#Not Even Colour Coded Yet Lmao

[denkilightning]

if yall wonder what is going on in my brain..... this is just a small part of it

[yeyinde]

the soft blue of a pale moon | Yautja x f!Reader

He keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive.  Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at this creature, this beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones, his pretty pet, his plaything, supplicant by his side. You won't ever submit. Ever. 

warnings: noncon/dubcon. captive reader. predator/prey. forced submission. noncon D/s dynamics. forced mating. rough sex/violent sex. broken bones. belly bulge. biting. size difference. mentions of violence. scent kink (slight). marking/scarring (territorially, possessively). alien biology. alien genitalia. female presenting reader (female anatomy).

Yautja terms:Kainde Amedha — hard meat (refers primarily to xenomorphs)

Ooman — human

this is basically a Dark (from the 2010 avp video game lmao) x Reader fic. Yautja is not an OC. but you don't need to know anything at all from the game to read this.

lore:

comics, novels. divine wisdom.

The bed of furs is soft beneath you.

It's an odd juxtaposition compared to the uncanny harshness of the room you've been left in (held captive for days, weeks, months—) with its severe lines and its stark, unfamiliar geometry. The walls stained a strange, unearthly colour of brownish-gold, towering high into a domed ceiling etched with symbols and runes you've yet to decode. Ones you know you never will.

This whole place is otherworldly. Seemingly beyond the scope of science fiction, or what your meagre imagination can dream up. Reality. Fantasy. The two blend together to form this archaic, rustic interior that's somehow far too futuristic for your mind to understand, and yet shaded in use, in age. Space dust. Caught between old and new—new: unknown, unknowable—and utterly mesmerising despite the garishness of what lies outside beyond the edge of the pelts you rest on. 

Adorning the walls are an uncountable number of skulls and bleached white bones. Weaving spines strung up. Spindly, alien vertebrae. Fantastical creatures. Mythological beasts. It's something only the most inspired minds can conjure—

And yet, it all sits within reach. 

(The human skull on the wall, still attached to its spine, is perched over your head like an omen—)

You tear your gaze away from it, sliding over the trophies immortalised in a shrine dedicated to the prowess of the being who took you. An alien. Yautja, you’ve come to learn. Predatory hunters who roam the galaxies in search of the best prey. A race made of warriors with a strict honour code. 

Though—

You don’t know how honourable keeping captives are to their society, but none of the other massive beings had tried to intervene when he had taken you on the ship, hauled over his shoulder like a conquest, beating furious fists into his broad back. They stood back, chittering to themselves in what you know is laughter. Mocking clicks. Low trills. They thought it all so funny, outlandishly so, to see him stalk through the thick haze of fog that blanketed the ground with a yowling ooman clawing futilely at his back. 

(As if your weak, feeble fists could ever hope to maim, to hurt—)

You don't know why he decided to take you. Even now, aeons later as you pass by an unfathomable number of solar systems, all glimmering like crushed gems just beyond the domed window above your bed, you have no idea what brought this on. What made him look at you, and think—

Pet (mine). 

And it's not for a lack of trying, either. But trying to prise anything out of him is near impossible. Chiselling for gold with a plastic spoon. 

It leaves you with only one other villain in this story, and you very readily blame Weyland-Yutani for this mess—dig deeper, explore faster, mine harder—but yourself, more so, for signing your name on the dotted line in the first place. You knew it was a terrible idea from the beginning. Not too many planets are truly desolate these days. Not with those things, xenomorphs, roaming the solar system unhindered. 

Nothing good ever comes from meeting them. Death, inevitably, follows. 

Though, comparatively, you'd rather be sprawled out—naked, collared—on a bed of strange, soft fur than being used as a breeding sow for a race of parasitic monsters hellbent on devouring the galaxy. 

Panic is white hot, electric. The thought alone makes you lash out, a paroxysm of pure adrenaline, fear. Your hand flies to your chest instantly. Fingers knotting between your heaving breasts, feeling around for any movement under your skin. A beat. Several. All erratic. Thumping harshly against your ribcage. And—

Nothing. Just the erratic flutter of your heart, bragging senselessly in your chest. 

(stupid thing—)

Of course. Of course. 

Out of everyone on the ill-fated expedition, somehow only you survived. Holed up in the armoury, listening to those serpentine creatures tear into the flimsy metal of your ship. Taking out the ones who managed to sneak in with a well-placed shot to their domed heads. Hiding in a corner waiting for them to find you, wondering if the last few bullets should be used on them or yourself. 

It was days of that. Of piling these awful monsters high, and hoping the corrosive blood didn't ruin the hull to make an opening wide enough for them all to pour in, overwhelming you with your dwindling ammo. 

Breathing in ragged breaths, all the while listening to the hisses skirting across metal, grazing talons down your skull. They liked to taunt you, a fact that nearly drove you to the brink when all the meandering words uttered around about their hive-like simplicity, their insectoid stupidity, fell apart. These creatures are deadly, cunning. 

And smart.

They adapted easily to your patterns, overcoming your bullets and your patchwork ingenuity with ease. The only thing that kept them at bay was the metal being too thick to penetrate with their claws. 

(And you watched, helplessly, as they realised this after the second week, and sacrificed the smaller drones to splash their corrosive blood across the thickened alloy, melting it slowly down to nothing—)

They would have gotten you soon enough. 

Had to, really. Because the Queen was waiting. You heard her hisses in your head. Felt her in the air, disturbed and agitated, around you. Pulsing like a heartbeat. Hammering against your resolve with each nightmare she pressed into the folds of your subconsciousness. Luring you to her. Showing you the wonders of giving in, granting her access. 

Coming home—

You don’t know how anyone could withstand her influence. The siren’s call from down the hall, showing you image after image of her children curling protectively over you. Nestled in a tight embrace. Safe and sound from the howling winds and the scorching sun, from the awful hisses outside, and the horrific sound of metal giving way, melting into a puddle on the floor. 

It was madness. One you wanted nothing more than to give into—

And then they came. 

Appearing out of thin air just as your bullet pierced her jaw when she finally came for you, her child—

She fell, taking out several of the others with her—ones not on your list of alien species to look out for—and left behind nothing but a passel of intimidating creatures and you. 

He, their leader, was the first to find you. Grabbing you by the scruff of your neck like a misbehaving kitten, and pulling you close. Taking stock, you think, of the bodies behind you and the holes in the Queen made from your gun. 

An uneasy, stifling silence fell, broken by a series of drawn-out, low clicks. 

You realised then, right as he bent down and tore the claw off of a dead xenomorph, what these beings were. Hunters. Predators. It was rare to see them on earth, but you’d heard of several run-ins with these creatures whenever humans decided to mettle with their preferred prey. 

