You don’t know the area. Nobody knows you’ve broken down… You try so hard to think the best of people, but now that you’ve had one doubt, a hundred others start to scurry around in your brain, demanding attention.

You can see the vehicle, or their lights at least, but you doubt they can see you yet, this far down the road. You wonder what it is. Car? Truck?

… Alien spacecraft? Despite yourself, you let out a snort at that. Isn’t that infamous military base supposed to be in Nevada? The one hiding alien activity?

Right. Sure.

Despite your scepticism however, a thrill of fear rushes down the length of your spine as if to say, ‘Oh? But are you sure sure?’

 Gulping audibly, you take a few steps sideways off the road, stealing a glance at a cluster of large rocks that sit conveniently just several yards to your rear.

You have a decision to make.

Maybe you’ve been alone on the road for too long, and isolation has bred a paranoia in you that’s so deeply rooted, you can’t shift it at a moment’s notice. If the sun was out, perhaps you’d be less apprehensive, but the night, no matter where you are, makes everything seem so much more… treacherous. It hides things. People, motivations, monsters.

And though it pains you to do so, you swiftly decide to err on the side of personal safety.

The vehicle is closer now, and your blood trembles as the roar of a loud, formidable engine thunders over the tarmac. Yet you’re still certain it isn’t close enough to have caught you in its high-beams.

On sluggish legs, you haul yourself about and make a clumsy dash for the rocks, clenching a fist around one strap of the rucksack and using your other hand to grab the closest rock and swing yourself behind it. Dropping to your backside, you flatten your spine against the cool, solid surface, eyes wide, heart beating hard against the cage of ribs keeping it from leaping up into your throat.

‘Coward,’ a voice in the back of your head scoffs, sounding suspiciously like your father. You shake it loose. Now is not the time to be bothered by old ghosts.

The thundering engine draws nearer, rumbling in your chest as it seems to creep towards your hiding spot at a pace even a glacier would be impressed by.

Around the corner of the rock, you can finally see the glow of its headlights smoothing over the tarmac, illuminating the sand and brush all around you. Hurriedly, you tuck your toes right into the shadow cast by your rock, keeping a breath held hostage behind clenched teeth.

“Come on… Come on,” you urge it frustratedly, aware that every second you spend not moving is another second towards sunrise. If you’re not on the dairy ready for work by then…

The vehicle rolls to a stop.

It stops.

The temptation to let out a frustrated scream is only held in check by your tongue getting stuck to the roof of bone-dry mouth.

They saw you. They must have seen you. There’s no way they could have known you were here otherwise.

Idiot!

Wasting time on the decision has only taken it right out of your hands in the end.

A bead of sweat escapes your hairline and rolls down the side of your face, following the curve of your cheek. Should you run? Keep hiding? Did they stop by coincidence? If they meant no harm, they’d have seen you hide and kept on driving, wouldn’t they? Stopping is suspicious. It conveys a desire to engage.

And then something really strange happens.

“Excuse me?”

And… Well, you’re… not entirely proud of the choked gasp that jumps out of you, nor the way you flinch as if you’d been struck.

When did they – He? It’s a low voice, deeper than anything you’ve heard in a long while, full of bass but soft like distant brontide.

When did he get out of the vehicle? You didn’t hear a door open, nor close.

You nearly jump out of your skin when he speaks again.

“I’ve frightened you…” Despite how gentle the timbre is, his voice is loud, like he’s speaking all around you, not just behind you. “I apologise,” the stranger continues, “That is the last thing I meant to do.”

What the Hell is he talking about?

There’s a long, unpleasant stretch of time until he speaks again.

“Was that your… Ford?” he asks, like he’s testing the word on his tongue, “Up the road?”

Shit. You’re starting to regret leaving that note. He must have read it and knew someone would be walking into town, alone and vulnerable.

The vehicle's powerful engine is still idling, strong and steady, buzzing along the ground and up through the soles of your feet.

It goes against your nature to ignore someone when they’re talking to you, but there’s still a part of you clinging to the hope that he’ll just give up and move on if you don’t respond or show yourself. Perhaps he’ll think you were just a figment of an overtired imagination…

Of course, instead, he persists. “Please.”

Jesus, he almost squeezes the word out, oozing dejection.

“You have nothing to fear from me… I’m a friend.”

A friend indeed. You huff quietly to yourself. You don’t even know him. He doesn’t know you. He’s trying to coax you out of hiding after watching you flee from his vehicle. Hardly the foundation for a good friendship. Still, you have to wonder why he doesn’t just come around the rock to stand over you if he’s so keen.

After another few seconds of stubborn silence on your part, the voice speaks again.

“Will you at least step back from the rock?”

What?

“There are scorpions on it, and I fear you’ll get-“

You don’t think you’ve moved so fast in quite some time. One moment you’re pressing yourself to the rock, and the next, you’re scrabbling to your feet with gusto, lurching away from your prior hiding space and spinning around, skin already crawling.

Sure enough, a pair of giant scorpions are scuttling around on the flat top, their tails held aloft, proud and large in the moonlight.

“-Hurt,” the stranger finishes.

Snatching your head up, you find yourself staring right into the vehicle’s headlights, and you instantly grunt with discomfort, raising a hand to shield your eyes from the light.

“Oh.” There’s a pause, the vehicle’s engine skips, and the lights suddenly dim, plunging you into almost darkness save for the dim glow of residual light. “Forgive me. Is that better?”

“Much. Thanks,” you respond automatically, only to turn rigid once you realise you’ve spoken aloud.

Well. He’s already seen you. No point pretending you can’t talk either…

Again, the stranger’s vehicle makes an odd noise, it’s engine hums gently, and as you lower your arm to seek out the man you’ve just opened a line of conversation with, you finally see what you’d been hiding from.

A monstrous Peterbilt sits squarely across the width of the road, entirely alien in the barren, rocky landscape. Smokestacks on either side of its cab reach towards the sky, glinting silver in the moonlight. It looks red under the meagre glow, with lighter panelling on the main body and dark, blue accents on the wheel trims and storage compartment. The grill is, in a word, massive, standing taller than you are, sporting a logo you don’t recognise on the front.

All in all, it’s a hell of a truck. Powerful, you imagine. Expensive too.

You try not to let your mouth hang ajar.

“Where-” Your voice cracks, still dry. “Ahem…! Where are you?”

Glancing around, your hackles start to rise. You can’t see the speaker anywhere. Which is why you let out an embarrassingly shrill yelp when his voice rumbles directly from the semi.

“I’m right here,” he assures you, polite enough not to show his amusement whilst you flap your mouth open and closed.

No, you shake your head. No, that is too weird. ��What, are there like… speakers on the outside of your truck or something?”

There’s the tiniest of pauses, followed by a simple, concise, “There are.”

Oh. Well, then. That answers that burning question.

“Okay? So, um… Can I… help you?” you ask awkwardly, screwing one side of your face up.

The man seems to hesitate, allowing a pregnant pause to hang in the air between you before he replies, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

Somehow, your expression twists even further south, and you begin casting your eyes over the semi, squinting through its dark windshield to try and catch a glimpse of what’s on the other side.

“I saw your truck on the side of the road,” the unseen man continues, “I feared you might have been hurt in a crash, so, I stopped to check that you weren’t still inside the vehicle. Then I found your note.”

He falls silent, and the air is dominated once again by the purring of his semi’s engine.

“Okay?” you prompt, still unsure of his motivations.

“It said you need help.”

He trails off, waiting. You’re promptly struck by the idea that he’s trying to guide you to some conclusion he hasn’t yet revealed. Finally, just as you start to grow restless, he forges ahead, “These roads can be hazardous for a lone hu-“

Suddenly, the truck’s engine revs, drowning out his voice for a second and sending you leaping backwards, startled.

“- A lone traveller…” he clears his throat just after the roar of its exhaust cuts out. Then, “Ah, If I may be so bold...”

All of a sudden, the passenger side door unlatches and swings open, and you’re presented with a clear invitation into the darkened cab. “May I offer you a ride into town?”

You wonder if he can see you turn stiff at his suggestion. Your body all but pleads on hands and knees for you to accept. What’s the worst that could happen, after all?

Well. You’ve watched several documentaries and movies that give you a pretty good indication of what ‘the Worst’ entails, thank you very much. You don’t like that he’s inviting you into his truck without showing his face to you yet. You’d like to gauge the person you’re speaking to. Get a bead on him. Is he big? Strong? Tall? Could you overpower him if it came down to it? Does he look like he’s hiding a weapon on him?

All these questions only serve to dry the moisture in your throat.

“I… That’s… very kind of you,” you admit, wringing your hands together as you take a small step away from the semi, “But I’m sure it’ll be okay, it isn’t that far.”

“At an average speed of three miles per hour, you will reach the outskirts of town in just under three and a half hours.”

You blink, caught off guard. ‘And they said we’d never need to use equations after we graduated.’

“Maths guy, huh?” you cock a hip, laying a hand across it and shooting the truck’s windshield a tentative smile, “Maybe I walk at four miles an hour.”

“Two and a half then,” he quips back just as smoothly, the door to his semi still hanging open. When he continues, you can’t help but notice that the cadence of his baritone voice rumbling through the speakers has turned to something a little more sombre, quieter, like he’s trying to impress upon you the gravity of a situation you don’t yet know about. “But time and distance aside, I do not wish to leave you to walk into Jasper by yourself, particularly at this time of night.”

He speaks like he’s been to elocution lessons. Every word seems to be carefully selected, every vowel and consonant articulate and refined.

It’s disarming. He’s disarming. But you’re still not convinced.

“Listen… Thank you, again. But…” It feels rude, like you’re committing some kind of faux pas in turning your back on the semi, yet you can’t shake the nagging voice at the back of your head, telling you that there’s something not quite right about the man in the truck. Not bad, just… off.

“It’s a kind offer,” you tell him again lamely, turning on your heel. And so, you recommence your weary march for Jasper, tossing one last sentiment over your shoulder, “But I’m sure I can make it on my own. Take care, okay?”

You almost expect him to argue, but all you can hear is the now familiar drone of the semi’s almighty engine. For several paces, you can feel a pair of eyes watching you, scrutinising and pensive, if a little baffled by your short yet polite dismissal.

When you make it another ten feet, heaving your tired legs after you over the tarmac, your ears perk up to the sound of an engine revving.

Smokestacks chugging, the massive truck pulls out of its standstill, unseen behind you.

Chewing on the inside of your lip, you keep your gaze fixed to the ground ahead and raise a hand, flapping it about in an apologetic farewell as you meander further off the road and onto the sand, giving him plenty of space to get past.

You start to frown when you make it twenty paces without being overtaken by the truck.

That frown only grows deeper when the engine keeps churring away behind you, rubber tyres crunching tiny particles of sand under their treads as it crawls along in your wake.

Is he…?

Tearing your eyes off the toes of your shoes, you send a fleeting glance over your shoulder, surprised – but not much – to find the nose of the Peterbilt creeping slowly along in your peripheral vision, keeping pace with you.

Your frown eases back, and you quirk a brow at him instead, calmly asking, “What are you doing?”

And just as easily, the voice returns, “If you will not allow me to drive you, I will happily escort you to your destination.”

You can’t help yourself.

“Ha! ‘Escort.’” The snicker jumps out of you faster than you can raise your hands to press your fingertips against an unbidden grin. “Sorry,” you immediately try to amend, “You just sounded so serious.”

“… I… am serious?”

Letting your hand flop back to your side, you give your head a shake, still grinning. You really do meet all sorts on the road.

“Regardless, I’m sure you have far better things to be doing with your time.”

How the truck matches your walking speed without his engine faltering or sputtering, you’ll never know.

A strange noise gurgles from its exhaust, almost perfectly reminiscent of a troubled hum.

“On the contrary,” the driver responds, pulling forwards a little until only the grill overtakes you, and for a moment, you worry he’s about to drive across your path, “There is nothing at the moment that concerns me more than getting you safely where you need to go.”

Huh. Of all the genuine, stubborn…

“Look.” Your shoes scuff up a cloud of sand as you draw to an abrupt and decisive halt, turning bodily towards the truck. Hands splayed on your hips, you glare at the windscreen, aiming approximately for the driver. A second later, he must have hit the brakes because the semi lurches to a stop as well, hissing noisily.

Still, he doesn’t step out.

“You seem like a nice guy,” you start, trying to keep your chin raised and your tone stern. You fail, of course. Your voice cracks nervously, but at least you try. Taking a deep, steadying breath, you finally elect to stop beating around the bush and just address the elephant in the room – or desert, as it were.

“But I don’t make it a habit to get into random trucks with strangers.” You make it a point not to directly accuse him of having ulterior motives, but you hope you’ve at least driven home your main concern. At best, he’ll grow offended that you’d think him capable of such a thing and – hopefully – move on. At worst… Well. You brace yourself for that, teeth grit so tightly, your jaw starts to ache as you flick your eyes over towards the truck’s driver-side door, waiting.

The truck in question does something odd then. It… sinks? At least you think it does, lowering on its axles by a few inches like the wheels have just deflated. It’s difficult to tell in the dim moonlight though, and it’s over so quickly, you can’t be sure you saw anything at all that wasn’t just a trick of the desert.

How long have you been awake?

You’re busy calculating the hours you were driving when the stranger’s voice is kicked out over the speakers again.

“You assume I mean you harm…” he utters.

And just like that, the stern, rigid scowl is instantly wiped off your face.

He sounds…

…sad.

Not offended. Not angered by your thinly-veiled implication.

Just sad. Dispirited, even. As if it’s only just occurred to him that you might have perceived him as a threat.

It’s almost painful when the pair of you dissolve into an uncomfortable silence that lasts for several beats of your rapid-fire heart.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, your brows drift apart whilst you try to think of something to say. Trouble is, you’re afraid that speaking again will only make things worse.

You have no idea what’s going through his head. What if his dejected tone is followed by something worse?

“I’m sorry,” you backtrack, pressing your lips together and chiding yourself for faltering, “It’s nothing personal, just… I-I should probably get going before I fall asleep standing up.” You give a stilted laugh, but it soon turns into an awkward sound made at the back of your throat, lips pulled over your teeth in a grimace.

Dipping your head, you swallow thickly and grip the straps of your rucksack again. But just as you make to turn away, the semi’s wheels abruptly twist towards you. It’s ever so slight, just enough that the truck rolls a few paces in your direction before it stops again, its grill pointed straight at you.

With an audible gulp, you go to take another step back, staring at the metal in anticipation. Your retreat is soon halted by the mellow rumble of his voice.

“I understand your hesitation. And I know that the word of a stranger may not hold much weight,” he begins slowly. The Peterbilt inches forwards again. “But I can assure you, you have nothing to fear from me…”

Shifting on your feet, you let go of your bag and clutch instead at your elbows, brows tipped up indecisively. He’s persistent, you’ll give him that. He also speaks with a candour you’ve never encountered outside of a film or a storybook. Frank and forthright in a way you’ve never been privy to. Is that why you’re hesitating? Is that why he seems ‘off?’ Because his level of sincerity doesn’t have a place in your world?

Perhaps you’ve been spending so much time by yourself, it’s turned you distrustful. Maybe you’re just getting cynical. Looking back on your journey here, you realise that only other person who you’ve spoken to was a disinterested server who took your order at a drive-thru… That was four days ago. How long before that did you listen to someone who wasn’t the people on your truck’s radio?

Why is it so suspicious that this trucker wants to help? Hell, you’d be concerned as well if you saw some poor bastard hiking alone through the desert at night without a friend in the world.

Christ, you need some perspective.

The driver must see the conflict painted like a brand across your expression.

“Would it reassure you to know that this vehicle is operated entirely remotely?” he pipes up.

You blink once. Then again to wake yourself up a little more, pulled from your inner turmoil. “What?”

“This vehicle,” he tells you, “It is an unmanned vehicle.”

Curiosity overtakes suspicion faster than you can uncross your arms and stare at the grill dumbly, face opening up in surprise. “Wait. You mean it’s one of those self-driving things?”

“In a sense.” The semi’s engine rumbles softly, and the not-driver adds, “I am what you might call… the safety driver.”

Now that is curious.

You don’t even realise you’ve taken a step closer. “Really? But I thought that sort of tech was still in testing?”

“It is,” he replies, “We are, however, attempting to advance to field-tests, to see if these vehicles can autonomously haul freight in areas with sparser populations, to minimise the risk of collision.”

“Hence why you’re driving it out here in the middle of the night,” you realise aloud, raising an inquisitive brow at the windscreen, “So you’re really not in there? You’re driving it from somewhere else?”