It was even rarer that any human survived the encounter. 

He cocked his head to the side before pressing the bloody tip to your cheek, branding you with the mark of the blooded. One that matched his own. Purposefully done, of course. 

His crest on your skin, unique as a thumbprint, is the loudest proclamation of his claim. Anyone from any number of clans that roam the heavens in search of prey, of hard meat, know, immediately, that you belong to him. That you bear his mark, branded with the scar of his respect. 

(Respect—such a weighty thing to carry across your shoulders, too. Something you'd been eager to obtain, hungering for it all your life. And now—

The blunt, almost suffocating heft of it feels permanent in a way you can't even begin to unravel.)

He'd taken you, then. Despite thinking of humans as soft meat, cattle, he'd thrown you over his shoulder and marched you to his quarters where he stripped the xenomorphs of their skin, and hung their bones on the wall—your trophies. Sat next to his own. A bold display. A show of respect, however rare—and unwanted. 

And then he'd stared at you through the black slits in his horned mask. Just watching. Studying. It took a great deal of composure not to weep. To beg for—

For something. 

Leniency, maybe. For whatever crimes you inadvertently perpetrated against them. For being here, of all places, because of the insatiable greed of Weyland-Yutani. 

For believing in them in the first place, maybe. Following, desperately, in the footsteps of your fallen idol. 

It never mattered much in the end, though. After a careful, blank scrutinisation, he'd simply reached down, talons digging painfully into your skin, and tossed you into the softest bed of furs—of pure, hedonistic luxury you'd ever felt—and followed you down with an inhuman growl that rattled through your bones. That seemed to echo throughout the ship, shaking the walls, and trembling through the floors.

The kicking and screaming never happened. Futility paints a desperate picture, doesn't it? And in those moments, now lost to time, you knew, somehow, that it was useless. Is useless. 

He wanted you. Him, the captain of this ship you've been left to rot inside of. The one who knows your language, but refuses to speak it. Preferring, instead, to let the guttural clicks and the chirring of his foreign, unspeakable mother tongue take precedence. 

The one who hunts, viciously, and wears his trophies around his neck. Strung up for all to see as they dangle across his broad, mottled chest. Black. Endlessly so. His colouring is shades darker than your own galactic canvas where midnight itself spills across satin, but the comparison itches in your chest, rotting along with your sickening heartbeat. 

And you think he knows this. Because despite his fury as he slashes his way through the oddest assortment of extraterrestrial creatures you've ever laid eyes upon, he's cunning. Smart. Adaptable. 

It's this, the strange, almost preternatural patience he exudes which keeps you where you lay now. The innate knowledge that he's a primal hunter, one who uses both instinct and a keen, calculative sense of awareness to ensnare his victims wholly, unquestionably. One who'd undoubtedly hunt you down to the very edges of the star system you escape into until you're bent down on both knees, supplicant to his prowess.

His little pet. 

And oh, how he luxuriates in it. This little moniker given to you by his clanmates seems to make him preen each time you hear the familiar, rasping click of their scornful mockery. 

Soft ooman. His ugly little trophy. 

He snaps his mandibles at them in response, but keeps his claws fixed against the scruff of your neck. Forcing you down, bowed on your knees with your face tucked tight against his massive thigh, breathing in the stale scent of him—ozone, leather, spice, and a potent musk of mildew and loam, humus; the stagnant waters of a swamp teeming with algae blooms. Even through the foreignness of it—the sharp burn of oxidising iron, rusted metal, and old, rotting blood—he smells good. Intoxicating. It makes you dizzy. Makes you greedy. For something. Survival, maybe. That instinctual drive, self-preservation, needling in your hindbrain to keep you alive. 

Despite your reticence, you angle your chin up, glaring at the creature, the beast. This Cimmerian god of old. Stygian king in his throne of bones. 

You won't ever submit. Ever.

But you can play the part—if only until he eases his grip, allowing you to slip away again. 

With a glower, you lay open kisses along the hard, leathery ridges of his black scute, chasing the oily tang of his musk on your tongue. 

The feel of your soft mouth makes his thighs tense—all firm, corded muscle; raw, primal power sheathed in a thick, aggregate pelt of marbled colours. It feels like warm stone under your fingers. Oiled leather. Crocodilian. 

His maw opens, and the sound that tumbles out is full of fractured syllables and inhuman chirrs, gutteral crepitate. It's not something your human tongue could ever expect to replicate, and your lips tug downward in a sharp frown, your displeasure at this game of his growing by the minute. His staunch refusal to speak your language despite clearly knowing it—and knowing it well—is aggrevating, if only for the sole reason that he kidnapped you. That you being here, listening to him, is not of your own free will. 

The scorn is thick on your tongue, the vitriolic rebuttal taking shape already, but he silences you when his thumb grazes your jaw. The air in your lungs tumbles out in a shudder when you feel the unnaturally soft, yet firm, skin of his palm slide around the back of your nape. 

The fight in you is numbed by the realisation that his hand alone spans the entire length of your shoulders, now curled possessively around your neck. Fingers overlapping, folding over each other easily into a perfect collar. 

His hand closing over your throat draws your eye to the ringed gorget he wears around his neck. 

The comparison makes you sick. 

The talons on his fingers are warm, powder-soft like the beak of a bird, when they tap against your throat as you swallow, thumb still stroking along the ridge of your jaw. It's shockingly intimate, and the humanness of it settles in your stomach like a sinking stone. Granite needling against soft tissue. Mercury bleeding into your guts. You hate it. 

Hate how much you don't hate it. 

The juxtaposition fills you with a fit of vicious anger. You don't want to seek comfort from this beast. 

Your gaze drops, resting churlishly on the thick skin of his belly. Despite the raw, indomitable strength that coils through his muscles, malleable obsidian, when he sits, the softness of his belly pudges out, jutting over the brass-coloured belt of his loincloth. 

It's—

Another marker of his uncanny likeness to the human form. 

But where you might have expected to see coarse hair, his lower belly is sparsely covered by a dense, thick cropping of quills trailing along his abdomen. They feel like softened polymer under your fingertips, but catch on your skin if you're not careful, the sharpened edge digging in. It's not as painful as the press of his nails, but itches like a thorn. Needles of a cactus. 

They stretch upward. Arching along in a perfect mockery of a happy trail that stretches to form a heavy bushel on his chest, small whiskers on his chin, his brow, dotted along the crest of his crown where his tresses fall. 

Dragging your gaze up this path leads you back to piercing amber set deep inside the bracket of his skull. They seem to glow, an unnatural light spilling out of their sockets, highlighting the rigid lines of his bones. 

He's watching you. Always. 

(You blame the rapid thud of your heart on fear.)