“Would you care to see for yourself?” he asks kindly.

Your wide eyes flit to the passenger door when it eases open once again, though this time, it seems far less foreboding than before.

Tugging a loose piece of skin between your teeth, you give the silver steps leading to the door a scrutinising glance.

That does reassure you…

Slowly, still at least a little wary, you coax your legs to move, and they begrudgingly carry you onto the road. You approach the semi-truck with all the caution of a doe crossing an open meadow.

As you venture closer, its engine kicks up a notch, emitting a steady, gentle purr as if the vehicle itself is pleased with your acquiescence.

Suddenly, as you move along to the open door, you’re dazzled by a light flickering on inside the cab, bathing what you can see from this angle in a calm, golden hue.

From down here, it looks… just like an ordinary interior.

And lo and behold, as you stand on your tiptoes to see in, you find the driver’s seat is eerily devoid of its occupant.

You let out a breath that emerges shakier than you would have liked it to.

“Wow,” you laugh, impressed.

Maybe just a quick peek…

A vast chunk of apprehension breaks away from your chest and vanishes into the ether as you shuffle towards the steps, raising an arm and stretching your fingers across the space to the grab handle that sits invitingly just beside the open door.

This side of the truck is bathed in silver moonlight, and it’s only now that you’re this close that you happen to notice something you hadn’t before.

You almost wince when you spot them.

Although shiny and speckled with only the lightest dusting of desert sand, the metal panelling on the semi is covered in signs of wear and tear.

Enough to give you pause, at least.

For a moment, you’re taken aback, turning bodily away from the open door and cocking your head at the myriad of scratches that criss-cross their way up towards the semi’s roof.

All the paint in the world couldn’t hide some of those shallow nicks and lines that have been scraped out of the metal. In any case, something big must have scuffed it. Perhaps another driver in their own Peterbilt? Or perhaps it’s all damage sustained in testing the vehicle’s automated capabilities.

Clicking your tongue, you absently raise a hand to stroke your fingertips gingerly along the length of a particularly prominent scratch by the door.

“Oh dear,” you tut softly at the side of the truck, “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?”

Without warning, the engine that had been buzzing so gently suddenly ramps up and starts to vibrate firmly beneath your fingers, so strong you can even feel it judder the ground through the soles of your feet.

Recoiling like you’ve been zapped, you whip your head around to peer through the open door, half expecting the driver to admonish you for touching his vehicle.

As swiftly as it started however, the thrumming engine dies down, and the truck returns to its soft, benign idling. “My apologies,” comes that gentle voice again through the speakers, “Just an overactive combustion chamber.”

“Is it... safe to ride in?” you retort, giving the back of the truck a sidelong glance.

“You will find very few vehicles safer than this one,” he tells you patiently, “I will not allow any harm to befall you, as I would not allow it to befall any of my passengers.”

Your shoulders jump with a silent laugh. “Befall,” you parrot, fighting a smile, “I love the way you talk.”

“… You do?” His speakers buzz with a pleasant hum.

Fingers flexing anxiously, you reach out once again and slide them around the grab handle beside the door, finding that it’s unexpectedly warm under your palm.

“So, I just… get in?” you ask, only to cringe immediately, realising you probably sound like a fool who’s forgotten how to get into a truck.

Before you can rebuke yourself harshly though, the absent stranger offers his response. “Do you require assistance?”

“No, no,” you rush out, placing one foot on the first, silver step and hoisting yourself up off the ground, bringing yourself level with the cab’s seats.

Your eyes grow wide with wonder as you take in the interior.

“Oh, wow,” you breathe, suddenly hesitant to pull yourself up those last few feet.

“Is there something wrong?”

“It’s just… It’s so clean!”

Laid out before you is a perfectly ordinary truck cabin. Soft, grey leather covers the seats, with the same dark colouration on the roof, doors and most of the glovebox, interspersed by a rich, black steering wheel. The soft light, you discover, is emitted by multiple strips of blue neon LEDs that the driver must have fitted underneath the radio dials and dashboard, casting the truck’s interior in a cool, soothing glow.

But most astonishingly, for as much as you search, you can’t spot a single thing out of place. It’s absolutely immaculate. There isn’t one receipt stuffed in the door pockets, no traces of sand or gravel dirtying the footwells, no loose change tossed into the centre console…

Dumbfounded, you glance into the back, but all you find it a dark, grey panel and a shelf set back into the semi’s rear wall, meant for use as a bed, you surmise. It’s empty, unsurprisingly. Not a blanket or a pillow in sight.

Finally, your suspicions are put to rest. This truck doesn’t look lived in at all. He really is operating it remotely.

“God, it looks brand new in here,” you marvel aloud, suddenly hyper-conscious of the abysmal state of your old pickup. The scratches on this semi’s exterior play briefly on your mind but you brush your musings aside, too fatigued to consider the contradictions of a worn exterior but an immaculate interior.

Instead, you feel a frown crease the skin between your brows.

It really is immaculate in here…

Glancing down, you scowl disdainfully at your filthy shoes, the tank-top that’s stained irreparably by dropped food and greasy finger-smears, and trousers that are tattered and worn at their hems.

“Is everything all right?” the ‘driver’ asks again. His voice must emerge from the speakers on each door, low and warm, filling up the cabin.

“My shoes are dirty,” you admit out loud, your grip on the handle turning slack until you sink a few inches back to the first step, “I’m dirty. I-I don’t want to get sand and crap all over your truck.”

“I don’t mind.”

Spoken with more consideration than you’ve heard in a long, long time.

You pause at once, brows tipping up in the centre of your forehead.

A deep inhale through your nose brings with it the unobtrusive scent of leather, with the faintest undertone of adhesive sealers, giving the interior that ‘new truck smell’ that so many drivers try to replicate artificially.

Comparatively, it’s been several days since you passed a rest stop that had showering facilities. Those that did asked for a hefty charge. You’d glanced down at the handful of coppers in your centre console and decided you could go without. Now, you’re starting to regret that decision. Every now and then, whenever you raised your arms to stretch or flip the visor down in your pickup, you’d catch an unpleasant whiff of yourself wafting out from under your light, cotton shirt.

Embarrassed as you are to confess that you’ve been severely neglecting your personal hygiene, you swallow past a lump in your throat and croak, “I… haven’t exactly washed for a couple of days… I wouldn’t want to make your truck smell…”

And in a tone so kind it threatens to brings a tear to your eye, the stranger answers consolingly, “I think your scent is perfectly fine.”

It’s so damnably genuine, you can’t even find it in yourself to point out that he isn’t here to smell you, so his point is moot.

“I…” One more cop-out strikes you. “I don’t have any money,” you murmur truthfully, ashamed, “I can’t pay you for the fuel, or-“

“-I ask for nothing in return but your company,” is all he says, cutting you off as gently as his profound voice will allow.

And just like that, you’re out of viable excuses. Or perhaps your body has noticed the comfortable seats right in front of it and you don’t have enough fight left in you to deny it a sit down. Besides, any reasons you come up with to dip are likely to be met with a counterpoint.

Even so, you can’t help but hesitate for one more question, hand clasping and unclasping around the grab handle. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m not going to get you in trouble or anything am I?”

The next sound that hums through his speakers is so soft and rich, you think it’s the truck’s engine playing up again, at least until the stranger cuts the noise off by saying, “You do not look like trouble to me.”

If he only knew.

The sound prior, you realise, was a chuckle, the first one you’ve heard out of him yet. Something in the measure of it settles the last of your nerves, only slightly, just long enough to have you throwing caution to the wind. With a final heave, you pull yourself the rest of the way inside, sliding gingerly into the comfortable passenger seat. You never notice how the metal below your foot shifts microscopically, lifting you closer to the cab.

It takes a lot of restraint not to let your eyes drift closed, nor to slump backwards into the wondrously giving material on your spine.

Instead, you sit stiffly with your rucksack keeping you upright, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in your lap. If you make any kind of mess in here, you’ll be mortified.

After a moment, you remember to close the door, but just as you turn and peel a hand off your thigh, you jolt, staring agog at the door as it swings slowly shut with a dull ‘click.’ All of its own accord.

“Full remote access,” the voice pipes up as the engine below you roars to life, and then you’re moving, and all you can do is stare through the window at the desert drifting by whilst trying to ignore the uninvited ache in your chest.

“Seatbelt.”

His gentle prompt spurs you to reach over and grab the fabric near your shoulder, tugging it across your body and fumbling a little to slot it into place. Suddenly, you feel an invisible pull on the belt, and the metal buckle finds its way into the socket on your next pass.

‘Must be magnetic,’ you muse distractedly.

“Are you comfortable?”

Blinking back the moisture in your eyes, you turn to glance at the empty driver’s seat. It’s bizarre, and more than a little unsettling to see the steering wheel turn itself around as the truck pulls back onto the road, driven by unseen hands.

When you don’t immediately respond to his query, the man continues just as patiently as before. “If it is too cold, I can turn up the heater. Or… perhaps you are too warm…” He hums to himself, thoughtful. “You have been exerting yourself.”

You instantly become aware of the light sheen of sweat that hasn’t quite dried on your forehead. Puckering your face up into a solemn smile, you shake your head and at last respond. “Not to worry. It’s very comfortable in here.”

What follows is a poignant moment of hesitation before the voice speaks again. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but… You do not seem comfortable…”

The open-ended statement fades into silence, and you’re left casting nervous glances around the cabin again. “How do you-?” you start, tugging your shirt further down your arms, “Can you see me? Like… in here?”

Again, there’s a pause, barely longer than a second, yet long enough for you to notice it.

“Cameras,” comes his measured response, “Both external and internal. They’re how I spotted you on the road.”

“Oh, I hadn’t even considered that… Of course.”

Suddenly self-conscious, you reach up and begin to paw uselessly at your dishevelled hair, humming though a thin-lipped smile. “I must look a sight,” you half joke.

“You look tired…” he replies diplomatically, and there’s nothing in it for you to be offended by.

Rubbing a thumb over the wrinkle slowly carving a home between your brows, you heave a dreary sigh. “It’s been a long journey.”

“I can only imagine… And… Where does it culminate, if I may?”

“Terry’s Dairy?” you offer, “Uh, it’s this little farm just on the outskirts of Jasper.”

The truck beneath you gives a reverberating thrum. “I know the pastures, but I’m afraid you will find they lay beyond the ‘outskirts’ of the city.”

Letting out a groan, you knock your head back against the seat behind you, staring bleakly up at the ceiling. “Of course… How far?”

“Only a few miles, to the East of Jasper. We’re coming in from the Northwest highway. I can get you there in twenty-five minutes.”

“Twenty- Oh, no, no. You really don’t have to do that,” you protest, shifting in the seat to frown at the empty driver’s seat in lieu of anywhere else to look, “Just drop me off in town and I’ll walk the rest. You’re already going out of your way for a stranger.”

“I am dropping you off at your destination and not a mile before,” he tells you steadily.

His uncompromising tone brooks no argument.

You stare at the spot a person should be for several, long moments, debating how much you could push an argument. He’s already coaxed you into his truck, his powers of persuasion are rather good. What chance do you have, sleep-deprived as you are?

Conceding sullenly, yet appreciatively, you let your back touch the seat, settling into it a little less hesitantly. “You won’t be taking no for an answer, I assume?”

He only lapses into a stubborn silence, an answer in and of itself.

That quiet is broken, however, when you suddenly let out all the air from your lungs, a smile growing across the width of your face as the breath escapes your nostrils in a sigh. “Thank you for this… Really. You’re saving me a lot of grief.”

The blue neons on his dashboard seem to flare a bit brighter for all of a second before they dim again. “I am glad to be of service,” he replies warmly.

“Oh my god,” you blurt without warning, leaning forwards in the seat and staring through the windscreen with wide eyes, “I’m so sorry, you’re being so nice and I’m so rude – I never asked your name.”

“Nor did I yours,” he points out, “You may call me Op-“

Suddenly, a burst of static buzzes through the radio. You shoot it a funny look.

“Optimus,” the stranger admits over the static with a hesitance you pick up on right away, drawing your gaze from the dash, “My name is Optimus.”

“Optimus?” you repeat incredulously, a small smile quirking at the edges of your mouth, “Wow… You must have had creative parents.”

“I appreciate that it might seem… an unusual name…”

“It is,” you agree pleasantly, “I like it. Makes you sound cool. Unique. My parents just stuck me with Y/n.”

At once, Optimus echoes your name, and you’re jarred by the sound of it coming from someone else’s lips, reverberating around the truck. It’s been a while since anyone used it.

“Y/n,” he says again in his velvety timbre, “It’s a fine name. I like yours too.”

[lynnerdo]

* The heart is not meant to rule *

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Atreides!Reader

Slow burn, knife kink, blood kink, strangers to lovers, softer!Feyd-Rautha, CONSENT, 18+, arranged marriage, assassination, poison, murder, etc

Chapter 1 - Introduction Chapter 2 - Beginnings are such delicate times Chapter 3 - Eclipse Chapter 4 - A Time of Quiet Between the Storms Chapter 5 - Harkonnen Arena *****

You feel a bit better after a good night of sleep. Your throat is still somewhat itching, probably a side effect from the poison. You drink some water to alleviate the discomfort and get up to get dressed. You take out a soft blue tight-fitting dress that goes down to your feet. It’s embellished with a sort of net made from rope around your chest, hands and face. You drape a see-through veil over your head and make your way out.

Your father told you today was going to be a more relaxed day, just experiencing the culture of the Harkonnens. You’re unsure of what that might entail, and you must admit to yourself that your fear of assassination is high. Someone didn’t want you here, it possibly having something to do with Feyd-Rautha. You knew that Giedi Prime was extremely dangerous, but you at least assumed they would let you live for a mere 24 hours before trying anything.

Knowing what you know now, you make your way to your parents’ quarters to meet up with them first, instead of roaming the halls, unsafely. Your father is the first to greet you, happy to see you, but more so happy that you’re willing to go through with whatever happens today. The conversation you had last night weighing heavy on his soul. All of you finally make your way towards the dining hall, a group of servants already waiting for you. There was no food to be seen however, the servants escorted all of you towards another set of hallways.

“You will make your way to the arena first. The Lord Na-Baron has a surprise for you all.”

You looked at Paul, you mouthed the word ‘Arena’, and he shook his head, unknowing what they meant. You had heard vaguely about the gladiator pits before but had no idea what that entailed. After a short while walking you come across a huge door. As the servants open it, the warmth of the outside catches your breath, it’s hot but also slightly dry, chemicals and pollution abundant as you breathe in. You hear a crowd shouting as you make your way outside. The sheer scale of the arena makes you gulp, this wasn’t some small event, this felt like everyone from Giedi Prime was attending.

You get ushered by the servants to sit up front, the black sun harsh and turning everything into black and white. The Baron is sitting comfortably on the other side of the arena, together with a bunch of servants and… not Feyd-Rautha. You wonder where he is, seeing as this was all his idea apparently.

A servant girl sits next to you and whispers into your ear.

“The Lord na-Baron wanted me to give you this, Lady Atreides”.

She hands you a set of binoculars, you nod and say thank you to her, her face perpetually shocked. You wonder if they’ve ever been treated like human beings, it doesn’t seem like it. You shoot up in your seat at the sound of a loud horn, possibly announcing the start of the event. The crowd goes wild. You’ve never experienced something so loud, Caladan was nowhere near as populated as Giedi Prime, and you feel terribly small at the sight of all those people. Insecurity creeps in, the weight of what your father said about duty almost suffocating you. How were these people ever going to accept you?

Paul felt you shift uncomfortably and reached out for your hand. You took his in yours and smiled softly.

“You’ll do great”.

You return the soft smile and let go of his hand, turning back around to watch whatever will happen in front of you. Your stomach turns due to hunger, but also excitement. A dark, strange voice announces the entrance of the gladiator and his opposing enemies.

The huge black doors open to reveal a leather clad Feyd. His dark clothing contrasting his pale white skin. He walks into the arena, determined and confident. His garments swaying in the wind around his waist. He carries two knives, one small and a larger one. He walks towards the Baron and bows. Then he turns towards where your family is seated and makes a spectacle of himself, opening his arms wide and bowing down to one knee. He looks up and makes eye contact with you. No smirk, nothing. It’s the most serious you’ve seen him. Your breath catches in your throat, and you swallow hard, unbeknownst to what is about to happen.

Three other men make their way into the arena, his opponents. They stagger their way over to Feyd, obviously drugged, except for one. A leaner type, much like Feyd, shields the sun from his face as he makes his way over to him, slowly, calculated. The young na-baron manages to attack the two drugged men first, killing them swiftly, your stomach turning at the sight of blood gushing out if their bodies.

You take your binoculars and look at Feyd, barely breaking a sweat. He looked like a rabid dog, his mouth stained black, drool coming out of it. The rumors were true, he was psychotic, an animal, who enjoyed killing more so than anything else. You look at your father, questioning why he would ever force you to marry someone like this. Leto shifts uncomfortably in his seat at your stare, full well knowing what you’re thinking.

You tilt your gaze back to the scene in front of you, as you creep to the edge of your seat. The last opponent tries to strike Feyd, but he manages to dodge him swiftly. This is all very reminiscent of your first meeting with him, although it is obvious he was holding back when he met you. His moves are fast, deadly and calculated with this opponent. He turns off his shield, just for the thrill of it. He turns to face your side of the arena and as he throws his shield pack away, he smiles up at you. The other man tries to strike in this moment of weakness, your eyes widen, and you jump out of your seat to see Feyd turn fast like a snake to block the other man’s attack. You hear him… laugh? Both men are on their backs now, the other man having the upper hand, shoving a knife down mere inches away from Feyd’s face. He laughs at the man’s attempt to kill him and slowly turns his body whilst taking control of the knife. All of a sudden he stops laughing and takes the other man’s head in his hand, he looks at him, seriously, one might say full of respect for the other fighter. He takes the blade off him and stabs him in the chest, holding his body for a second before letting him fall in the white sand.

The sight stirs something in you, you’re reminded of the servant girl, and how she was stabbed in an exact spot. You now realise that you had seen a vision of what Feyd had done in the aftermath of your poisoning. He looks up at you and your family and puts his blade in the air, the crowd goes wild and all you can do is stand up and stare at him. He had barely met you that day, and yet he already showed you what kind of a man he was. Radical, dangerous, but also fiercely loyal and honourable. You slowly sat back down and tried to stop your heart from pounding so hard. You were elated that he won, even if it was at a barbaric display.

*

The show is over, and you get escorted back by the servants into another hall, one where the history of the Harkonnen is displayed. Grand statues of previous Barons grace the wall, and you can’t help but be amazed. You’re in the presence if a major House and it shows, their history reaching far, farther than your own house. Soon you will become a part of this hall, should you accept.

The same servant girl as before catches your eye, she seems to be staring at you. You walk over to her and ask her to explain some more about what you’re seeing. She looks around but you reassure her that it’s ok for her to speak. Considering she’s probably fearing for her life at this point. She looks at you, frowning, as she clears her throat she starts to talk about the previous Barons. You listen intently, the rich history of House Harkonnen being explained in a nutshell.

“The Lord Na-Baron has no statue yet, but we plan on making one soon, after the wedding”.

You look back at her, pondering if you should ask her more about that. About Feyd. You decide that this might be the only time you have power over someone on Giedi Prime who must answer you, so you try to sound calm and collected.

“Can you tell me more about Feyd-Rautha?”

She shifts awkwardly in her spot; you obviously struck a nerve.

“What was he like as a child?”

She looks over at the rest of your family, they seem to be preoccupied with other statues and stories.

You touch her shoulder to assure her that she can speak. You whisper to her. “I won’t tell anyone you told me”.

She looks up at you with big black eyes, afraid. Was Feyd’s childhood that secret? What could’ve been so scary to tell?

“The-the Lord Na-Baron was a difficult child my lady. He… got into a lot of trouble- “

You’re not surprised, seeing as he loved killing for sport. Any child like that would’ve been hard to deal with.

“When his mother… passed away he changed, he had no leash anymore… he kills for pleasure now my lady.”

Something about the way she said it stirred an uneasy feeling inside of you. It’s one thing to think about something but to hear someone say it feels different.

“He was taken from his father by his mother and left for dead, malnourished. The Baron took him in and raised him to be his weapon and successor. It’s only normal how he reacted when his mother showed back up.”

You were trying to put two and two together, Feyd wasn’t a Harkonnen by blood? He was left for dead by his own mother. He took revenge on her. You look at the servant girl’s face as if she could hear all the questions in your head but right as you were about to ask, a door opened, and the man of the hour entered the room.

He looked at you almost immediately, you were holding the servant girl’s shoulder. She ran off and positioned herself against a wall, awaiting orders. You gave her a soft smile before turning back to Feyd.

Having just received a lot of new information, you have no idea what to think of him. A weird form of empathy hit you like a brick wall, never having to imagine what growing up on a hateful planet with a hateful mother must feel like. You start to understand why he is so sadistic, psychotic and unpredictable. He acts more so like a trapped fox than a snake lashing out. You start to see him as a wounded animal with a full set of unresolved past trauma. Not that any of it excuses his behaviour, but it explains it at least.

He walks up to you and stops a few feet away.

“I hope the Lady Atreides enjoyed the display I had prepared for her this morning.”

Its more so a command than a question, and you do your best to show the right amount if respect. You hold his eye contact and smile gracefully.

“It was most exciting, my Lord Na-Baron”.

He eyes you up for a second and offers you his hand, “Come, I wish to discuss something first”.

You look at him questionably but take his offer almost immediately, more so out if fear of what he might do if you don’t act fast enough. He turns to walk away, outside again, and you look at your family in return. Paul assures you in sign language that he has no ill intentions. Feyd picks up on the small interaction between you two.

*

He never lets go of your hand even if you’ve been walking for 10 minutes now. He turns to look at you whilst opening a black door to a balcony overlooking what little of a garden they have at the palace. It was nice, neat but also very private, closed off.

“You look very beautiful today my lady”.

He lets go of your hand and goes to lean with his back against the railing on the balcony. Smooth, you think to yourself. He really knew how to be charming. A blush creeps up on your face but the black sun makes it invisible for anyone to see. Your veil still covering your face.

“You- I was very impressed by you my Lord Na-Baron. –“ you stumble on your words as you continue.

Feyd moves towards you and takes the veil in his hands, flips it over your head and uncovers your face whilst you’re still talking. “Better”, he mutters.

“- I feel like you didn’t hold back today. I almost feel special.”

He’s only a few inches away, his hands making their way back to the railing. He leans back again and tilts his head at you. You move to stand next to him at the railing, inches away from him.

“Special? What makes you say that?” He chuckles, deep and dark. It makes your breath hitch once more. “Our first meeting, you held back”. You face him and give a slight smile.

You straight out accuse him, playfully and he accepts the jab. He moves his left hand towards your shoulder and plays with the rope and round it. The soft touches very different from the story you were told earlier.

“It wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to kill someone like you without knowing what kept you up at night now would it-“

He moves his hand to your cheek, the scar still prominent. A mark of his, he brushes it like a medal of honour. You try to control your breathing. He knows what he’s doing and you’re willing to oblige him at this point. You close your eyes for a bit and open them back up to see him staring at your lips.

“Besides, you’ll be my little bird from now on.”

You flinch a little, he notices and stops his movement. He looks back at your eyes, fierce and burning with a defiance at this moment. The Atreides in you seeking meaning to his words. He likes what he sees however, eliciting a smile on his face.

“I will not be caged like some animal.”

He lets go of your face, his mouth slightly open, eyebrows raised. He’s never experienced someone telling him ‘no’ this directly. He respects you for it. If he had to admit it, he’d say that he got all hot and bothered as well.

“And I won’t cage you. Nor will you cage me.”

He speaks up, his face showing no lies. You tilt your head questioning what he means by that.

“I don’t plan on going through with this arrangement, I do not feel like it is necessary yet.”

He says it matter of factly, very dry and it makes you feel a tinge of sadness. You have no good idea why, but it seems like you were already accepting the fact that your future was set. You had already gained a lot of respect and empathy for the man in front of you, so to hear him say that this had been all for nothing, hurt. You slightly lose your cool and collected façade for a second and your eyebrows frown as you look down at your hands. You feel a tear well in your left eye but quickly remove it before he sees.

“I don’t want you to get hurt like before. For both our sakes, it would be safer if we do not. I have no intention of harming you or your family, if you don’t stand in my way.”

He’s logical, calculated. It makes sense. You had been almost assassinated because of the sheer announcement, what would happen if you actually got married. The amount of jealous people on Giedi Prime that could kill you, the other houses, …

“You managed to track down who poisoned me, right? I had a vision whilst I was fighting off the toxins… thank you.”

Feyd looked at you puzzled, ignoring the kind words.

“I thought you were not a Bene Gesserit?”

You look at him, he looks perplexed.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not, but my mother taught me a few things here and there. I can’t read or control minds, but I can talk with Paul and my mother. As you can see, I can also fend off poison pretty well.”

He looked at you in awe, he shifted his body to be turned towards you more. He took your right hand in his left and started to play with it. He looked down at your hand covered in the rope and started tugging on it. His movements mimicking a nervous teenager on his first date.

“You amaze me, Lady Atreides. Show me your world before we end our paths together.”

The way he said it seemed so final; it almost made you sad. He picked up on your body language and breathing. Feyd had no sense of personal space however and bridged the gap between you two.

“Make me change my mind” he whispered, his voice deep and gravely.

Mere inches away from your face. You admit he wasn’t that scary up close, not while he was being soft like this with you. A killer in the arena, but seductive outside of it. You were staring into his eyes for a bit too long, and you broke the intense eye contact.

“I will talk to my father about going back to Caladan. I would love for you to join us.”

His eyes linger on your lips, and you feel him releasing your hand. His eyes dart over your face once more, before speaking again.

“Come, Lady Atreides, we shouldn’t keep your family waiting. And maybe while we’re in Caladan you can teach me some of the sign language you speak”.

He really did pick up on the smallest details, like a true predator. The way he said it however made you feel as if he truly wanted to learn, as if he was in awe of the communication you had with your brother and family. If he truly wanted to, you’d be willing to teach him. In exchange for some fighting lessons. Things were looking up, the idea of returning to Caladan made you feel all giddy and nervous. Seeing your friends again and showing Feyd how beautiful your home planet was, you couldn’t wait to get started.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 10 "Fettered Flesh"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧

A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism❗, Murder, Female rage, Teaching the Universe about Feminism, Angst with a Happy Ending

WORD COUNT: 5k

A/N: HELLO PRECIOUS PEOPLE 💕 Shit hits the Giedi Prime fan, so get out your umbrellas!! I feel like with every chapter I'm getting more excited 🥹 And everyone who has left a comment is to blame 😭 I appreciate it so greatly 😭 I've recently started an internship thingy (in a manner of baby's first real job experience lmao), so I have a bit less time to write, but chapter 11 and 12 are finished already, so I do have a bit of food in stock 💪

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Day 5

Jealousy is a beast, but loneliness is a monster.

Jealousy ignites with fiery tendrils but loneliness drowns you slowly until you're staring up from the bottom of the pitch black sea, yearning for the light.

All day she's been mulling over the three woman-creatures, Feyd's "pets". What is it that infuriates her the most? The physical violence? The fear of what they might have done to her - Death, torture or worse? Their derogatory status? Their beastliness grafted into female bodies, paired with the fact that Feyd has been bedding them at some point?

Without thinking about it, and perhaps it is tactless, she has been pouring her heart out to Lilia while the attentive handmaid is treating her scabbed injuries from last night. Now it is evident that wound management is a well-needed skill around the Harkonnen palace. The sarcophagus is safely folded up and her new weapon is tucked into one of the compartments.

"Am I overreacting?!" She asks, even though - hell no - she knows she isn't, but a part of her soul yearns for human connection, affirmation, camaraderie, friendship. It feels so good to be talking to someone who is not the man she thought she knew or the belittling Bene Gesserit sisters.

"Hmm," Lilia begins tentatively and the glowglobe light brings out the unusual color of her eyes as she tilts her head, so amber that they almost appear golden. "While I'll say it's never been common for the na-Baron to practice monogamy… I'll also say that I'd be quite furious at my husband if he had three women on the side." Her voice quivers upon women, as if it repels her to describe the three beings as such. The spider in the Baron's throne room may be the most harmless monster to roam these halls.

The engineer's questions chip away and it becomes perfectly clear that it's the jealousy that cuts the deepest, even with her superficial wounds cared for, a blade is wedged inside her guts that will keep on cutting.

"And do these 'pets' have handmaids too?" A self-destructive question to determine where her own status truly lies. What's a bride but another pet to him?

"They used to have handmaids…" Lilia hesitates. "But they always ended up eating them. I'm glad to be assigned to you, my Lady."

Great. There she has another horror to add to the menagerie.

Lilia continues: "If it calms you, I doubt there will be any further incidences with them. The na-Baron has been in an, uhm, unstable mood since last night." The maid's posture turns rigid. She shouldn't be speaking about the na-Baron like that, but the Earth woman's emotions are contagious. Lilia will get herself killed if she's not careful. She's been telling that to herself since she was a little girl.

"Unstable, uh-huh, well so am I."

The Harkonnen woman nods and decides it is best not to elaborate on what it means when Feyd-Rautha is having the worst day of his life.

Vladimir Harkonnen chuckles with delight at his nephew's distress and the infantile killing spree that has been painting the halls black since last night.

It took even less time than he expected, for the new woman to be disgusted by his poor nephew and he cannot hold it against her. Feyd-Rautha is a raging child in an unfortunately manly body. 

The Baron is well-entertained by the hollow screams that blare down the hallways. First the three harpies. A shame, they had helped keep Feyd settled so nicely and they hadn't been cheap either. It's also a shame that the Bene Tleilax don't offer bulk discount, considering the number of Gholas the Baron saw himself forced to commission for the little game his nephew and he have been playing.

Next on Feyd's blade was the guard at his little witch's door, then anyone who crossed his path in the night, all the while Feyd was chafing with desire to be cut and hurt. But no one outside of the ring is allowed to raise their blades against the Baron's heir apparent, unless instructed by the Harkonnen sovereign himself.

Some fire has returned to his nephew since the woman's arrival and he appreciates that, yes, he does, but he will keep a sharp eye on the two of them. He has no doubt that she's a Bene Gesserit agent who has implanted phantasms in Feyd-Rautha's mind, but Vladimir is willing to play the sisterhood's game, for his nephew's sake, even though he had sworn to never let a witch enter his fortress again. 

Not since Lady Margot Fenring had tried to steal his lovely boy's precious seed. Luckily, Feyd's blade had worked quicker than the thief's vocal chords.

But Valdimir is willing to adapt. The boy had been boring him to death for the past two years and he used to be so entertaining and feisty!

In the evening hours after a night and day of bloodshed, Feyd still has stamina (a trait the Baron cherishes so dearly about his nephew) and comes barging into the guarded dining room, bringing with him the cloying scent of blood that sticks to the tacky soles of his boots. He wears the clothes of yesterday and blood lust in his eyes.

Careful now.

Vladimir gives no sign to the guards, chews without haste and takes a noisy gulp of wine, making sure a bead rolls down the folds of his massive neck. The muscle at his nephew's jaw twitches and his fingers strangulate the blood-slick handle of his blade.

The eight arm-legged arachnid creature shivers in its basket under the table, eager to get to Feyd, partly because his boots smell yummy, but it doesn't dare move away from the Baron's feed. Smart thing.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not my fault that she doesn't like you, boy."

Feyd halts as if struck by one of the bolts of infrared lightning that cook the atmosphere during the summer months. Tension strains his neck, a bull ready to charge at his Matador and for a second the Baron thinks he'll have to switch on his shield ring. But his nephew turns and barges off with bouncing, stomping steps, draining his stamina and wetting his knives on everything that breathes, when the only one he really wants to kill sits fat and mighty on his throne. 

It's almost cute, Vladimir thinks. The boy could kill him so easily now, if he really put his cunning, little mind to it. He's strong enough, smart enough, but his spirit - that's the crux. Feyd's spirit is broken and riddled with fear of the punishments. The last time he tried was at 17 and then never again.

Ah-h-h, yes, the Baron has conditioned him well and he considers it his retirement plan. Age hasn't left the Harkonnen sovereign unscathed and while his mind may still be sharp (or else how would he have come up with such a genius plan!), his morbidly obese body fully relies on the protection of his shield ring, guards, lung machine and poison snoopers. But as long as the boy still fears him, the deadliest threat within these halls remains on a pretty, silver leash.