Knowing he has your attention now, he makes the noise again. Lower this time. A snarling rasp breaking apart between his flexing mandibles. The sound akin to the rumble of an avalanche; the roaring screams of a forest on fire. 

You have no hope of ever mimicking it—not without drinking down acid to corrode your vocal cords first. The anger that lashes through you is a whipcord cutting its tip against your resolve. 

“What are you saying? I don’t understand—”

His massive crown dips, mandibles clicking. His thumb presses into your skin. Intentional. Pointed. 

It's then you piece together that what he's saying isn't a command or a taunt, but rather his name. One you have no hope of ever repeating unless you want to turn your vocal cords into tatters, strips of unusable tissue. Wasting your words on his name is not something you think you would ever want to do. 

And so, you don't. 

Maybe it's to spite him. Or to put some semblance of distance between yourself and the alien holding you hostage, touching the skin of your neck with a soft sort of reverence you hadn't known he was capable of. Whatever the reason, you twist the ugliness inside of your chest, the rage and sorrow, into a brutal knife, wedging it into the scant space between your bodies, prying them apart in a shallow victory. 

He's a hideous thing, isn't he? This brute. 

Raw power. Untameable malice. All hidden under this pantomime of honour. How laughable, really, to think these beings know anything of the sort. Or maybe it's just him in particular. The outlier of the lot. One with a confounding obsession with ooman pets. 

Ugly, you think, staring up at him. With his sunken eyes, and his mane-like crown. His tusks clicking together in quiet pleasure, smug in his throne of metal and bone. 

Ugly, like the mossy green surface of a still swamp. Stagnant waters. A black lake. Shrouded by a dense, impenetrable cropping of weeping willows and mangroves. Shading the water so much that the algae blooms turn black like tar. 

Dark, like him. 

And so, you whisper it. Not his name, but this vindictive moniker you pieced together thinking of the lingering swamplands covered in moss and peat.

“Dark.”

In response, his nails rake over the back of your neck in both a warning, a reprimand; the same harsh touch used on an unruly cub by its mother. The comparison makes you bristle, hissing out a series of cruel jeers at him, but he barely pays it any mind, too busy chittering to himself now, humoured instead of insulted by this tangentially human name you've bestowed upon him. 

The juxtaposition, the humanness of it all, is almost too much. 

How can a creature that ripped a xenomorph’s jaw apart with his bare hands have these soft rolls along his midsection. Feel humour the same way your friends back home might have at your taunting barbs? 

The contrast is nearly comical. Sour. 

You don't like it when he's too human. When he scratches his warm talons along your nape absently. Thoughtless. A little twitch of his hand offering threadbare comfort in an unconscious whim. When he's tactile with you. Tensile. Gentle. Touching your skin with an exploratory sense of curiosity, of fondness. Laying you down on the furs with a tenderness that is at complete odds to the rough, demanding way he'll inevitably mate with you. 

Mate. Because your coupling is always animalistic. Brutal. There's no tenderness to be found when he presses you into the furs, rutting into you like a beast. Growling, snarling. Making you take, and take, and take until he's satiated—

But you think you like it that way. 

Especially when he's fresh off of a hunt. 

When he fucks you into the mattress with nothing but harrowing, inhuman roars spilling from deep within his heaving, blood-drenched chest. Guttural snarls. Harsh, demanding. Moulding your body to his liking. Grasping you in a crushing clutch, and drawing your aching hips back to swallow down the intense thickness of his cock as it buries deep—impossibly so—inside of you. 

You like him angry. Like him rough. It rents the moments when he's docile with you; bifurcating the peculiar sheen in his beady eyes when he lifts his mask off, placing it on the metal mantle with all the others, content to just stare at you. Looking, watching. Assessing. 

It's the unnatural stillness of his gaze that sets you on edge. The heavy, unerring way he takes you apart with nothing but deep amber drilling through your skin. 

Through because you've pieced enough together to know he can't see you the same way you can see him. That all the sharp angles of your features are hidden. The infinitesimal detailing lost to some wavelength your human eyes can't begin to take apart. 

He hides this weakness by touching you endlessly. Long, sharp talons dragging over the bridge of your nose. The dip in your chin, the angles of your jaw. The plumpness of your cheeks. 

He buries himself inside of you, and plays an exploratory game of committing your topography to memory with the soft, thick palms of his hands. Lets his long, rubbery tresses brush across your face as he sets a maddening pace that promises to one day snap your pelvis in half again, eyes glued to the centre of you where you burn the hottest. 

Between these moments is where you linger the longest. Oscillating between a pet or a mockery of a queen; supplicant to its owner, it's King. Head resting on a terribly massive thigh as he commandeers a ship that makes all the technological advancements of your home world seem rudimentary and crude. A child's rendition of a spaceship brought to life with broken crayons. Left there to bask in his prowess, his glory. Surrounded by artefacts and trophies of all his kills—but considerably lesser than the vastness of his quarters where he keeps his most prized possessions. 

Yourself included. Polished diamond perched on a satin pillow. 

One he keeps dressed up in armour, in plating; decorated in the traditional fabrics of his own kind—mesh netting that keeps you perfectly comfortable, acclimated to the unbearable swelter of their ship, the temperature almost too much for your fragile skin to handle; breastplates over your chest; a bronze loincloth with intricate webbing and a heavy belt to keep it in place. 

Adorned with pretty gems and metal bands around your neck, your arms. His mark on your skin. 

Belly bare, and offered no shoes. But this fact is not a pointed statement about your imprisonment or your status amongst them—it's just for the simple fact that he doesn't wear them, and so: neither should you. The axiom is so irrefutable, that the bare, gnomic revelation is almost obvious in hindsight. 

Obvious. In the same way a lightning strike is. Being torn to pieces for getting between a mother bear and her cubs. Falling off a cliff after dancing too close to the edge. Trying to swim in aerated water. 

Obvious. It's all so obvious, isn't it? 

You spend most of your days in this liminal labyrinth. Lost in your own mind as space flickers past the large window in front of you. Pinpricks of light in the distance of an endless, unfathomable black nothingness. Perched on the precipice of complacency and dread. Never knowing when he'll grow bored of this game, and turn you from a living emblem to a skull on his mantle like all the rest. 

If, of course, you're even worthy enough of a place there.

You just don't know. And that's the crux of it all. Not knowing. Kept on the brink. Shrouded in uncertainty. 

You'd think it intentional if you hadn't seen the way he preens under your stare sometimes. Flexing in his metal throne, showing off his array of scars; the trinkets he picked up on worlds unknown. The open, wanting way he regards you—this little human, barely a scrap of thing compared to him, to the sheer vastitude of his bulk. Hungry. Possessive. Always snapping his mandibles at the other Yautja who get too close, claws raking down flesh, spilling luminescent green blood across the floor. Injuring his own kind for attempting to touch you—

The King’s conquest. 