The fire of jealousy has dwindled down and now all she does is miss him, sitting lonely in her room, lonely on this planet, lonely in the universe with only inanimate objects and the virtual messages and images of dead people to keep her company. None of this can ever compare to the warm hands of her beloved and his smile, the roundness of his cheeks and his painted teeth. She misses the way his eyes used to crinkle just for her. He had made her believe that only she could make him smile and offer a sliver of peace to his soul.

It's been two years since their last dream. Why wouldn't he have taken other women?

He said he "hasn't touched them". Since when? Since he learned she's alive? Since their first dreams? Ever?

She regrets now that she denied him when he knocked on her door an hour ago. The bitter guilt of disgracing oneself crawls over her when she slowly moves towards the door, but her self-respect has cauterized and become cinders along with her fury. Feeling sick to her stomach, she places her hand on the panel and the heavy door slides open.

Finding herself face to back with a guard in bulky plate armor, she halts. She wouldn't know where exactly to find Feyd's room anyway. The man turns on his heels and salutes briskly before returning his hand to the hilt of his saber.

"Good evening. Ah, wait, are you… New?" She blurts out, not meaning to seem disrespectful. The Harkonnens often do look quite alike to her, but she could have sworn the old guard was a little shorter.

"Yes, my Lady." The man looks right above the crown of her head, avoiding her eyes.

"What happened to the other guard?"

"He was replaced, my Lady."

That does make sense and she's almost a little relieved. She wouldn't want anyone who'd let these bloodthirsty creatures inside to guard her and her most valuable possession. However, she still hopes this incident won't ruin his chances of employment indefinitely.

"I see." She glances cautiously down the austere corridor. Past the windows, there is only blackness and the occasional faraway rumble from the factories. "Do you have to stand here all night? Your feet must be hurting. What about a chair?"

"I'm not allowed such luxuries."

"Says who? You can't excel at your job while being overworked and your feet are aching in those boots." 

The man wonders if the na-Baron's Lady wishes to insult or test him. "I am at full capacity, my Lady!" He salutes again. "I have no complaints about my boots."

"Fine, alright. Could you please point me the way to Feyd's room then? I want to see him. No need to accompany me, I'm sure I'll find it, just make sure no one enters my room, please?"

"Sorry!" The man extends his arm to the side, stopping her advance around him without laying a finger on the Lady. "The na-Baron has ordered this door to be sealed unless he or your handmaid demand entrance."

"Well I don't demand entrance, I want to exit. I want to see Feyd."

The guard grows queasy. That scenario was not included in his instructions. To be fair, the briefing for his new position can be considered rudimental at best but he didn't complain. Up here has been the safest spot in the palace tonight. "The na-Baron doesn't welcome visitors in his private quarters."

"But I'm his…" She swallows uncomfortably. "Betrothed, or am I not?"

"You are, my Lady."

"So, couldn't you perhaps call him?"

The poor guard's expression says 'I'd rather not'. The na-Baron has only just settled, finally, and even the dumbest desert rat knows not to wake a sleeping tiger. All evening long he's been wondering how many of his comrades will be dead come the morning and he doesn't want to be the next one to become fodder for the slaves' food rations. "I'm sorry, my Lady. It is against the protocol to disturb the na-Baron at night unless there is an emergency. Is there an emergency?"

"No…" The woman's expression twists into defeat and she pads backwards with slackened shoulders and somber eyes. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

The door slides shut and she is too sad to even be angry about her gentle imprisonment. There's nothing out there for her anyway, except for Feyd, and if he doesn't want to see her…

Self-destructive thoughts sprout from the cinders in her chest and grow into the wildest phantasms. The guard was too kind to tell her Feyd has visitors in his room. Perhaps he explicitly decreed that she is not to join him.

To prevent herself from hurtling into a bottomless spiral, she must find a distraction. Nearly choking on bitter tears, she opens up the virtual app drawer that she's most familiar with and selects the 3d-modeling tool. A nice, little task to keep her thoughts from straying is exactly what she needs, and so she settles down on the bed and begins to design a practical, foldable, printable chair for her guard, thoughtfully optimizing stability and the required resources.

The engineer doesn't notice when her tears dry, but they do.

Day 6

She sleeps awfully that night, despite the chip's helpful sleeping program consisting of gentle rain and soothing frequencies. It can't have been much longer than two hours when she is awoken by a knock on the door, followed by another, more insistent one a moment later.

The 3d-modeling interface still overlays reality when her eyes snap open and her sluggish brain activity requires a moment to shut it down. She was almost finished with the printable chair parts last night, but she must have dozed off eventually. 

The knocking persists and she calls: "Lilia?"

A pause. "It's me." An unmistakable, deep and raspy voice comes muffled from the other side. Feyd-Rautha, freshly showered and dressed in a clean, casual suit, leans his forehead against the cool, thick plastic, breathing hard and fast so that his respiration condenses on the door. Waiting, he pleads silently for mercy. He cannot do this anymore, doesn't want to kill anymore just to feel something other than fear.

She freezes, legs half swung off the mattress as anxiety twists her belly. All of her jealousy comes crashing back and a little demon whispers poison in her ear: Go back to your hyenas and toy around with them, not me!

When silence is the answer to Feyd's timid greeting, his stomach drops as if filled with lead. Blood pounds in his ears like the war drums on his birthdays and his breath becomes shallow, so that he no longer even hears the guard's antsy shuffling. What will he do if she never forgives him? 

A harrowing need for violence flashes through him cold and dark and his twitching hand jerks for the blade at his hip but the door rushes open before he can brandish it and his woman faces him with crossed arms, her face puffy from sleep but her eyes are wide and vulnerable.

She beckons him to enter and he follows, eyes racing to the crowns of thorns in the vase, the sarcophagus, the ruffled bed, everything the way it was. How does she deal with pain?!

"Hello," Feyd mumbles, voice reduced to a tiny, grated whisper.

"Hello."

"Can we… talk?"

The relic nods and waits, clammy fingers clutching her sleeves. But then Feyd says… nothing. His eyes are focused on an imaginary point somewhere behind her navel and his jaws strain as if chewing a brick.

So, she begins: "I'm sorry, but I was very upset." She paces, shoulders drawn up. "I know that customs are different around here, I mean, they obviously are," she guffaws quietly and shakes her head. "But where I'm from, it requires consent to have more than one partner and I never gave you that consent. I've never given my consent to anything that's happened to me since I woke up! And then I found out you're alive and I can be with you and I really believed everything would finally be better, but you-" Her voice hiccups. "I'm very upset, okay?" Her lips twist and she lifts a hand to her mouth, sobbing quietly into her palm. "You're so different in real life."

Feyd's frozen limbs regain their agility and he jumps to her side as she tries to turn away, a swift predator despite his anguish. He clutches her by the arms. "Wait! Remind me. H-How was I in our dreams?" 

"I- I don't know, you looked happy." Her arms burn where he's holding onto her with his broad palms and long fingers. "And you were kind."

"Have I not been kind to you?"

"To me, yes. But being kind only to me is not enough." She shakes her head bitterly.

"What do you want me to do?" 

"Be honest with me. Who are these three?! They said you don't play with them anymore like you used to, and they hurt me, Feyd!" She writhes out of his clenched fists and he lets her because when her fingers skim his wrists, all his muscles go weak. She yanks up her shirt, showing off the healing gash on her waist.

Feyd wants to kill his darlings all over again and his sinful mouth twists into anger. "They used to be my pets. Pleasure slaves, if you will. Just some meaningless toys, nothing more, I swear it to you."

"Pleasure slaves!" She blurts out, shaking her head. At least he's being honest but - what the fuck?! "You-" Stumbling over her own words, she backs away from him with disgust. "Who are you? Who the fuck are you?"

More violence waits on her tongue. Does he respect anyone other than himself?

"You know me! You know who I am, where are you going?!" Doesn't she know she knows more about him than anyone else?

"I don't know shit about you!" She yells. "Where were you last night?"

"What?" All color is drained from his face. How could she know?

"Were you with them because I couldn't perform the way you wanted the other day?"

"What are you talking about?!" Feyd tries to grasp her by the arms once more but she twists away. If anything, he is at blame for being unable to make his woman comfortable enough to reach her release. What a pitiful good-for-nothing he is, pathetic down to the last, rotting cell. "I haven't touched my pets since I met you and that's the truth!"

"Oh, yeah? Then why was I not allowed to see you at night?" 

"What makes you say that?" 

"I tried to come to you last night, but the guard at my door said I'm supposed to stay in this room! So, were you with them?!"

Feyd stops his advance and an incredulous shimmer glazes over his blinking eyes. He could have held her last night, against his hurting heart. A dizzying lightness befalls his chest and sorrow becomes anger and anger wings his footsteps when he turns to the door, grinning, then giggling. Feyd slams his veined hand against the panel so hard, the screen cracks and inky blood slips down the valleys of his palm.

"Feyd? Feyd! What are you-"

The baffled guard faces the snickering na-Baron behind the opening door, last night's tiger resurrected like a Ghola for one last kill. A stammered 'my Lord' on diddering lips. Feyd-Rautha looks as bestial as his hyenas with prowling steps and rolling shoulders, searing eyes locked on his unmoving prey.

"You told my woman she couldn't see me last night? S'that right?" A slip of pink peeks out of the ghastly frame of black, gnashing teeth.

"My Lord, I beg your mercy, I didn't wish to distur-"

Metal flashes. The relic screams as the length of Feyd-Rautha's blade carves into the guard's pallid neck, Adam's apple bulging and sitting on the knife like a popped, black cherry. Blood sputters around Feyd's clenched fingers and laughter has faded from his lungs at once. He digs deeper as the guard draws in gurgling breaths, bubbles of air swimming in the blood around the metal.

The relic freezes like a mouse, glued to the spot as if she might turn invisible to the cold eyes of the beast who wears her lover's clothes. He looks nothing like Feyd-Rautha now, his features empty and alien with eyes that don't feel and hands unfazed by the death that stains them in thick, inky streams that roll down his victim's neck. 

This is how the universe sees him.

Feyd's blade slashes sideways, spraying a half moon of blood across the corridor and when the guard stumbles, he falls back into the na-Baron's knife, adding a vertical gash to the horizontal one, tip sinking into the flesh under his jaws, and with a jerk - up into his tongue.

The man grunts, still clinging to his life by a thread, and lurches forwards without drawing his sword. His head falls on Feyd-Rautha's shoulder. Feet shuffle in a grotesque waltz and Feyd's bloody fingers slip around the taller man's neck, holding him there while his blade plunges into his belly between armor plates so deftly, he could find all the weak spots blindfolded. The body slackens, weighing down on Feyd-Rautha whose ichor dripping fingers aren't ready to let go.

Shuk! Shuk! 

Is the sound of his blade sinking into soft flesh and viscera, whipping back out with a spray of blood and entrails.

The Bene Gesserit may have proclaimed her human, but the adrenaline that sets her nerves ablaze is a gift from her ancestors, animals, because that's what humans are at the end or the day when facing a bigger predator.

Fwump.

Feyd looks her way, the dead body dropped, and blood covers his hand like a shiny glove of ink, dripping down the blade tip in a drizzling stream. The light catches on the sharp edges of his alabaster skull and all she sees is a new, terrifying breed of human, birthed by a world of poison and decay. There are millennia between them. They may share the same DNA but that doesn't mean he is not an alien to her. 

In the end, the man from her dreams is not the man of her dreams.

Out the door? - Blocked! Death!

Off the balcony?! - Death!

To the Sarcophagus then. To her gun.

She turns and sprints, feet skidding over the shards of her rose-colored glasses, but Feyd pounces, a beast hungry for carnage, and catches her around the waist, hurling her backwards with the strength of three men. His blade clatters to the ground.

"No, wait. No. NO! NO! You can't go," he howls. "You cannot leave me!"

Wailing, she thrashes in his grasp and slams her elbow into his guts, her foot against his shin, then his crotch and the soft flesh there is squashed by her heel. When his hold slackens, she twists away and bolts, bare toes slipping across icy marble, but blood-smeared fingers find her shoulder, tearing on the fabric. She throws herself away from him so hard, the seam starts coming apart, so his other hand flies to her throat, steel-hard fingers curling around clammy flesh, yanking her around and against the wall.

She can't be looking at him like that, like he's the devil. Like he looks at his uncle.

Desperately, his lips search for hers but she jerks her head to the side, bites, scratches, nails burrowing into his throat. No is the word that Feyd-Rautha raps out between violent kisses that seek her pulse point with his tongue and teeth, no, she can't ever leave him, no, not ever, even if she hates him like everyone else. Her fear poisons the sweat on her neck and her nails don't egg him on, they hurt. He takes a knee to the guts and his lungs pop open for a harrowed cry.

Pain used to be pleasure but everything hurts, she doesn't love him anymore. One more meek and quiet final 'no' as he abandons the assault on her neck and his slackened arms wrap around her middle, hiding his face from rejection in her shoulder's soft flesh. Tears drip hotly, finally. All day and all night he's been waiting for the cathartic downpour, but not even the most pitiful plea could rouse a sliver of empathy in the hollow of his chest. Now he bawls like a baby forgotten in its crib and his blood-soaked hands seek purchase at the back of her shirt.

The woman grows still, nails still wedged inside the bloody crescent indents in his neck. Her lungs ache when she draws a trembling breath and Feyd-Rautha's hard, heavy chest moves with her, no more fight left in him. Quietly, she cries with him and curls her arms around his round shoulders, holding him there as he clings to her like an abandoned child and sheds tears for all the hurt and all the fear.

The man of her dreams is still there, somewhere, under the alien shell, vulnerable, weeping.

"You hate me, don't you?" A broken sob.

Looking over his head, the dead guard's viscera glitters darkly on the hallway and she is surprised to realize that even now, she doesn't hate him.

Feyd continues: "This is why I never wanted you to know who I am. I am awful."

"You're not awful," she whispers, fingers slipping around the back of his head, nails rimmed darkly by Feyd's blood.

"I have to be awful. I was born to be awful." 

"That's not true…" He was groomed to be awful.

But Feyd isn't finished. In a fashion of now or never, confessions spill out of him like poison rain. "I killed my mother when I was four. I don't remember why. I killed my pets. I kill men for sport. I kill people for fun. I kill because it's the only thing I can do. Yesterday, I-" His voice breaks. "I killed anyone I could find and no one fought back. I lo-o-ost count."

A full glass can't get any fuller when pouring more water, so shock and disgust are lost to the acceptance that has smoothed over the crescendo. They're just information to be added into a folder in her head. Feyd killed his mother. Feyd kills people for fun. Still, she holds him, fingers sliding up and down the back of his head as his shaky sobbing turns breathless and ugly.

"Okay," she whispers and rests her cheek on his head, exhaling softly so her warm breath fans his scalp. "For fun?"

"Ye-e-es."

"So, you had fun last night when you-" She swallows. "Killed?"

"No."

She lets out a thoughtful hum and Feyd's grip on the small of her back tightens. Still, he doesn't dare look at her and tears and snot have soaked her shirt. With her emotions currently defective, her ability for logic is still sharp, and so she concludes, it does all make sense.

Her poor Feyd, a current had pulled him under when he was barely a child and then layer after layer, he has been building his armor so as not to drown in the maelstrom of abuse. With every kill, a little boy has been screaming for help in an empty room.

Soft lips press a kiss to the crown of his head and Feyd's breath trembles in her hold, a beast tamed by a loving caress. That's all it takes.

Just because she understands his actions, doesn't mean she endorses them.

"Will you still be my wife?"

"I haven't decided yet." Another kiss so gentle, it taunts the corpses stacked up in the processing hall.

"So, we're no longer engaged?" 

"I don't think we ever were, not to me. But that doesn't mean I don't love you."

Dizzily, Feyd-Rautha raises himself. If not for the fingers twisted into his woman's shirt, he might just topple back into the spinning vortex at whose edge he is teetering now, one foot in heartbreak, the other in salvation. Blue eyes crack open, rimmed with dark blood vessels. She doesn't flinch, doesn't bolt, only her hands slide to the front of his suit and slip under the lapels, thumb rubbing where his heart hammers.

Feyd sees the tracks of dried tears on her cheeks and the shadow of horror tucked away in the corners of her eyes in a way that is all too familiar to him. More than anything, he wants to delete the images from her head and close the door, kick the blade under the bed, pretend it never happened. He tried to do everything right, got her flowers, hid her away in her own room away from state matters, made love to her with all his heart, but at the end of the day he is still who he is when he can't hide within a dream and it'll never be enough.

"Feyd, is… Is Lilia okay?"

"Yes, she is," comes the earnest reply and she exhales shakily, head sinking against Feyd's chest, arms sliding around his waist beneath the suit where his skin is burning hot.