But his ire doesn't abate for you, either. You've learned the hard way what it means to try and flee from his grasp, and while it wasn't nearly as bloodied, as brutal, as it was for his kin, it was terrifying. 

You thought you were toeing the line before when you'd dig your human deep into his thickened hide as he kept you tucked to his side, on your knees for him; or when you tug so harshly at his tresses that green blood leaks from his skull and he howls in pain, but you realised then that you were wrong. That those little moments of mutiny were akin to foreplay to him. Small, inconsequential. Spilling his blood earned you marginal amounts of his respect, and he showed it by dumping you on his bed, and burying himself inside of you until you'd passed out into the furs. Overwhelmed. Punished. But it wasn't. You weren't being taught obedience by his hand, but rather getting a playful slap for your antics. 

He'd snatched you by your throat in an instant. His warm, soft palm enclosing over the fragile length of your neck with too much to spare for you to ever be comfortable. Long fingers overlapped across your nape, and he'd heaved you forward, slamming you into the hard plains of his body with a growl. Talons prickling into your skin, spilling blood down your back. He'd snarled so loud that the ship seemed to quiver, quaking under the sheer weight of his anger. 

Amber eyes drilled into you, widened with the fever of his fury, burying deep into your being. Your head wrenched side to side in a slow, agonising jolt as he assessed you. Taking stock of the silly pest that tried to run from him. That had the gall to slink off like an insect scurrying over his feet. Dishonourable.

This, though. 

Running from him—

Well.

In that moment, the air wrought with the metallic tang of his indomitable rage, you had thought: this was it. He was going to kill you. Flay your skin from muscle, and hang you in the rafters for the rest to gawk at. Easy prey. A fickle kill. 

And with everything you'd gleaned about this strange tribe and their odd customs, it would have been a mercy. 

But he didn't. 

Doesn't. 

His mandibles flare open, stretching out wide across his boxy jaw. The pinpricks of his teeth gleam in the hazy, saturated light of the ship; white, jagged peaks against fluttering, angry red. It shudders as he growls. The decibels pitched low, unfathomably so. You catch the spear of it rattling through his body, the rasping snark bellowing from the depths of his chest, and shaking the air around you. You can feel it reverberate from his flesh, the tight grip he has on you a conduit funnelling his anger straight into the middle of your throat. 

It reminds you of a territorial crocodile bellowing in the shallow water, making it vibrate and splash around him as the shattering frequency ripples outward. 

It's terrifying. Electric.

You feel it rattle through your bones. Feel the ripples trembling through your flesh. 

It's primal, this fear. Animal. 

But in the end, he doesn't kill you. 

You're simply tossed over his shoulder like a rowdy, misbehaving pest, and taken back to his room, much to the amusement of his gathering tribemates peeking out of their room to see their leader tend to his wilful, misbehaving pet. He strips you of your armour with a careless, almost cruel disregard before pushing you back on the bed. There's a rigid line to his shoulders you'd never seen before; a damning flex to his jaws that make you shake, quivering in fear. 

You know better than to speak, to beg. All it gets you in the end is a mocking series of clicks that you know enough to recognise as laughter. Instead, you take your punishment with your chin in the air, unwilling to submit the way he so clearly wants you to. 

Your supercilious scorn has his mandibles widening in anger once again, and he exercises his control by shoving you face-first into the bed, and burying his tusks into the meat of your shoulder, keeping you still under him. 

It's a clear warning. Move, it says, and his tusks will catch on your spine and rip it clean from your back. You still. Quiet. A prey animal lying prone, unmoving, at the feet of a chuffing predator as he mounts you from behind, rutting into you with a savagery that renders you into nothing more than a ruined heap under his bulk. 

For your attempted escape, you end up with more of his scars on your body, indents in the shape of his flared mandibles on your shoulders, and a fractured pelvis. It could be worse. You could've died. 

Should have, maybe. 

(is that a plea? an orison? 

and if so, why is it drenched in misery?)

And there is something vicious about the way he tends to your broken bones after, plunging the needle into your skin despite your howling, or the way you thrash. It's pure agony. The sensation how you imagine it must feel to be burned alive from the inside out. 

That, you think, is why he has no qualms about leaving you alone now. Wandering off, chasing trophies and honour on a planet just outside of the domed window above your bed. A vicious, red world tidally locked around a small dwarf. One half shrouded endlessly in black while the other burns, charred from the intensity of its star. In the middle, you know, is a small strip. A habitable zone, if only just. 

It's a place where a large, lumbering predator roams. One with towering antlers akin to the moose on earth, and jagged, spiked teeth protruding from its maw. The length is too much like a Sabre-toothed tiger for you to ever want to meet it face-to-face in the dark. 

Proper prey. A worthy trophy, they consider it. 

And, from the chittering you picked up, it seems that xenomorphs—kainde amedha—have found this place as well. 

The thought of them down there—spreading, growing, infecting—fills you with a potent sense of dread, one that gnaws on your insides with serrated teeth. Vicious and ugly, it lingers in crevasses where it pokes and prods at your fear, and your worries, until they split open, leaking putrid rot all over. 

It’s not that you’re worried about him. Not at all. 

(despite the nagging in your chest that whispers you’re a liar when you press your face into his side of the lavish bed of furs, greedily inhaling as much of his lingering musk as you can—)

He's gone off on hunts many times since you've been taken, and most of them end up on worlds already broken apart, infested, by those parasites. 

The notable difference is that brushes with them in the past never incurred much worry from you. If anything, you think you rather preferred it. Enjoyed the respite that came when he was gone, giving you a meagre ounce of freedom to think about all the (futile) ways you could escape. 

And mostly waiting. Waiting for someone at Weyland-Yutani to notice the glaring absence of one of their engineers. 

How laughable, really. Its echo is a false prophet whispering poison into your head, telling you that things will be over soon, that the higher-ups care less about profit margins than a whole fleet that went missing under garish circumstances on a planet you're soon beginning to think you never should have been sent to at all. 

Saves money on wages, you suppose. And the expense of sending a rescue fleet in to investigate costs more than your yearly salary. 

The bold, unignorable truth in that is a cruel, twisting knife to your agency. To the lingering remnants of your humanity, and worst of all, your hope. 

No one is coming. You've known this for a while now. The toxic hisses are part of the reason why you decided to try your luck on a massive, earth-like planet the first (and only) time you've tried to run. Because without that, without this fraudulent hope, what else are you left with if not him?

And now—

It's been an uncountable number of days. Weeks. 

Time in interstellar orbit is inconsequential. The beings themselves—yautja, you remember him hissing; garbled words mangled in his throat, and feel the burn in yours when you try to echo it in his tongue—have no reason to keep time, it seems. And even if they did, it's doubtful you would be able to interpret its abstract meaning. 

But even without traditional clocks or human measures and scales of time, you know that he's been gone much longer than before. Agitation seems to simmer in the air. The yautja—unblooded younglings; juveniles in their comparably archaic youth—that come to deliver your food seem—

Restless. 

Their maskless faces whisked in agitation. Shoulders set in a tense line. Eyes skewed toward the vast windows of the mothership, fraught with an eager sort of intensity. 

You know, first-hand, how brutal their hierarchy tends to be, and have seen Dark use a brute, savage dominance over the younger, disrespectful, ones who ignored his warning in the past. The amalgamation, then, of their excitement and their uncertainty screams one thing: 

he should have been back by now. 

And it—

It does something to you. 

Changes things, maybe. Skews your perspective. 

Because the reality is this: 

As much as you hate your circumstances, you're under no compunction that Dark isn't the sole reason you've been left, untouched, for so long. Why you're allowed to stay alive; to linger in his shadow, trailing after him like a lost dog. And you're barely certain that Dark won't turn around and kill you when the whim strikes him, much less his compatriots. His clanmates. 

It leaves two brutal truisms for you to contend with: that you need him; and that without him, you're dead. 

In that, you find there's almost too much to think about. 

So—

You lean back, staring up at the pale blue moons outside of your prison, and think of nothing because if you can't see the pendulum, if you don't stare down into the maw of the pit, then you can pretend neither are really there at all. 

You wake from a restless slumber to the door opening with a mechanised whirr, the rasp of heavy metals sliding against each other filling the air. A plume of thick fog billows up in response, shrouding the entrance in dense white. 

The cloud conceals their identity, but it doesn't matter much. No one has access to these chambers. No one but him. 

The long, sharpened talons on his toes clink against the floor as he approaches. Each footfall makes your heart jump, scattering in a strange, off-kilter rhythm. 

Through the fog, he appears. Battleworn, and filthy. Splotches of dulled green blood cover his body from head (where you note a few tresses have been ripped off, some at the crown where a pock gapes open, deep forest green, and others at the ends) to toe. The majority of it is covered in the low, angry light of the glowing metal, the colour of molten rock. It's shielded from your prying eyes as he moves forward, strides purposeful as he lugs his wares over the threshold. 

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, broad chest heaving with each breath he takes through the mask still on his face. You take stock of him as he stills, cataloguing each change to his appearance now—a new scar down the length of his chest, blistered and scabbed over from the healing salve they carry on their hunts. Part of it is hidden under a thick patch of burnt skin. The splatter whipping over his lower belly, and raising the toughened skin up half an inch. 

The infliction of both are immediately recognizable in their unmistakable pattern. 

The slash of a xenomorph’s claw ripping through skin, shredding through it like paper; and the jagged, rough burn of their blood as it rained down, unhinged, on bare flesh. 

He fought quite the battle, you note, and pretend the rapidness of your breath doesn't reek of relief. 

His hard-earned victory sits in his hands. 

The skull of a queen. 

The sickly white already polished and primed, ready for its place on his mantle. It should be there already. Should have been his first stop. Per tradition. 

But he breaks it by standing before you now, covered in grime and dried blood. Reeking of stale sweat. Of rot. And holding his wares in his hand for you to see. To take note of. He waits even though you know it costs him a great deal of effort to stand here, beaten, bruised, scarred, burnt as he is. Half of it is the same, undeniable stubbornness that they all seem to inherit; a weaponised sense of pride. The other—

Well.

The significance of this moment, of this break in a sacred routine, isn't lost on you, despite your best efforts to pretend otherwise. As much as you want to ignore it, it itches behind your ribs, pulsing like an infectious wound. 

It's only when he sways slightly in exhaustion, the movement almost indiscernible if you hadn't been watching him so intently, do you release him from this strange moment. Bowing your head down in quiet, muted submission; a reverent surrender to his indomitable prowess. 

This gentle, almost desultory yielding doesn't seem to click at first. He tilts his head down slightly, gazing at you through the black slits in his mask, seemingly uncomprehending as he takes in the sight of you—this errant little human who caused him nothing but trouble, offered nothing but mocking respect—bowing down to him after an indefinite time fighting to free yourself from under his thumb. 

Until—

It does. 

The massive, bleached skull of the queen is shoved in the air in a sudden chirr, pitched to the ceiling as he stomps his feet on the ground in an effort to widen his stance. Knees bent, he throws his head back, and lets out a ravenous, blood-curdling roar of victory. 

It bludgeons into you. The force of it winding when it hits, bruising along your skin in a throbbing ache. 

This doesn't so much as feel like toppling over the precipice, but already being caught in an unstoppable freefall. 

(one you're not sure will be an indefinite fall to the stagnation, stasis; or will send you crashing down to the jagged rock at the bottom of this vertiginous drop. 

the one thing you are certain of is this:

it's much too late to go back when you've already lept off the edge.)

—and so, the pit it is.

His thumbs pitch under the board curve of his mask, grazing the soft underside of his boxed chin. Carefully, he lays down a single finger at a time, resting it against the smooth surface before slowly lifting it off his face. 

When the humid air hits his flesh, his mandibles flare out. Flexing. An unconscious response, you now know, after being folded against his mouth to fit inside the helmet for so long. Joints aching. Muscles hinged with disuse. 

It's with this motion that you notice the absence of his left, lower mandible. The stump a mangled mess of cauterised flesh. It's ugly. Atrocious, even. The scars crisscrossing against moulted skin of pale amber and black are a harrowing emerald smear, an awful amalgamation of dried blood and gnarled tissue. 

The shock of it is dulled under the weight of his success, and it's then that you know you're too far gone to ever go back. Where there should be pity, and—shamefully—disgust, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of borrowed pride. Chiselled from the staunch set of his shoulders, the flex of his muscles, as he openly preens under your stare. Angling his chin downward, giving you a better glimpse of his battle scars. A hard-earned victory. 

A queen is no easy feat, after all. 

His eyes find yours in blood-red gloom. Burning amber, chiselled into the canyons of his unique, unmistakable topography, seems to drill, intensely, into you. They stray, travelling down the length of your nude body, barely covered by the pelts of his conquests. 

You spare a thought to the idea that seeing you this way, wearing nothing at all but his kills, is what makes his broad chest expand suddenly, shoulders pulling back as he preens. Puffing his plumage in a heady pride, a deep satisfaction that runs bone deep. 