"Thank God." Her voice warbles, the only warning before her knees give out and every other muscle along with them. The pair sink to the cold, hard ground.  "I just want to go home," she sobs and crawls in her beloved's lap which is still the only place in the cold, hard universe that soothes her soul.

Not her sarcophagus, although it is tempting to freeze herself up again and sleep forever. No, it is still him. A new home, not what she had imagined, but a home.

"Me too," Feyd sighs and squishes his cheek against the top of her head, closing his eyes to envision the bedroom of their shared dream, blue pillows, a white bed, a softly rustling fern in a terracotta pot, her in his arms. Home.

How easy it would be to demand of him: 'If you kill one more innocent, I will leave you!' But she might just kill more than she saves that way, and maybe him too, and maybe herself.

"Feyd, can you-" She sniffles. "If you get angry again, please never hurt Lilia. And whoever the new guard will be, don’t hurt him either. Can you do that for me please?"

"I promise." He squeezes her tight, eyes screwed up so tightly that he sees only dizzying stars. "I love you. I'm sorry."

She cannot fix the whole world, but she can start where she can see. It's not a solution, but a sapling, and a sapling can grow.

Mother Father How did I end up here, stone bound? All I feel ist the striking distance to the clouds My flesh is fettered on the skin of the soil But even so I almost reach the sparks in the void Sailing through the vacuum, am I drowned or alive?

- Cepheus by Fewjar

A/N: Okay, I promise promise this was the angstiest chapter, we're climbing uphill from here!! 🥺🥺🥺 Hand over your guesses, what do you think will happen from here? 😌💕 Thank you so much for all of your time!

TAG LIST:

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

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@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted

[eatingfireflies]

Had to pull this quote up while talking to a friend about an interpretation I disagreed with, namely: Ratio never sought the gaze of Nous, Margaret was stupid for even interpreting Ratio's character story 3 as him being disappointed about getting invited by the IPC instead etc etc. and his self-deprecating laugh was only because he's so disappointed that he was invited by Capitalism Company despite all his achievements proving his ethics (but do they?)

I disagree, this is Margaret slander. That woman was Ratio's assistant, I doubt she was stupid.

Tell me this man is not bothered by it. Tell me it's not a sore point, even if he's over it by now he was/is bothered enough to actually talk about it.

Honestly I was gonna make a light-hearted joke about Aventurine being that person who shows off his relationship with Ratio, 'He's always like that, please don't mind him ☺️' 'He's the one who understands my way of fighting best ☺️' 'I thought you'd given up on this dream you've never told anyone else about except presumably me because I'm just dropping it in conversation so casually like this ☺️'

But let's talk about that anti-planetary weapon

I hand tinfoil hats to everyone who clicked on read more. Please don't believe anything I say. Especially under here where no one else can see us.

- No mention of what affiliations Ratio had before the invitation from the IPC. If we trust HSR timelines (which we shouldn't but we have nothing else), Ratio was already a full-fledged professor in Veritas Prime University before Aventurine became a Stoneheart. So: before he joined the Intelligentsia Guild, his main affiliation was with the university.

- The anti-planetary weapon was already completed when he received the IPC invitation

- Which still leaves us the question: whom did Ratio develop this weapon for and why?

There's some echoes of Chadwick in there that I think is probably a coincidence but something we might want to keep in mind. Ratio also provides schematics on how to turn the Express into a weapon.

One thing tho: Chadwick was a Genius Society member. Ratio is not.

- Minus the Astral Express weapon (which we do see in action in the Penacony Boss fight ? So like was that connected? 😂), everything else Ratio has done that we know of is mostly about improving people's lives. That anti-planetary weapon is like a blight on his otherwise stellar CV.

- My conclusion: he developed that weapon solely to catch the gaze of Nous. And he failed and it was a moment that felt like selling his soul for one corn chip. The IPC invite was a nail on the coffin: this is what he sold his ethics for.

Like the 'Ofc Ratio laughed because he can't believe the audacity of Capitalism Company asking him to join them when he's completely against everything they stand for'

But my friend, he joined the IPC. He's an IPC delegate. He's married to an IPC superintendent.

Ratio had to give up on the Nous deal and had to go with the next best thing. But Ratio from Story 3 was young and probably still felt some pressure to prove something, or meet expectations. The Ratio we met in 1.6 knows better.

[dravenscroft]

So I make a loooot of shitposts and jokes (mainly because my actual career is writing dark and serious novels and therefore I come to Tumblr to get away from that) but I FINALLY wanted to write a post that sums up my thoughts regarding the Hickey/Tozer dynamic because it fascinates me so much.

I'm putting it under a read more because I know I'm going to ramble.

Okay so first of all, as much as I may like to make jokes about the sex being so good it drove a guy to mutiny, I don't actually believe there was any sexual intimacy between Hickey and Tozer at all. This is mostly because I think post Carnival NOBODY was getting laid, everyone was far too sick and weak and tired for that - do I think in different circumstances it could have happened between them? Possibly, yeah. I definitely see the dynamic as romantic, but in a weird, unspoken, 'whatever the hell they have going on is also way more complicated than that' way.

The main thoughts I have about how and why Tozer ends up locked into in the Worst Situationship Of All Time are mainly due to three factors:

Heather's death and the breakdown of command.

The obvious Oh Shit moment of watching the Tuunbaq devour Collins' soul.

Physical touch.

The first one is the primer, as it were. It sets Tozer up as angry, desperate, and willing to mutiny. It's already become clear by Carnival that command is breaking down, they don't know what to do, and what a soldier needs more than anything is a CLEAR, DECISIVE CHAIN OF COMMAND. Without that, Tozer - who already has some Opinions about the way the marines are being put at additional risk (unionise, king) - has no one to keep him on a leash, for want of a better word. He's a dog trained to kill that suddenly doesn't have a master. He cannot be in command himself. He needs someone above him; he's not a leader.

This builds and builds, but then Heather's death - the loss of any vestige of something that would keep him loyal, since evidently Heather's care would continue under ordinary command - at the hands, essentially, of the very command he's started to doubt...well, that's it. Gun primed.

The discovery of Fairholme's group shatters any remaining hope he may have had, Crozier's reluctance to tell the men only further compounding the 'command is failing' mentality Tozer already has in spades. And there you go - the trigger is pulled.

BANG. Mutiny.

The second major factor comes after he's thrown in his lot with Hickey in a way he can't go back on. He sees Collins' soul sucked from his body by Tuunbaq before his very eyes. Suddenly, everything he thought he knew has been tipped on its head and an existential crisis he definitely didn't expect or need is thrust upon him, but now any decision he might have made to stay with Crozier and co based on this revelation is no longer open to him. The gun is still smoking, there's no way of putting the musket ball back, and now Hickey is his only option.

But maybe that isn't so bad? Because Hickey is providing something command didn't. He seems in control. He seems to know what he's about, what he's doing, and what to do next. He gives clear concise orders. He's taken up the leash command dropped, and Tozer has a master again. He feels like a marine again, like some of his identity has returned to him in a weird, perverse way (and we know Tozer is incredibly proud of being a Royal Marine from his earlier conversations)(not to mention Crozier's remark to Fitzjames about not asking the men to leave bits of themselves behind straight away when leaving the ships; Tozer has already lost bits of himself, when Heather died, and he lost faith in command).

Tozer is NOT willing to do a second mutiny because that would put HIM in charge, stripping him of that identity all over again, and he cannot handle that.

And finally, physical touch - physical touch is one of the things that keeps him chained to Hickey (quite literally by the end). It's perhaps not nearly as much of a factor as the other two, or perhaps an enormous factor, but definitely there. Throughout the earlier episodes we see that Tozer is a pretty tactile guy. Playfully wrestling at the birthday party. Caring for Heather, squeezing his hand to try and get signs of life. This is a man who isn't afraid to touch other men. When Hickey holds his face in That scene, he doesn't appear surprised - a little spooked by the way he leans in suddenly, and Hickey's intensity, but not shocked. Not like it's the first time Hickey has ever touched him. I generally imagine there's a lot of physical intimacy Hickey offers him during the scenes we don't see, because Hickey IS good at recognising things in people most of the time, and I can see him honing in on that need for touch immediately.

I imagine him touching him a lot, sleeping unusually close to him, soothing him, everything to make Tozer feel safe and secure and remind him WHO is meeting those specific needs. He's providing certainty, command, and comfort, three things Tozer desperately needs.

If there WAS any sexual intimacy between the two, I believe it would build off this even further - confuse Tozer about his feelings, make him feel uniquely bonded to Hickey in a way he can't easily undo. Especially as a Royal Marine, essentially a symbol of the warlike 'noble' Empire, with all the corresponding Victorian hangups and ideals, which would no doubt feel incredibly threatened by any attraction to Hickey. Hickey, who, as we know, WANTS to erase this sense of Empire as identity, not because he understands the evils of Empire but because he wants to replace it with his own where he is at the top.

Hickey both offers Tozer his identity back while at the same time trying to reshape it to fit his own empire. And for Tozer that's confusing and conflicting - but it's better than what he had before. Because Tozer, too, cannot see the world through any lens but that of Empire and hierarchy and command - that's the fatal flaw of all these men.

By the end, it seems he's starting to see what a horrible mistake he made - but by then it's far, far too late.

And a dog NEEDS a master.

Tldr; I think Tozer's bond with Hickey stems from both very human needs such as touch and closeness and certainty, but also from a very thematic need to have a place and easily understood identity within the structure of Empire. And there's almost no real way for those two different sorts of needs to coexist without disaster.

(One day I'll go into how I think Hickey gets more from this relationship than a mere henchman, but this isn't the post for it! This is about Solomon)

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Amazon Alexa is a graduate of the Darth Vader MBA

Next Tuesday (Oct 31) at 10hPT, the Internet Archive is livestreaming my presentation on my recent book, The Internet Con.

If you own an Alexa, you might enjoy its integration with IFTTT, an easy scripting environment that lets you create your own little voice-controlled apps, like "start my Roomba" or "close the garage door." If so, tough shit, Amazon just nuked IFTTT for Alexa:

https://www.theverge.com/2023/10/25/23931463/ifttt-amazon-alexa-applets-ending-support-integration-automation

Amazon can do this because the Alexa's operating system sits behind a cryptographic lock, and any tool that bypasses that lock is a felony under Section 1201 of the DMCA, punishable by a 5-year prison sentence and a $500,000 fine. That means that it's literally a crime to provide a rival OS that lets users retain functionality that Amazon no longer supports.

This is the proverbial gun on the mantelpiece, a moral hazard and invitation to mischief that tempts Amazon executives to run a bait-and-switch con where they sell you a gadget with five features and then remotely kill-switch two of them. This is prime directive of the Darth Vader MBA: "I am altering the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further."

So many companies got their business-plan at the Darth Vader MBA. The ability to revoke features after the fact means that companies can fuck around, but never find out. Apple sold millions of tracks via iTunes with the promise of letting you stream them to any other device you owned. After a couple years of this, the company caught some heat from the record labels, so they just pushed an update that killed the feature:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/10/30/apple-to-ipod-owners-eat-shit-and-die-updated/

That gun on the mantelpiece went off all the way back in 2004 and it turns out it was a starter-pistol. Pretty soon, everyone was getting in on the act. If you find an alert on your printer screen demanding that you install a "security update" there's a damned good chance that the "update" is designed to block you from using third-party ink cartridges in a printer that you (sorta) own:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2020/11/ink-stained-wretches-battle-soul-digital-freedom-taking-place-inside-your-printer

Selling your Tesla? Have fun being poor. The upgrades you spent thousands of dollars on go up in a puff of smoke the minute you trade the car into the dealer, annihilating the resale value of your car at the speed of light:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/23/how-to-fix-cars-by-breaking-felony-contempt-of-business-model/

Telsa has to detect the ownership transfer first. But once a product is sufficiently cloud-based, they can destroy your property from a distance without any warning or intervention on your part. That's what Adobe did last year, when it literally stole the colors from your Photoshop files, in history's SaaSiest heist caper:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

And yet, when we hear about remote killswitches in the news, it's most often as part of a PR blitz for their virtues. Russia's invasion of Ukraine kicked off a new genre of these PR pieces, celebrating the fact that a John Deere dealership was able to remotely brick looted tractors that had been removed to Chechnya:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/08/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors/

Today, Deere's PR minions are pitching search-and-replace versions of this story about Israeli tractors that Hamas is said to have looted, which were also remotely bricked.

But the main use of this remote killswitch isn't confounding war-looters: it's preventing farmers from fixing their own tractors without paying rent to John Deere. An even bigger omission from this narrative is the fact that John Deere is objectively Very Bad At Security, which means that the world's fleet of critical agricultural equipment is one breach away from being rendered permanently inert:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/23/reputation-laundry/#deere-john

There are plenty of good and honorable people working at big companies, from Adobe to Apple to Deere to Tesla to Amazon. But those people have to convince their colleagues that they should do the right thing. Those debates weigh the expected gains from scammy, immoral behavior against the expected costs.

Without DMCA 1201, Amazon would have to worry that their decision to revoke IFTTT functionality would motivate customers to seek out alternative software for their Alexas. This is a big deal: once a customer learns how to de-Amazon their Alexa, Amazon might never recapture that customer. Such a switch wouldn't have to come from a scrappy startup or a hacker's DIY solution, either. Take away DMCA 1201 and Walmart could step up, offering an alternative Alexa software stack that let you switch your purchases away from Amazon.

Money talks, bullshit walks. In any boardroom argument about whether to shift value away from customers to the company, a credible argument about how the company will suffer a net loss as a result has a better chance of prevailing than an argument that's just about the ethics of such a course of action:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/28/microincentives-and-enshittification/

Inevitably, these killswitches are pitched as a paternalistic tool for protecting customers. An HP rep once told me that they push deceptive security updates to brick third-party ink cartridges so that printer owners aren't tricked into printing out cherished family photos with ink that fades over time. Apple insists that its ability to push iOS updates that revoke functionality is about keeping mobile users safe – not monopolizing repair:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/22/vin-locking/#thought-differently

John Deere's killswitches protect you from looters. Adobe's killswitches let them add valuable functionality to their products. Tesla? Well, Tesla at least is refreshingly honest: "We have a killswitch because fuck you, that's why."

These excuses ring hollow because they conspicuously omit the possibility that you could have the benefits without the harms. Like, your tractor could come with a killswitch that you could bypass, meaning you could brick it at a distance, and still fix it yourself. Same with your phone. Software updates that take away functionality you want can be mitigated with the ability to roll back those updates – and by giving users the ability to apply part of a patch, but not the whole patch.

Cloud computing and software as a service are a choice. "Local first" computing is possible, and desirable:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/03/there-is-no-cloud/#only-other-peoples-computers

The cheapest rhetorical trick of the tech sector is the "indivisibility gambit" – the idea that these prix-fixe menus could never be served a la carte. Wanna talk to your friends online? Sorry there's just no way to help you do that without spying on you:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/08/divisibility/#technognosticism

One important argument over smart-speakers was poisoned by this false dichotomy: the debate about accessibility and IoT gadgets. Every IoT privacy or revocation scandal would provoke blanket statements from technically savvy people like, "No one should ever use one of these." The replies would then swiftly follow: "That's an ableist statement: I rely on my automation because I have a disability and I would otherwise be reliant on a caregiver or have to go without."

But the excluded middle here is: "No one should use one of these because they are killswitched. This is especially bad when a smart speaker is an assistive technology, because those applications are too important to leave up to the whims of giant companies that might brick them or revoke their features due to their own commercial imperatives, callousness, or financial straits."

Like the problem with the "bionic eyes" that Second Sight bricked wasn't that they helped visually impaired people see – it was that they couldn't be operated without the company's ongoing support and consent:

https://spectrum.ieee.org/bionic-eye-obsolete

It's perfectly possible to imagine a bionic eye whose software can be maintained by third parties, whose parts and schematics are widely available. The challenge of making this assistive technology fail gracefully isn't technical – it's commercial.

We're meant to believe that no bionic eye company could survive unless they devise their assistive technology such that it fails catastrophically if the business goes under. But it turns out that a bionic eye company can't survive even if they are allowed to do this.

Even if you believe Milton Friedman's Big Lie that a company is legally obligated to "maximize shareholder value," not even Friedman says that you are legally obligated to maximize companies' shareholder value. The fact that a company can make more money by defrauding you by revoking or bricking the things you buy from them doesn't oblige you to stand up for their right to do this.