Waiting for him, you think. Dressed only in the hide he skinned with his bare hands. 

He rumbles suddenly. Bellowing out a low, steady growl between his sharpened teeth. This noise is unlike anything you'd ever heard before—deep, unfathomably so; but hollow. It echoes, reverberating from his chest in a timorous pitch. 

You could almost mistake it for a leonine pur. 

He stalks towards you, and each step ignites a war within you. The urge to flee from this predator is fierce. Instinctual. It burns through you with a vicious force, but in that rippling intensity, kindling burns in the scorch marks left behind. 

Just as potent as the urge to run is, the want, the desire, to roll over and submit to this massive, powerful creature rages, blistering through you. 

But you force yourself to stay still. To wait as he moves, seamlessly, to you. Lighter now that he's stripped himself of the wrist gauntlets, the cannon mounted to his shoulder, his trophies, his kills—the dangling skulls from around his neck, and waist. The belt and loincloth were the first to go, freeing himself to display his immodesty, completely at ease in his own nudity. The thermal netting peeled off next, and dropped into a pile by his mantle. The chill—if a near-constant swelter could ever be considered such a thing—made his jaws flare out in the only sign of discomfort he would ever give, flexing under the slow acclimation to this balmy heat that clings to air. 

The heat, though—

Such a relentless thing. 

You feel the humidity burn through you as he walks, unashamedly bare, to you. An incredible length of skin unveiled for your prying eyes, glinting a devastating obsidian in the pale luminescence of the locked moons just outside the window. 

In this sparse light that trickles in, you let yourself grow bold, greedy, for the fill of him, and let your gaze trail down the pockets of quills dropping down his chest, his belly, until you meet the thick thatch on his groin. It's here where your breath catches. Hitching loudly in your throat as he comes to a standstill within your reach. 

As human as he sometimes appears—usually in the most inopportune times—you can't deny the obviousness in his extraterrestrial anatomy compared to yours, to human morphology. Birdbeak warm claws, tusk tips on mandibles, leathery skin connected through a series of irregular polygonal shapes in mossy black and blazing amber, baleen teeth sharpened to needlepoints—you would be remiss to think him human in anything other than silhouette. 

But arguably, the biggest shock (outside of his maw) is, of course, his cock. 

Softened, it's kept tucked away inside of a slightly bulging cloaca shaded in the same dark green hue as his outer arms, back, and legs. A dense cluster of quills sit in a thatch around it, protruding near his black, pebbled scute. It's firmer than you'd expected it to be, but softens near the opening where his cock emerges, intimidatingly long, thick. The fattened length of him, too, is foreign. 

The end tapers into a fleshy point. Along his shaft are barbs, small ridges that resemble the scute covering his body, if only softer. The reminder of them makes you tremble, skin heating. Feverish. It's indescribable, really. The way they drag along your sensitive flesh on the outstroke, the sensation dizzying. 

Covering his flesh is an oily, slick substance, and it's really only this natural lubricant that even allows taking the full length of him inside of you possible. The sheen of it glints in the light when he flexes his muscles, and steps closer to the bed, smearing slick against his thighs. Your mouth waters, flooding with the veracity of your insatiable want.  

(You hate him. Hate him. Want so him so badly that it feels like you're burning from the inside out—)

The push-pull of your submission, still at war with your innate sense of self, dims, quieting when he reaches the edge of the bed, cock in full view. The jut of it, now fully extended from his sheath, hangs, heavy and thick, between his legs, bobbing with his movements, twitching in his growing excitement. Prespend, slightly more watery in texture compared to a human man, gathers at the opening, dripping down to the floor beneath his feet. A long, pearlescent strand clings from his weeping slit, dropping to land on the flesh near his knee. 

The sight of it shouldn't be as sinful as it is—you’ve yet to find god amongst the stars and you doubt, very much, you ever will—but seeing the thick glob of his desire spill, leaking steadily from his twitching cock, fills you with a heady sense of want. Desire. 

He hasn't touched himself at all. Content, almost, to stare at you, head cocking to the side as his beady amber eyes drill into your lower belly, fixed on the spot where you burn the hottest. The heat signature you give off, blistering; red-hot, is probably the biggest appeal to a creature like him who sees in shades of yellows and reds. The mismatch of your complexion, the nude state of your body, is inconsequential to him when at your core, you're molten. And all for him. 

He knows this, too. Knows your body well enough to see the unmistakable burn of your desire. Your desperation. The slick growing between your parted thighs turns into a heavy, hot flood; pulsing full of electricity. The depth of your need grows increasingly uncomfortable the longer he waits, watching. You want him. Want this massive beast who stole you away, who held you down and made you take him, made you submit. 

And he wants you back. This Stygian king cut from ashlar, limned in shadows, wants you just as much—if not more. Went out of his way to burrow past your pitiful defences to bury himself as deeply as he could, rearranging your humanity into a likeness of his image; branding you with his mark, dressing you in clothes tailor-made to fit. Giving you the gift of his prowess—bones, skulls: trophies from the most fearsome predators in the galaxy left at your altar—in this mating dance, this outré ritual. 

His desire for you is overwhelming. Dangerous. Your hips twinge at the reminder of when he exercised his punishment, exiguous as it was compared to his sheer strength, smarting with the phantom burn of fractured bones as he gave in, infinitesimally, to this voracious yearning that smoulders, a constant ember, in the sunken depths of his eyes. 

Something surges through you at the thought of him holding back as much as he has, at the way he thickens just at the sight of your blood red need. It's a strange amalgamating of animalism (pure, unquantifiable primalism, bestial in its savagery; feral), and a heightened degree of pride—the sort that leaves you feeling godlike, peerless: transcendent, in the very essence of the word. 

He wants you. You. 

And in that, the vestiges of your control cessate. 

Submission, you find, feels too much like finding sanctuary amidst a raging wildfire.

In response, he trills. The thundering bellow vibrates through the air. An unmistakable pur of a beast successfully conquering its mate. 

He moves—soundless and surprisingly agile for such a mountainous creature; prodigious down to his every atom—and makes a slow, aching crawl to meet you on the bed. His knees, the size of your skull, press down first, making the basin of fur dip under the enormity of his heft. Encompassed in his shadow even with him kneeling before you, it makes the absurdity in your sizes more pronounced. Thighs thicker than the trunks of fir trees. Arms the width of your legs. His chest is the span of your own, just duplicated thrice. 

Dark is a beastly thing up close. 

There's a thrum in your throat; a heady pulse, throbbing with adrenaline cut by dormant fear. As if sensing death so close by, an atavistic caterwaul begins in your hindbrain, screaming at you to run, roll over, submit, play dead—the flickering of these prey responses an instinctual deluge that you quell, half-heartedly, with the knowledge that there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. 

He'll find you. Even if he has to hear the star system apart to do it. 

As if omnipotent to these weeping tendrils of animal fear, his broad chest trembles as he lets out a shallow pur. A softened bellow. The growl of a prowling cat on the Savannah. 

You shiver, fisting the fur in your slick palms until it bulges up between whitening knuckles. 

“Please,” is all you say, and you don't even know if this particular word registers to him at all. He never responded in the past to it (or stop, don't, no) outside of the rare occasion when he kept his helmet on, and mocked you with the garbled mimicry as he buried himself as deep inside of you as he could go. 

This time, though, his mandibles twitch. His maw gapes open, displaying an egregious set of terrifying teeth, and the flutter of his throat grows, undulating in jerking pulses of flesh, sliding over each other until—

Puh–le’e–suh—

It's butchered beyond recognition. Maimed in the flex of his corded, baleen throat. But the intention is there, and the implication more so. 

He spoke. 

And it's a broken, devastating mockery of your mother tongue, but the force of it all is a blow, a bludgeon unlike anything you'd ever felt. 

A whirlwind of emotions rage through you, all congealing into a muddled, indiscernible mess. It slips through your fingers, featherlight, but he doesn’t give you a moment to gather them together between your fists. 

His tresses fall over his broad shoulders as he prowls forward, tiring of this epoch already. The long, tubular strands frame you in a serried curtain of black as he looms—gargantuan, mythical—above you, head dipped down. The massive crown lists to the side when you lean back, instinctively, spine meeting the furs in tandem with his slow advance. 

The absence of his lower mandible when he flexes the others is novice in the liminal light that spills through the bulk of his body. You're not used to seeing him hurt like this. Ragged scars. Scorch marks tearing across his flesh. 

Reflexively, you reach up. The tips of your fingers are feather-soft against the dry tresses just behind the missing cluster. The ends of them are cauterised—a thick, metallic clump glued to the bottoms to keep him from bleeding. Another anatomical anomaly. 

Filled with veins and nerve endings, his tresses are far more sensitive to touch than the coarse hair of primates—the integument is different, too; rubbery to the touch, reminding you of polymer pipes or rubber bands, almost. 

At your gentle touch, he makes a noise, a shallow churr in the back of his throat; mandibles soon folding over his mouth after. Reactive, you find, and endlessly endearing for such a monstrous creature. Cute. 

A smile blooms at the notion of his sudden shyness. Such an outlandish thing for someone whose entire existence is narrowed down to honour and death. The pinch of his tusks elapsing over his maw fills you with a misplaced affection, a foreign growth metastasizing between your ribs. 

You're not sure what it is—survival instinct, maybe. The urge, the drive, to keep living despite yourself; a blot against the harsh reality of your predicament. It feels like the most likely one considering the other is genuine adoration. Unthinkable even now in spite of your willing submission. 

But thinking about this is a jagged dagger cutting through your insides. You shove it aside, hide it away. 

The soft touch—a mere whisper of your fingertips gliding along the surface of his tresses—takes on a more intentional drag, purposeful. You curl your index finger around a corded forelock, giving a small, impish tug just to make him jutter above you. 

His jaws flex, mandibles spreading slowly apart with a quiet, humid hiss. The heat brimming up once more as he curves his long mane over you, chin dipping down to encompass the entirety of your body under his. 

You can't help wondering if this is what it feels like to be devoured. 

And when he reaches the apex, eclipsing everything in your sight with the full, dark heft of him, hands fixed against the soft furs above your head, you think of a sanctum instead of a cage. 

(a swinging pendulum—)

The heat is unbearable with him over you like this. Made worse, somehow, when his hand lifts, falls to your waist. The width of it covers you entirely. Swallowed whole by palm. You tremble, and he eats your anticipation with a distinctive, preening click, turning you on your belly with an ease that knocks the air from your lungs. Barely a featherweight to him. The notion is scorching. 

The name he's given you is full rasping, mangled syllables your fleshy tongue could never begin to wrap around. In the absence of knowing how to speak it, you've begun to call him by your own human version of his namesake. It's this, the shortened, paltry whisper that rolls off your tongue when he presses the tapered tip of his cock against you. 

“Please, Dark—”

At the soft utterance of it, he snaps his hips harshly in retaliation, burrowing his cock inside of you in a quick, jarring thrust. 

It rents you in two, splits you down the middle. Your breaking point is surpassed in an instant; mettle fracturing, shattering on impact. It takes every ounce of willpower to cling to cognisance when he snarls through the last few inches of impaling you entirely. 

In the static tatters of your consciousness, the realisation—a startling polyphony of fear, trepidation, and awe—that this is him holding back lingers on the periphery. That, in itself, is the rekindling of your appetite; hunger gnaws on shallow need, unsatiated by the threadbare scraps it's been given to chew on. 

You say his name again. The whisper of it raw, wounded; scraping against your lacerated vocal cords, torn by the vicious howl, the shriek, that ripped through your chest when he seated himself deep inside of you. 

He responds by snapping his hips into yours, the barbed ridges on his cock licking across your nerve endings in the almost perfect zenith of pleasure and pain. It's nirvana, you think. With hell nipping sharply at its heels. 

The stretch—unlike anything you've ever felt before; incomparable outside of too much—burns furiously. The only thing keeping it from being impossible is the thick oil coating the length of him. The makeup of it must have analgesic properties, or some paralytic agent mixed in, because with each stroke, it soothes your raw flesh, erasing the pain of him inside of you, and leaving nothing but pure, unfettered sensation behind. It's just the thick, unrelenting press of him. The heaviness. The girth. 

It's good. Too good. Overwhelmingly so. 

A series of low clicks spilling out from his broad chest, the chirr of a rattlesnake. He must see it, the way your body floods with endorphins, with heat. The room, kept at an uncomfortable swelter, glues to your skin. Balmy, and achingly hot. The blister of it burrows deep, massing together into a molten core at the very apex of where he's buried inside of you. 

Drawn there, moth to a flame, your hand slides between the damp fur, now drenched in your sweat, and comes to rest on the prominent bulge shifting through your abdomen. His cock. 

Behind you, Dark lets out a susurrus hiss, and pauses the ruinous cants of his hips just long enough to let you feel for yourself how perfectly he changes your shape to fit himself inside. It's unmistakable, of course; but everything outside of raw feeling is liquified. Rendered numb. You know, somewhere, distantly, that this—feeling him through your muscle, your skin so distinctly that you can touch each ridge on his cock—is something that ought to break you, shatter you into pieces. The anatomical anomaly of having him stretch you like this, to this extent, is unfathomable. 

And yet—

He drags his cock out, and you whimper, mindless, stupid, at the sudden loss of him. 