Indeed, all of this conduct is arguably illegal, under Section 5 of the FTC Act, which prohibits "unfair and deceptive business practices":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/01/10/the-courage-to-govern/#whos-in-charge

"No one should ever use a smart speaker" lacks nuance. "Anyone who uses a smart speaker should be insulated from unilateral revocations by the manufacturer, both through legal restrictions that bind the manufacturer, and legal rights that empower others to modify our devices to help us," is a much better formulation.

It's only in the land of the Darth Vader MBA that the deal is "take it or leave it." In a good world, we should be able to take the parts that work, and throw away the parts that don't.

(Image: Stock Catalog/https://www.quotecatalog.com, Sam Howzit; CC BY 2.0; modified)

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/26/hit-with-a-brick/#graceful-failure

[sissylittlefeather]

How the Web Was Woven: The End

A/N: This. This series is my Mona Lisa, my Sistine Chapel, and these final brush strokes literally tore me apart. I poured my soul into this one. If you hate it, please don't tell me. But if you love it, please do because this is my everything. I hope it's enough.

Need to catch up? Masterlist

Warnings: mentions of death, illness, reference to sex, I think that's all.

Word count: ~2.5k

Four and a half years. That's all you have left. It's not enough.

******

The years slip away with Elvis going back and forth every couple of months like he did before. The kids get older, you get older, and Elvis gets older too. Every time he leaves, it tears out another piece of your heart knowing it's getting closer and closer to the last time you'll see him. He's in good spirits every time he visits, but it's hard not to notice his body declining. Making a portal to send him home gets harder and harder, but he still maintains that he's fine. You both know he's not, but what is there to do about it?

And then, before you know it, it's July of 2027, or 1977 for him. John Jessie is 10, Erin Love is 7. Your babies have been replaced with kids and your youthful, vigorous husband is replaced with a man you know is past his prime. He doesn't know it, but you do. He has a little over a month left and you find yourself falling apart at the smallest things. He kisses the back of your hand while you all watch a movie together and you have to get up and go to the bathroom to weep. He sings in the shower and you lay in your bed and rock your body while the tears stream down your cheeks. You drive to dinner with him in the backseat of your minivan between the kids watching a movie on the little screen that comes down from the ceiling of the car and when he laughs you almost have to pull over to keep from crashing as you drive with teary eyes.

He stays with you for a full three weeks because you continue making excuses to keep him around. You need him to help with this or the kids have something going on that he should be there for. In reality, you can't bear the thought of saying goodbye. Because this time you know it's really going to be goodbye. And you can't tell him, so he'll treat it like any other parting. He'll kiss your cheek and say "until next time, honey" like he always does.

But you know there won't be a next time. And the knowing is eating you alive.

In early August, a summer thunderstorm rips through in the middle of the night. Elvis is still there, wrapped around you breathing softly as you lay awake trying not to cry. There's a sharp flash of lightning and not ten seconds later, a crash of thunder tears into the quiet night. You listen for opening doors and sure enough, in less than a minute Erin is in your room and on your bed.

"Daddy!" Elvis sits up and she snuggles into his warmth. He strokes her hair and shushes her gently.

"You're okay, baby girl. Daddy's got you."

John Jessie walks up to the bed cautiously.

"She okay? I just came to check on Erin-" There's another flash of lightning and John Jessie jumps. When the thunder crashes, he crawls into the bed next to you. He might be a big 10-year-old, but you're still his mama. The rain is coming down in torrential waves and you hear hail start to plunk against the windows.

You and Elvis sit with both kids in between you and the power flickers. Erin gasps and John Jessie pats her hand.

"It's okay, sister." Elvis kisses her hair.

"Your brother is right, sweetheart. Nothin' to worry about."

Just then, the power goes out fully.

"Daddy!"

"We're alright. Your mama will go get a candle to light." He looks to you in the dark and you grab your phone and turn the flashlight on. Then, you slide out of bed to find a candle and a lighter. It takes you a minute of fumbling around the house to get what you're looking for. When you make your way back down the hall to the bedroom you pause just outside the door and your heart stops.

He's singing.

In the twilight glow I see

Blue eyes crying in the rain

When we kissed goodbye and parted

I knew we'd never meet again

Love is like a dying ember

And only memories remain

And through the ages I'll remember

Blue eyes crying in the rain

Some day when we meet up yonder

We'll stroll, hand in hand again

In a land that knows no parting

Blue eyes crying in the rain

When he reaches the end of the song, you're on your knees on the floor in the hallway, tears soaking the front of your night shirt, biting your knuckle and trying not to hyperventilate.

How will you survive without him?

You won't. You can't.

The power flicks back on and you hear both kids cheer. You quickly try to pull yourself back together and as you do, you make a decision.

You're not sure how you'll pull it off, or if you even can, but your mind is made up to try.

You walk back into the room and get back in bed with a new determination.

"You okay, honey?" Elvis looks at you curiously. You smile brightly.

"Mhmm! Now, let's get these kids back in their own beds." He shakes his head.

"You're somethin' else, honey. Twenty years together and you still keep me on my toes." He leans over and kisses you softly and then you each take a kid back to their bedroom. When you come back together, you settle into his arms and relax. Tomorrow, you'll think of a plan.

******

The next day comes and goes and so does Elvis. While the kids are at school, you make love and open a portal. You give him the next rendezvous point for the fall, knowing you'll see him before then. As expected, he kisses you and says he'll see you next time. Before he leaves, though, you grab him one last time and pull him into a deep kiss. Memories of every one of your kisses over the last 20 years comes crashing into you and you shake as you hold him, not wanting to let go. You have your plan, but if it doesn't work out, you want your last kiss to be a real one.

"Honey, do you want me to stay?" The portal shimmers behind him.

"Yes. But I know you can't."

"I don't have to go right now. We can make another one later." You look into his eyes, the same eyes that met yours in fear when he first appeared in 2007.

"No. If you don't go now, I'll never let you go."

"Honey, are you sure you're okay?" He doesn't want to leave you if there's something wrong.

"I'll be fine. Now go. I'll see you soon." He smiles softly and kisses your forehead.

"I love you with all of me, y/n. Always have and I always will."

"I love you too, Elvis." He squeezes you tightly one last time and then turns and walks through the portal. When it disappears, you sink to the floor. You have no more tears, so instead you pray. You pray for him, for his body and his soul. You pray for yourself and your kids. And you pray that your plan will work.

******

On August 15th, 1977, at 10:30 pm Elvis arrives at his dentist's office. It's a rather routine appointment, so he doesn't think too much of it. But when he gets back to the room and sees the shimmering portal, he's stunned.

This is not your agreed-upon meetup time or place. Somehow, he's alone in the room, but he knows he doesn't have much time before the dentist comes back. He decides there must be some urgent reason for you to show up here and a pang of worry hits him. Hopefully the kids are alright. The dentist knocks to let him know he's coming back in the room and Elvis takes a breath and walks through the portal, hoping he can get back without the dentist noticing.

"Honey, what the-" and then he sees you. Your eyes are wild and you're chewing on your thumbnail. It looks like you haven't slept in days, because you haven't, and your eyes are puffy and red with the remnants of your last crying spell. He immediately walks to you and wraps his arms around you. "What happened? Is it the kids?"

You lean against him and take in his warmth. You're afraid to move or speak in case something you do upsets him and causes what you're trying to avoid.

"No, it's not the kids. They're fine."

"Then what is-"

"It's you."

"Me? What about me?" You back up and look into his face. How will you tell him?

"You- if..." You trail off, not sure what to say.

"Honey, you're scaring me. You better tell me what's going on right now."

"I have to tell you something. And I need you to trust me. And then you have to make a choice." Your heart is pounding in your chest. You've thought of this moment so many times in the past two weeks and now it's here. The decision to give him a choice was not an easy one, but you know him. Telling him what to do is never the right option.

"Y/n. What the hell are you talking about?"

You take a deep breath, close your eyes and pray silently. Then, you open your eyes and look at him standing in front of you.

"You're going to die tomorrow." It hangs in the air between you like some tangible thing.

"What?" He almost whispers it.

"If you go back, you will die tomorrow. You have to."

"What do you mean, I have to?"

"Because you already did. Look." You hold your phone up to him and show him on Google. Elvis Presley, January 8th, 1935-August 16th, 1977.

He backs away from you and covers his mouth in shock. He shakes his head.

"No. I don't believe it."

"Elvis, why would I lie to you about this?" He looks up at you with tears in his eyes. He searches yours for evidence that this is some kind of cruel trick, but all he finds is sincerity and desperation.

"You said I have to make a choice."

"Yes. If you stay, I can take you to a hospital and we can try to save your life. But you can never go back. You'll be stuck in this timeline forever."

"I'll never see Lisa Marie again."

"No."

"I'll never perform again."

"Not as Elvis Presley, no."

"Elvis Presley is dead."

"Yes. But you could live as John Burrows." He sits down in a chair against the wall.

"That's a hell of a choice, honey."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Maybe if I'm supposed to die..." You nod and turn away from him. Your shoulders quake as your body is wracked with sobs. You don't want to impact his decision, but you can't control the anguish you feel at the thought of losing him. "But maybe you were meant to save me."

You turn back to him, your face shiny with tears. He walks to you and wraps you in his arms like he has so many times before. He presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes.

"Y/n, you've saved me a hundred times over. You've made my life worth living. Save me one last time."

"You're sure that's what you want?"

"Yes."

******

The dentist rushes out to Ginger in the waiting room.

"Where did he go?"

"Who?"

"Elvis! He's gone!" She stands up and they frantically search the office, the parking lot, and the grounds of the building, but Elvis is nowhere to be found. Ginger calls Vernon in a panic.

"He's gone?"

"Vernon, it's like he disappeared! I don't know what could've happened." Vernon is quiet for a bit.

"Come home. I'll explain everything."

Back at Graceland, Vernon holds a discreet meeting with all of the most important people in Elvis's life. The conversation that occurs has been kept secret forever.

"Elvis is dead. Or, at least, that's what we're going to tell everyone. In 1960, Elvis sat me down once and warned me that this might happen. He said that there was a distinct possibility that he might disappear and never come back. If he did, he made me promise to proceed as if he was dead."

"What if he comes back?" Ginger is hysterical.

"He won't. He assured me he would be gone for good. You know how he is. We have to do what he asked."

Vernon looks around the room carefully.

"Elvis Presley is dead." They all nod in agreement.

"May he rest in peace."

******

The hospital staff think you're crazy when you insist that your husband is going to have a heart attack. Still, they run some tests and detect a good number of things wrong with him. They admit him and are shocked when he does, in fact, have a heart attack. Luckily, because he was already in the hospital, they're able to catch it quickly and stop it from doing too much damage. Still, this begins a health journey that will last the rest of his life.

But that's the important part.

He lives.

The miracles of modern medicine keep him alive well into his 70s. He watches your kids grow up. He cheers louder than anyone at every graduation and cries like a baby when he walks Erin Love down the aisle at her wedding. He even plays with his grandchildren and watches them grow up. He never stops missing Lisa Marie, but he's so grateful for the opportunity to be the dad he always wanted to be for John Jessie and Erin.

The two of you have your fights, like any other married couple, usually about you trying to feed him a heart-healthy diet. At one point he throws a whole baking sheet of salmon into the backyard to prove a point. You want to be mad, so you put your hands on your hips, but when he turns around to face you, you both erupt into laughter. You solve a lot of your problems by laughing together.

And once he's healthier, you spend a lot of time in bed together. Your lovemaking is not nearly as athletic as it used to be, but it's satisfying and you keep things interesting in your own ways.

But one thing has changed. You notice it the first time you have sex after his heart attack. You roll onto your back next to him sweating and breathing heavily and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.

"Shhh. Honey, listen."

"What?"

"It's gone." And then you notice. There's no buzzing sound, no shimmery air.

No portal.

He sings quietly.

At last I'm where you want me

Don't you know, that's where I want to be?

I've been round for the last time

Oh, girl, what can I do?

Oh the time the web was woven,

How I fell in love, fell in love with you...

******

The End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @rosepresley68 @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @that-hotdog @eddiesgirlforever @helen06dreamer @returntopresley @rjmartin11 @noirrose21-blog @deltafalax @tacozebra051

[oddvanilla]

Dhar Mann might've been secretly a "villain" the whole time....

Pt.1 (?)

No, you're not hallucinating. You saw that title correctly. Believe it or not, I have had ridiculous beef for years with the man who many love, and even adore, Dhar Mann. And therefore, I'll be elaborating today on why such a "good person" like him is considered one of my sworn enemies, and why I think you should consider him one too.

Many people, and especially parents, assume that Dhar Mann is a great influence on kids, and a friendly individual. And although for the most part; that can be true, but you need to look at the bigger picture.

"The Dhar Mann Effect" is what I like to call it. A serious, and contagious virus that even the most experienced and hard-working doctors can't find the cure to. "What does the Dhar Mann effect do?" ...You may be asking. Well, great question! The Dhar Mann effect is when you form an addiction and obsession to watching the supposedly "short films" made by no other than Dhar Mann himself. And I'm not talking about a little, silly obsession. I'm talking about serious addictions that can lead into binge watching video after video non-stop. Such things should be taken far way solemnly.

And the prime example is my younger sister. Among many of my Dhar Mann-obsessed friends, I'd say she's the worst case. It started out around 2 years ago, when their substitute teacher played a Dhar Mann video at class (since many students have requested it), and ever since, she got hooked. I knew then that there was no coming back, she reached the "no-return" point.

I'd go as far as saying that it's like drugs to her. She can't survive a day without watching at least 3 videos in one sitting. And yes, that includes re-watching or re-visiting older videos. Trust me, it's deeper than just a "So you see...". My sister can qualify as an iPad kid, now, if I had to say so. And even currently, as I'm writing this, I can hear Jay's voice, One of Dhar Mann's most popular actors— playing from her room. I feel like it's not the same, and those damages may be irreversible. My poor sister can't live her life to the fullest anymore. All she does is wait for the new Dhar Mann video. And while she waits for the next one, she just rewatches his old videos, making sure she knows all the lore.

This is not a "haha" joke, people. This is dead serious. No joke. I'm not crossing my fingers. I'm not what nowadays kids call "capping 🧢". I'm being genuine and I'm typing this with the straightest face ever.

Another issue I have with Dhar Mann is how threatening he appears to me. I can promise you that if you look long enough into his smile, you'll realise it's slightly unsettling. Did you notice his face almost always looks the same in every picture? Well, you're probably not trippin'. That's because he has that same smile in literally every picture I could find of him.

What are the chances he might be a robot? Ready for the day we all fall for his spell and none of us are safe anymore, so he can finally strike? There is something so terrifying about him. Every time I look at that smile, I can't help but shiver a bit of fear. But mostly, I'm quite intimidated by his disturbing behaviour. The way he never fails to stare dead into our souls. That's what I find strange.

But hold up, the theories don't stop... at least not yet! Did you notice the way Dhar Mann ends every single one of his videos with "Hey Dhar Mann fam!" ??? What are the chances that he refers to us as his fam (family) to hide the fact we're probably stuck in his basement? If we're talking lore-wise, I'd say the reason Dhar Mann calls us his fam is the following: We're all chilling at our homes, until one day... A Dhar Mann video comes to our recommendations. By watching the media, you're secretly agreeing to sign an invisible contract that gives ol' Dhar the ability to adopt you. Child or not. And just because you're now part of his fam, doesn't mean he can't trap you into the basement and lock you up with multiple of many victims. The only time he'll ever check on you is when he comes in the basement and greets you with "Hey Dhar Mann Fam!" While feeding you those meaningless videos.

I'll show you a couple of examples, and YOU tell me what these videos could possibly teach kids who barely know what photosynthesis is.

Now, be real, just for a moment, WHY IS THE SECOND VIDEO A GODDAMN SERIES????? ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT ITS A CASUAL THING THAT THE PROTAGONIST EXPERIENCES ON SIMPLE OCCASIONS TO GET JUMPED???

I think another weird part is that Dhar Mann featured another EXTREMELY popular YouTuber named "Mr. Beast" many, many times, but even then— he feels this need to pull out knock off Mr. Beast...ahem ahem....Mr. "feast"...??????

No joke. Just search up "Dhar Mann Mr. Feast" and count how many videos come up. But if you're so lazy to check, it's 4. yea. 4 DAMN VIDEOS ABOUT A MR BEAST RIP OFF. YOU GUYS NEED TO WAKE UP AND REALISE THIS IS A MAN WITH A WIFE AND 2 KIDS.

And back to square one, What's the moral meaning behind this media he displays for the youth?

Not Dhar Mann (a multi millionaire) copying the "NO CHICK-FIL-A SAUCE?" girl???? Smh...

So... Do you think Dhar Mann is really the innocent "moral philosopher" he claims himself as? Or is it deeper than a "Hey Dhar Mann Fam"?. But either way, that's it for today. Thank you all for listening to my Ted Talk.

SORRY GUYS IM HIGH ON VITAMIN GUMMIES (AGAIN) AND LIKE I DO THINK DHAR MANN IS MY SWORN ENEMY BUT LIKE YALL BETTER NOT TAKE THIS /SRS LMAOOOO🙏🙏🙏

[brandyllyn]

Silk from their soul (06)

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Rated: Teen (series will be explicit) Words: 1.2k Summary: Sleepwalkers

Series Masterlist My Masterlist

He can see her ass.

He doesn’t bother trying not to look. There’s just the two of them in the small room, her stretched out on the bed while he sits with his back to the wall across from her. There’s no blanket to speak of and she’s lying on top of the ancient cot facing away from him. He’s still not sure what happened but she shifted a while ago and the skirt of that little sundress had ridden all the way up to her waist.

He was a saint for not touching her.

It was a few hours til morning yet, she’d let him sleep longer than he actually needed. While he was hefting himself off the bed she had yawned, stretching her arms to the ceiling and making parts of her body do some absolutely fascinating things.

No harm in looking.

His hands move as he keeps one eye on her, an ear turned towards the hallway, waiting for the inevitable footsteps. If someone doesn’t try to rob them tonight he’ll eat his hat. Fingers far too used to the work refill his shotgun shells, checking their weights and deciding if the contents are still any good with barely any input from his brain.

And those damn thighs keep calling to him.

They’re edible, is what they are. Two prime pieces of grade-A meat. Of course he’d stare, his mouth was practically watering.

“It ain’t you,” he mumbles to his cock. “You ain’t had a vote in a long fucking time, ya hear?”

It does not. It twitches in interest as she sighs in her sleep, thighs rubbing together. It’d be the work of a moment to cross to her - hell he wouldn’t even have to get off his knees - set his teeth to those perfectly rounded asscheeks and bite. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to turn those little sighs into moans.

Yeah, his cock was definitely looking to cast a vote.

He felt almost light-headed, hormones his body hadn’t made in decades suddenly swimming in his system. With a hacking cough he takes a hit of chem, hoping it might resettle his balance. It does, a little, enough that his fingers stop twitching her direction.

A floorboard creaks.

The Ghoul cracks his neck, setting his hat to the side and resting the end of the shotgun on his knee. Another creak, then the shuffling of boots outside the door. It opens slowly and he clocks three men standing there, two he recognizes.

“Well now, I was beginning to think y’all weren’t ever gonna show. D’you come to party or just watch?”

The man in front stops suddenly, single eye scanning the room. It’s nearly pitch black, barely any light coming from the hallway either. Ever one for the dramatic, the Ghoul scrapes a match across the floor, letting the flame light up his face before he sets it to the end of a cartridge.

“Now, ordinarily, I might let y’all off with a warning seeing as you’ve only made some regretful decisions thus far. But it seems to me a group of fellas like yourself could only have one reason for breaking into a lady’s bedroom in the middle of the night.” He drops the shell into the shotgun, chambering it one fluid motion. “And I cannot abide that kind of man.”

The shell is a special cocktail of his own, a mix of chemicals and tar that burns hotter than acid and sticks to everything it touches. The effect is quick - no need to burn the place down - but aggressive.

The sound of the blast is deafening in the small room, the screams of the two men the shell explodes onto nearly as bad. Next to him he hears a muffled “What?” before he rolls to his feet and places himself between the wakening woman and the door.

“Does anyone else have something they’d like to add to the conversation?”

The screaming continues, even though the fire has burned out. He can see patches of bone where the mixture ate through face, neck, and arms. Smiling to himself he takes a step forward, gently pushing the trio away and closing the door.

“Y’all should go take care of that, and stop that caterwauling.”

“What happened?”

One strap of that dress of hers has fallen and he reaches out to fix it without even thinking. He can almost hear the scrap of his leather gloves on her skin, too much rough against all that softness.

“Just a group of townies looking to make friends. I disabused them of that notion.”

She looks confused, still blinking away sleep. “You shot them?”

“Look here, when it comes to charming the locals you’ve got me beat by a mile - but when a fella needs to be reminded of his manners a bullet has a more lasting impact.”

She groans, burying her face in her hands. “I knew this would happen.”

“You knew they were gonna come up here, and yet you were sleeping there sound as a babe?”

“I knew it was a risk,” she groans again, “kind of comes with the territory.”

“And yet I found you prancing your way through the wasteland alone, looking like that.”

“I’m not alone, I have you.” He barely gets to revel in that statement before she frowns. “And what do you mean, looking like that?”

“Sweetheart, you look like a six course meal in that getup. It’s a wonder no one ain’t gobbled you up already.”

She looks down at herself and purses her lips. “It is a tradeoff.”

“For what?”

Her mouth opens for a moment like she is going to answer then clicks shut. “It’s… thank you. For protecting me.”

For a moment he considers telling her he hadn’t been. That he was just guarding his stuff. Or that it was tit for tat since she had taken the first watch. But it wasn’t true - alive and unharmed included by other people. So instead he simply grumbles, “Don’t say nothing about it.”

Sighing, she lies back on the bed, stuffing her pack under her head with her feet facing the wall. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to get back to sleep.”

“Well, if you ain’t gonna use it…” he moves to the cot, shifting her legs so he can stretch out, back propped to the wall.

She snorts, closing her eyes. “Tell me a story.”

“You looking for some once upon a time fairy tale shit?”

“No,” another one of those low laughs, “you’ve been around a while, tell me something that happened… here.”

He considers her for a moment, stretched out next to him. There’s about a dozen better ways to pass the time that he can think of offhand, but quite a few of them require him to be the kind of man he swore never to be. He didn’t have many lines in the sand, but that was one. Faded and brushed over as it was - it weren’t like he had much of a call to use it.

“You ever seen a naked mole rat fuck a Brahmin?”

That laughter would have to be enough.

☢ ☢ ☢

For updates follow and turn on notifications for @brandyllyn-writes

[jaune-submissive-and-breedable]

When Team RWBY found Jaune in the ever after he was nothing more than a mindless beast roaming the fairytale. So they did what any good friends would do and trained him into their obedient pet. Now all they had to do was say the word and he would do whatever they wanted. From eating them out for hours to getting them drinks. All they needed to complete the look was a collar and leash.

Team Rwby stared in awe at the figure, lumbering around the burning marketplace. A rusty and damaged great sword dragged behind it as it lumbered around aimlessly(Think Artorias from dark souls). Trudging a bit closer, they saw what appeared to be a set of white armor, now rusty as it's weapon

"Its the Rusted Knight!" exclaimed Blake, concerned covering her face, "But....what happened to him?"

As they closed in, the rusty knight whipped his head in their direction, seemingly sensing their presence. The group gasped collectively at the revelation of the rusty knight's identity.

"Jaune...." Ruby gasped, a hand covered her mouthing her mouth in shock.

Hearing her voice, he let out a nearly inhuman screech and got into a battle-ready stance. The girls mimicked his acts, saddened that they must fight their old friend.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"AH, Right there" Weiss howled, rolling her hips as she rode Jaune.

Ruby stared at the two with slight guilt and sorrow. After defeating the animalistic Jaune, they tried their best to get him to remember who he once was, however, it was all in vain. they asked the curious cat for help, but he said there was nothing he could do. Though Ruby suspected there was more to this story by how he acted and looked at jaune.

"Gods, I dreamt about this for so long!" Blake moaned, her own hips grinding against his face, his blonde beard slick with her juices. Next to her girlfriend, Yang, knelt grinding her own slick pussy against one of his hands.

In the end, all they could do was train him as they did Zwei, her pet corgi. It proved to be somewhat effective, he would listen to their commands, didn't attack unless they gave the order, and retrieved food and drinks for them from time to time. He even lead them to a village of paper stars where they currently live.

"He's cumming! Oh gods, cumming inside me puppy~" Weiss cried, her own climax rapidly approaching.

"Hey Rubes, You wanna get in on this?" Yand called out, practically shoving Weiss of his cock so she could ride it.

Ruby turned her back to her in response. At some point, she couldn't tell when due to time working differently here, her teammates began using Jaune to relieve sexual tension they accumulated over time. It started when she caught Weiss having Jaune eat her out. then she found Blake licking his cock like a lollipop. And finally she caught Yang, her own sister being fucked doggystyle while everyone else slept. Each time, she scolded them, demanding they swear never to take advantage of their friend. But the sight before her shown they clear forgotten their promise. All the whole she, abstained from joining them.

"Jeez, Rubes...Lighten up. we're stuck here for god knows how much longer, You might as well have some fun" Yang called out, refusing to cease her actions

"I'd rather not Violate our friend, thank you" she replied, ignoring the moist and burning from her loins.

"suite yourself, but your missing out on some prime dick"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that night, Ruby laid outside with her legs spread wide. Between them was her blonde pet, thrusting deep inside her.

"That's right , Jaune." she panted "just like that"

In truth, Ruby was a bit of a hypocrite, having lost her purity the first night they reunited with Jaune. Since then she slept with him every night, feeling his warmth as he injected her with his seed. She often thought about letting impregnate her, but since he wasn't all there, it would be as perfect as she wanted.

"don't worry Jaune. I'll get you back to normal" she promised,

Though deep in her heart, she knew it would never happen.

[hestzhyen]

Chapter 52 Hype Posting

Hi void. I am going to vibrate out of my seat. Oh I'm going feral, absolutely feral. Another WSJ cover and lead colour page next week already! Promotion on TV during prime-time in Japan! The insanely good volume 4 PV! Hokazono-sensei judging for a manga award! Kagurabachi's getting the push to be the Next Big Thing at last- you love to see it.

Kind of.

I want Hokazono-sensei to get all the recognition he deserves, but I also don't want the fandom to explode and become yet another annoying dudebro space. The success of the series is more important though, so I'm happy to see Kagurabachi get so much support. Everyone needs to know about this manga! ANYWAY.

LOOK AT THIS TROLL.

It's Chihiro's turn to have a creepy parasocial admirer now.

Hiruhiko's not doing this just for kicks, however- he deliberately (and successfully) triggered Chihiro to orchestrate his dramatic fall. Given what happened at the end of this chapter, I would not be surprised if Chihiro's literal descent is foreshadowing a metaphorical one of some kind down the line.

And this just breaks my heart:

Triggers Chihiro's rage then fucks off only to do this? I will not be mourning Hiruhiko's death.

Chihiro's not built for being a murder bot and it pains him so much to be seen as equivalent to someone like Hiruhiko. But he was taught to see things through and uses his hatred for the Hishaku to keep going. Revenge is probably the only thing he wakes up every day for- he wasn't kidding about that "fresh hatred" line in chapter 1. And neither was Shiba when he said living like this would break him. This kid needs a hug and a safe place to cry out the pain so badly, man...

More than that, though... more than anything...

HIRUHIKO'S THE FUCKIN' ANTI-HAKURI.

"We're equals", he says. "I killed my family", he mentions. "Let's be friends," he asks as he forces his way into Chihiro's life. "I'm the only one who can understand you." The hell you aren't you rat bastard. Hakuri's the one whose soul resonates with Chihiro's. He's the one Chihiro acknowledged as an equal and a friend. BEGONE, FOUL DEMON.

God damn it. Hokazono, I love you for making my most hated villain archetype into a character I want to see more of. I've never understood why playful psychopaths are so beloved but I get it with this guy. Smooth move making him the evil version of my favourite character in all of fiction, Mr. Author. Now I need Hiruhiko and Hakuri to face off over their ideals about who Chihiro really is. It would be the perfect reprise to the Sojo arc! PLEEEEEEASE. There's so much HakuHiro potential in this setup... Hakuri being the one to pull Chihiro forward again would be amazing. But not for his own goals this time- just to help Chihiro as a true friend and partner. Not gonna get too attached to this since it's just one potential development out of many... I won't let myself... (too late).

(Psst... 昼チ or 昼チヒ will probably be the JP ship tag/name for Hiruhiko/Chihiro. Ain't no way Chihiro is the top in this pair for most Japanese fujin lol.)

The Show

The main character of the play's name is Sasuke and Hokazono-sensei is a huge Naruto fan. So much so that he's taken his own spin on Naruto and Sasuke three times now (Enten, Roku no Meiyaku, Kagurabachi). Chihiro is, in fact, his OC donut steel character inspired by the most annoying emo ninja boy ever. I see you, Hokazono-sensei.

The Battle of Soshima might be a made-up title to reference the real historical event The Battle of Tsushima, which fellow Golden Kamuy fans will recognize. At any rate, there aren't any famous Japanese stage plays with the same name, so there's no direct narrative parallels to draw insight from (sad trombone noises). Fortunately for us Hiruhiko is a yapper like I hoped and tells us the plan pretty plainly anyway:

I relate so hard right now, random audience guy.

Hiruhiko says the plan to kill Chihiro's not a bluff. But he's not acting like he's intends to make good on that statement. So that means...

Perception vs Intent

Chihiro looking his best: stressed and menacing

This is gonna be huge I think. Remember what Azami said back in the Sojo arc in ch. 9:

Azami, please come back soon. I need you carnally.

Then consider likes like this...

Local violent gang member still pretty tough after becoming human shishkebab through a moving train.

Chihiro could be set up to tarnish his father's legacy.

The public doesn't know the true strength or capabilities of the weapons that won the war- they just know that Rokuhira Kunishige made them and they were the key to winning. So Chihiro dropping in on a stage play to splatter the audience with a headless corpse's blood is not a great first impression. He looks downright villainous in this scene. Awesome, but villainous.

The Hishaku are going to metaphorically "kill" Chihiro somehow. For some reason, tormenting this poor guy is absolutely vital to John's plans... it's probably more along the lines of Chihiro being a useful pawn to move around to create conflict they can exploit, but still. They're going to try to break his spirit this arc for sure. Leave Chihiro alone! He's been through enough!

I've got a hell of a lot to say about this but I need some key details from the next few chapters before going off on lunatic tangents. Fuckin' hell though, this is great. This is exactly the type of development I was hoping we'd see after Samura's chapter. Chihiro's committed to the cause of killing the Hishaku, who so far have been wholly unsympathetic villains. But killing is a wrongful act. And this chapter sets up that Chihiro might not be the sympathetic avenging swordsman we love him as in the eyes of the public- he appears to be more of a menace like some of the members of the Kamunabi accused him of. He might be challenged on his murderous modus operandi via a Hishaku-backed smear campaign. Seriously, using Chihiro's brutality against them to ruin his father's legacy would be so evil and cruel. I love it.

We'll be able to count on Shiba and Hakuri to make sure Chihiro doesn't go off the deep end at least. I wouldn't be surprised if Hiyuki played a pivotal role in helping Chihiro out this arc too, but I don't want to commit when we've hardly seen anything of her so far (my spaghetti sovereign... please come back to the main story full-time soon).

Whether or not I'm right (I'm not, I never am), Chihiro's murder sprees fueled by Fresh Hatred are going to get looked at in a critical way. High time and I am definitely here for it. Tell me what you've got to say about violent revenge motivated by grief, Hokazono-sensei. You have more space to examine the topic now compared to Farewell! Cherry Boy.

Shorter than usual but that's not a bad thing. I can always come back and edit this (came back to do so twice now already) or make another addendum post, but...

... Just choose kindness, people. For yourself and others. See you later.

[limerenceheart]

ruin me all you want, i don't mind if it's you.

starring - yan! jing yuan

trigger warnings - implied stockholm syndrome and physical violence

i saw a fanart this quote and i liked it so much that i'm turning it into a hsr fic lmao.

you never thought that you would be in this mess. the odd horror story of another person becoming too infatuated with someone else never fazed you a lot.

the thing is you never paid enough attention regarding the ending, it should be logical that cutting off ties should be the ending.

but when feelings are involved, anything could happen.

feelings should never been underestimated and your current predicament is a prime example. living with an acquaintance that offered short accommdation for an exploration trip should just been a simple thing.

absence make the heart grow fonder though and you under evaluated how a certain man like you that much.

he say love, you say obsession but is what the difference? love mean letting someone go but treating someone like a doll trapped in a dollhouse is not love.

obsession is a dangerous thing, clouding the ability of judgement so your pleas to Jing Yuan would always fall on deaf ears.

"stop this nonsense, exploration trips mean facing the unknown which is dangerous. "

"at least with me, you will always be safe even if i'm away."

you felt the second half of his statement, you could roam freely outside but the cloud knights and lower generals would always offer a helping hand.

it was unnerving, almost like jing yuan created a surveillance unit just for you. the general wasn't that impulsive though, unwanted attention was not ideal so he played a charade of being his partner by forcing you to attend a political party with him.

you remember the jealous stares that others shot your way with your arm interlinked with the general at the ballroom but you just wanted to let out a bittersweet laugh.

and when you did, jing yuan asked you what was funny where you snapped and dug your heel into his shoe.

the next day, you made a vow never to make him angry again, the general become a whole another person with rage. the scars still lingered on your arms.

so you decided to give in, you could not beat him so might as well make your life easier. maybe one day, he might change his mind and let you go.

a slim chance.

you still couldn't help but imagine it though.

jing yuan did started interrogating you when your behaviour started changing from no longer rejecting his acts of affection along with actually engaging conversation with him.

it was startling how things just click into place, almost like friends from lovers trope. maybe jing yuan was your soul mate but he was too impatience to win your heart over.

but you no longer care about consent. you would do anything to make your life easier.

so when jing yuan guided you to the bedroom with your hand grasped in his, you broke the silence first.

"ruin me all you want, i don't mind if it's you."

[madelynhimegami]

Crimson Soul Guide

Oh, did you think you had seen the last of me today? Foolish! This one's a bit different, as I concluded it was a good idea to include information on the status and capabilities of everybody's favorite book-bound disembodied soul.

Also, if you have a character you'd like to see me make a summation for next, then please by all means let me know! I've been doing these as they've been suggested to me anyway.

Anywho.

The demon from whence the Crimson Soul came was once a demon lord/overlord before being sealed away, possibly on a scale similar to Satan?

At the time they were sealed, the Arka civilization was prosperous-- though the exact relationship between Arka and the demon is currently unknown.

The demon was a massive bibliophile, which is a trait the Crimson Soul has kept

The above three points are all we know for certain about the demon prior to sealing, specifically. Everything else comes from the account written by the Tome of Sealing's author.

(Said account is of dubious credibility at points, but that's beyond the scope of this post.)

As for the Crimson Soul themself (ie, regardless of what may or may not have applied to the demon), they despise filth and trash. They will not abide by any litter in their presence and will get rid of it on sight.

They are extremely dramatic, theatrical, and verbose. The Crimson Soul is the ultimate theater kid. Once again, possibly on a level similar to Satan.

While it has been demonstrated multiple times that their red power is dangerous, if not outright malevolent on its own, there's been little indication to suggest they are evil themself.

They describe their magic as "a crimson power [that is] hidden within [their] soul" in Fever 2's sound test.

Fever 2 also has a curious item-- a lithograph from Arka's prime that has a prayer for the land to be forever bountiful written on it. Using it in-game immediately puts Possessed Klug (and only Possessed Klug) into Fever mode

It is not particularly clear what might happen to Sig, should the Crimson Soul successfully claim his body. For a long while, it was speculated that the demon's will would overpower and eventually erase Sig. Recent developments have called it into question.

(It hasn't been entirely ruled out, though)

The ritual that Klug had performed with the tome in Fever 2 not only ended with him getting possessed, it also irrevocably altered the seal, making it not as airtight as it used to be.

Consequently, Klug gets possessed more easily, can faintly sense the vibes of the Crimson Soul, and the Soul may have some influence on Klug's thoughts (e.g., they can subliminally plant feelings in him, like extreme interest on specific items).

Klug can also be swapped out by mind-swapping procedures that target both himself and the Tome.

It seems that the artifacts listed in the Tome are not the only ones that can lift the seal. Sufficiently powerful sources of energy from the sun, moon, and stars will also get the job done.

Whether the above two points were true before the events of Fever 2 is currently unknown.

Although regaining their lost power is their ultimate goal, the Crimson Soul does not appear to be actively seeking out Sig with much urgency.

The soul tends to possess Klug while he's unconscious, and maybe in mortal peril.

Most tellingly, there was one occasion where they took over Klug's body and they were in the closest proximity they had ever been to Sig since Fever 2. Despite this, they never address Sig. Instead, they first lament that they can't fight off a dragon with Klug's body, and second urges (if condescendingly) for the main Primp kids (and Feli) to work together.

As far as I know, the only time they intentionally hijack Klug's body while he's still conscious was to yell at tourists visiting the Arka ruins to get of their lawn.

The Crimson Soul can also pull Klug in a direction they want him to go, via the book.

Under most corcumstances, Klug can only get fleeting impressions of the soul's emotional state if said state is at a high level (e.g, agitation, restlessness, panic). This can compound with the above, as well.

The soul can telepathically communicate with Klug if they both happen to be in a dream or a dreamlike environment.

More than once they have seized the opportunity to speak directly by… insulting Klug. Their favored jab is "pathetic excuse for a glasses-holder."

Given how frustrated Klug was over the noise they kept making in Puzzle Pop, they were likely too frantic to speak in a readily-understandable manner.

On top of Klug's body just not being powerful enough magic-wise to the soul's liking, they don't like his physical state, either. "Has this brat never heard the phrase 'a healthy mind in a healthy body?!'"

Despite this, they have been show to be protective of Klug multiple times while in control, keeping both his body and soul safe by defending them from a dragon, drowning, water saturation, and Yu.

They also seemed to have shielded Klug from Marle's corruption. Whether that was a conscious effort or just the nature of the red power (Sig was also unaffected, but his arm became frenzied) is left vague, but Lemres was pretty confident that was what had happened.

Their ulterior motive for doing so-- at least on the surface-- is the convenience of having Klug as an emergency vessel. The body-swapping incident mentioned earlier in this post left them practically gleeful at the fact that their swap with Klug had bypassed the seal entirely, leaving Klugs body to be theirs.

Another instance of the seal being negated had the Crimson Soul desperately fight against having the seal restored and forcing them back in the book.

When others speak to them while in Klug's body (post Fever 2), they generally sidestep, evade, or point-blank to refuse to answer any questions directed at them. Especially ones regarding their true identity or intentions.

They also want to avoid direct interactions with Akuma when possible.

Their understanding of machinery is "punch it until it starts working again."

As the Crimson Soul was themself sealed away for who-knows-how-long, they will voluntarily release other, similarly-sealed entities if they can.

The Crimson Soul does not seem to share Sig's enthusiasm for bugs.

[thatanimewriter]

COWARD.

➳ request: How would Coco and team JNPR react to their mega intimidating and stronger then strong Male S/O, saving Velvet from Cardin's bullying, by comin' out the wood works, and just punching the absolute SOUL outta Cardin like bro's on his knees, holdin' his stomach, eyes wide, struggling to breath and all that, meanwhile the rest of his team are just trying to jump S/O but are failing MISERABLY, like it's watching 3 4-year olds tryin' to jump prime Mike Tyson, and for reference on what S/O looks like, look up Fredrick Jason the boxer manwha in images, pls and thank you :)

➳ character/s: jaune arc, nora valkyrie, pyrrha nikos, lie ren

➳ warnings: mentions of bullying, violence, swearing, mentions of thirsty people (pyrrha)

➳ notes: i don't write for coco, but i can do jnpr :))

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 / 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭  / 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 / 𝐰𝐢𝐩 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

── 𝐉𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐂.

cheering you from the sidelines because he has tried standing up to cardin before and it went horribly

is probably mildly embarrassed that he's tiny compared to you, but is very much happy that cardin is ALSO tiny compared to you

got slightly worried when the rest of cardin's team tried to gang up on you

but you just waved jaune away with a lil flirty wink and dealt with the issue very chill

jaune was very hot and bothered after cause he couldn't lie, it was kinda attractive-

but afterwards he's so asking you for training sessions so he can get buff like you

he probably recorded the altercation on his scroll just for later entertainment

it was already put on the internet very soon after, if not livestreamed by someone else in the crowd

── 𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐄.

she would've joined you if it weren't for ren letting you handle it by yourself

he wants her to preserve some level of her reputation and let you uphold your own as you basically hold cardin away from you with a hand to his forehead

you're clearly not invested in this fight, cause you look very bored this whole time

but you'll let her hit them with her hammer at least once, followed by a hair ruffle and a "that's my girl"

is very proud of you because if you didn't do anything about the bullies, then she would've

laughed her little ass off when the rest of the gang tried to jump you and you didn't have any difficulty

she took a selfie of you guys and the bullies on the floor n you're just smiling with a peace sign

still her favourite photo to this day and she talks about it all the time

── 𝐏𝐘𝐑𝐑𝐇𝐀 𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐎𝐒.

very much concerned for how often you might be getting into fights with cardin

but also not that mad because even though she probably doesn't wanna get involved, she'll let you have your fun

you're both such a power couple now because BOTH of you have fought cardin's whole team 1v4 and won

will stand back and watch you as if she doesn't want you to be fighting bullies in the courtyard

but she's proud on the inside and will treat you for dinner later when you win

not super happy that randos on the internet are kinda thirsty for you though

but maybe she'll jump in next time if there is one just so people can back off

and also because she thinks it's probably super cathartic-

── 𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐍.

also doesn't join in, but he won't make any moves to stop you from doing what you gotta do

he's been watching cardin be a bully for a while and is happy with the karma he's getting from you

very much annoyed by the rest of the team trying to get the upper hand, because he's trained with you and failed to do so-

a rare smile on his face when you beat them all to a pulp and will make you pancakes in the morning

special treat for delivering some well-deserved justice for the students

generally discourages you from engaging in petty school fights though, because he'd rather you save your energy

and not use it on useless people who will end up in the dumps on their own anyway

but if it's warranted, then he'll support you from the shadows :))

[misfitmagpie]

Well I will gladly take a look at the fully revealed logo! Though I will say that red-archivist pointed out some good stuff in this post. But we can take a deeper look into certain things!

Also p.s.: You will want to read the giant ramble to the end, because I noticed something as I was finishing, and it puts everything in an interesting context.

As mentioned in that post, the combination of the alchemical symbols for salt, mercury, and sulphur do indeed form the tria prima, the three primes or components of life.

⊖ or salt, which represents the earth and the human body. In alchemy it also symbolises the lower consciousness, self-knowledge, and wisdom.

☿ or mercury I already covered last time, representing the mind, the omnipresent spirit of life, and stood as symbol for intellect, imagination, moral judgement, and the higher mental faculties. The alchemical associations of mercury have a strong connection with the Greek/Roman gods Hermes/Mercury, a messenger god who also acted as a chthonic deity, a psychopomp and god of boundaries to be exact. Which might be relevant, might not. (He was also a shepherd god, just adding that detail)

🜍 or sulphur represents the spirit or soul of all materials and living things. In alchemy it is seen as synonymous with consciousness and the expansion of thought. And is seen as the bridge that connects the body with mind, thus it is seen as the key to understanding the inner workings of the soul and consciousness. It’s interesting to me that the sulphur is in the logo 4 times, connected to the circle that encompasses the salt and mercury symbols, and the chevrons (I’ll get to those in a moment). This could have been purely aesthetic, but they could have also simply opted to have the sulphur symbol instead of one of the chevrons and have pretty much the same effect. Instead they chose the alchemical symbol of the soul, also seen as what ties body and mind together, also an element that is strongly associated with heat and fire, to encompass the body and mind, together with heraldic symbols of protection. It’s an interesting choice which makes me wonder about the mindset of the people who founded this organisation. (Maybe they are the types to believe in purifying fire, or purity of the soul as a way to protect oneself against the horrors out there? Who knows.)

The double ^ are chevrons, a heraldic symbol associated with protection, and meant to represent the roof of a house. Even the name is derived from the French word for “rafter”. It is also used in military or police uniforms to indicate rank or length of service. It is interesting to me that the bottom left chevron is an inverted version of the top right. The inverted version being next to the symbol for mercury or the mind, and the regular next to the symbol for salt or the body. Without it being in full colour, I can’t say much about any particular heraldic or symbolic links that might have. At most I can speculate that maybe it’s hinting at how the mind might not be as safe as the body in such a service, of course that can also be my own knowledge of TMA colouring my interpretation.

The O.I.A.R. in the top banner has been revealed! And it’s nice to get confirmation that I guessed correctly on the R! Personally I am not very good with acronyms, but @emdashingaway correctly guessed that it would be this. In my previous post about The Magnus Protocol logo she pointed out that it might stand for Office of Incident Assessment and Response, which now seems very plausible!

Now the background has some interesting repeating symbols too.

🜏

This is the Leviathan Cross, in alchemy another symbol associated with sulphur (in particular black sulphur) and thus also the soul. However it is worth noting that Anton LaVey, founder of the Church of Satan, has adopted the Leviathan Cross as a symbol of his Church in the 1960s. Though I can’t immediately find much more about it and its origins beyond the alchemical association and the very modern Satanic association. (The name Leviathan strikes me as interesting too, but there is too much that can be said about it, especially for a symbol that just occurs in the background.)

🜇

This is the alchemical symbol for aqua regia (derived from the Latin for “royal water” or “regal water”), it is a mixture of is a mixture of nitric acid and hydrochloric acid, optimally in a molar ratio of 1:3. Historically aqua regia was used in alchemy in the process of attempting to create the philosopher’s stone. It is also used to help dissolve gold and platinum within actual chemistry!

♁

Is the symbol for antimony is associated with the animal nature or wild spirit of man and nature, and it was often symbolised by the wolf.

🜘

This is the symbol for bismuth, while it does get mentioned in alchemical texts, the particular use and associations seem to be unclear. All that I can seem to find is that in early days, it was often confused for tin or lead. And that apparently Miners in the age of alchemy also gave bismuth the name tectum argenti, or “silver being made”. (Also it’s chemical symbol is Bi, which is funny given how apparently some have discovered that they are bi thanks to TMA)

I hope this is visible, but one of the symbols in the background also looks an awful lot like one of the alchemical symbols for tin. It looks like a curved X with circles at the ends of the legs. Tin in alchemy is associated with the planet Jupiter, and is sometimes called the ‘breath of life. ’ It represents the idea that the whole is stronger than the sum of its parts.

⚥

From what I can find, this is not strictly speaking an alchemical symbol. Clearly a combination of the male and female gender symbols (each of which is actually derived from the symbols for Mars and Venus respectively, which do get used in alchemy actually), it is generally seen as a hermaphroditic symbol (using the strict broad biological label here, not referring to intersex, I just want to point that out). But given all of the alchemy references so far, I suspect that it might be referencing the rebis (from the Latin res bina, meaning dual or double matter), the ultimate end product of the alchemical great work. It is sometimes described as the divine hermaphrodite—a reconciliation of spirit and matter, a being of both male and female qualities. A lot can be said about the great work in alchemy, and this post is already long enough honestly.

And lastly…

Take this, flip it upside-down, and you have the shape of the logo in which all these symbols are displayed. This is the symbol for the philosophers’ stone. In alchemy it is an unknown substance sought after by alchemists, said to be capable of turning base metals into precious ones (like gold and silver), can be used to derive an elixir of life, and was even thought to bring about spiritual revitalisation. And it symbolises perfection at its finest, enlightenment, and heavenly bliss.

And while researching this, I also noticed something rather interesting. It might end up not being relevant at all, but I discovered that a famous alchemist was named Albertus Magnus who was born some time before 1200 in the Duchy of Bavaria (the flag and coat of arms of which during the Wittelsbach dynasty sports a rather nice diamond pattern, a bit like the pattern you see within the triangle of the logo). He was a saint with a deep interest in a large variety of topics including logic, theology, botany, geography, astronomy, astrology, alchemy, mineralogy, zoology, physiology, phrenology, justice, law, etc. I recommend potentially checking out the wiki page on Albertus Magnus that I shared earlier if you are interested in knowing more, there is a lot of history there. But it’s interesting that he shares a surname with Jonah Magnus, founder of the Magnus Institute.

Conclusion:

Given all that I have managed to dig up about the symbols within the logo, and the indirectly connected links with suspiciously named historical figures, in particular with the context of there being another Bouchard within the Magnus Protocol, I can’t help but be suspicious of whatever this British civil service is actually getting up to behind the scenes. In particular what they think they might be trying to accomplish using the Fear Entities.

Of course at this point it becomes pure speculation. But I am more than happy to hear everyone’s ideas, speculation, and contributions!