You don't feel complete unless he's buried within you. 

And despite yourself, the somnolence lapping at you, a part of you wonders if this is a symptom of that paralytic agent—musk, pheromones, miasma, poison—blotting out all logic, and inducing a soporific desperation, a vacuous need for him and him alone. One that makes wholeness out of the heavy press of his cock. 

If it is, it doesn't matter much anymore. 

You're too far gone, lost to the throes of it, to care about anything else. 

A good thing, perhaps, because with Dark, it's always a selfish coupling. He pays no real heed to your pleasure, fully under the belief that his cock splitting you apart is enough. 

And damn you—damn your treacherous body—it is. 

Each brutal cant of his powerful hips slamming into you sends waves of pleasure roaring down your spine. To be pried apart, stuffed full of the overwhelming surplus of his girth notches against something inside of you that makes your bones liquid, your marrow running molten. Burning you up from the inside out. 

You clench around him desperately, fingers knotting into the furs below, squeezing it tight in a vice. Trying, futilely, to cling to some sense of cognisance despite the vicious way he takes you apart. Atom by atom. Synapses bloating, crackling under the strain. 

He fucks you like beast. All vicious snarls, guttural rasps; blood is drawn when his claws catch your skin, tearing it open like tissue paper. The sting is buried under the layers of sensation tunnelling through your body. 

Pleasure, pain: equilibrium met on the cusp. Aided, in large part, by the frenzied way he ruts you; fractured, careless. Bullying himself into you until the tapered tip of his cock bruises your cervix—more battering ram than flesh; eager to wrench you open, spill himself inside of your womb. 

You can't imagine what this must be like when he isn't holding back. Horrific, maybe. Blood, bruises. Torn skin. No wonder their hide is so thick. 

But even this—tamed, as it might be—feels like a battle. A war. He spears you open, chirring the whole time as he curls over you, protective and awful, the motion forcing the last few inches of him into you. Bruised, aching, you whimper at the feeling of his sheath, white-hot and soaked with your slick, cupping your drenched cunt. He holds himself there, as deep as he can possibly go—tip a bludgeon against your cervix, stretched wide around the thick of him—and lets out another long, low pur that rumbles through you. Teeth chatter from the vibrations, delirious and bordering on the equinox of absolute damnation, your pussy clenches around his cock, each ridge and divot more pronounced than before. 

Overwrought with bliss, with a nauseating pain, you keen in response to his deep bellow, feeling more animal than ever before. 

Driven purely by instinct, you push back into him, thighs slapping against his own. The power in his muscles, the contrast between your supple, soft body and his, iron wrapped in thick, crocodilian skin, is flint striking steel. 

A mere tinderbox, your body erupts in a devastating heat. 

The burst of molten red makes him reel back, barbs catching on your sensitive skin. It's too much, too much—

He thrusts back into your spasming cunt with a shuddering roar, the sound alone—the lewd, drenched squelch of him splitting you apart—tugs the knot inside of you past its breaking point. As his claws rip through the pretty fawn fur, shredding them to pieces as he grips tight in an effort to piston his cock as fast as he can into your aching pussy, you find yourself tipping over the precipice in a stumbling fall. The force of it, the suddenness, is agonising, edging immediately into overstimulation when the deep, heavy jut of his cock head burrowing into your fluttering walls doesn't cease. It's—

White noise. Static. Your head is galvanised into slush, slurried into liquid pleasure that thrashes and writhes in your core, nerve endings set aflame in a wet, hot inferno under his bulk. 

You puddle under him, burning with the aftershocks. Body melting, useless and spent, into the sheets as he drives into you with the single-minded purpose of reaching his own cataclysmic end. Numbed now, all you feel is an intense, dizzying pressure pulsing molten inside of you. 

Dark braces himself over you, content to just rut deep into you, barely pulling the full, heavy length of himself out of your aching sex. With anyone else, it might be considered sloppy—a messy, desperate coupling, but even this much with him is devastating. Ruinous. 

It's a maelstrom. A bleak, calamitous fall to the bottom of a blackened pit. 

And with a savage, brutal plunge, he buries himself inside of you again, prising the soft plug of your womb open with a brutish roar—deep, broken; bellowed at the heavens—and you feel the steady pulse of him inside of you, filling you. It's too much—his fat, heavy girth, and the copious amounts of his spent stretch you past your limit, teeth raking across your mettle, and the bulge in your lower abdomen grows taut as he floods you with his release. 

The end of the pit looms, and from the chasm, a jagged maw gapes open, gnashing its teeth at you in rapacious anticipation as you careen toward its empty gullet. Falling, falling, falling—

And in the midst of it all, you think this might be what dying feels like.

Your cognisance is drawn together in pieces, inchmeal. 

A slow, gradual crawl out of slumber, the tugging threads of hypnagogia clinging to your rheum-heavy eyes. 

Furs stick to your damp body, some pulling loose when you shift away from the uncomfortable, sweat-soaked puddle of heat beneath you. 

Nausea roils through your belly, pulsing with dreadful synchronicity to the throbbing ache in your pelvis. In an effort to quell the feeling of your insides folding over themselves in a damning knot, you gingerly press the tips of your fingers to the spot that aches the most, feeling the raised indent of a contusion under your pads. 

It makes you blink up at the domed ceiling, head lifting to catch a glimpse of soft flesh near your hip. 

Through the midnight spill of your skin, you can see the tumid ridge bubbling up slightly higher than the rest of your flesh. In the middle is a small dot. An injection sight. 

You realise, with a huff, that he must have broken your pelvis again. Unintentionally, this time. Caught up in your feverish coupling. 

It makes sense. Your bones feel shattered beyond repair, but you know that they're knitted back together, suffused with the medicinal magic their healing injections have. 

The thought should scare you. Be it the ease in which he can break your bones, snapping them into pieces; or whatever it is he's pumping into your body to heal it, but it slips, diaphanous and ephemeral, from your tangled thoughts. Untouchable now, slowly fading into the background. 

The marbled quiet of your mind is broken when you feel him move beside you. His massive paw falls on your crown, covering the entirety of your head with an ease that you can't imagine ever not leaving you a little breathless at the scale, the vastness in your differing sizes. It rests there for a moment, leaching the warmth from your cap like a satiated, languorous reptile. A sluggish snake still digesting its oversized meat. 

A series of clicks spill when you lull your head over to meet the burning yellow of his gaze, everything awash under the heavy scent of sex and loam. Stale sweat, iron. You breathe it in, blinking in the soft blue light of the pale moons spilling in from the window of the ship. 

He lounges like a satiated cat. His legs spread akimbo; his other hand resting on his chest. The narrowing of his eyes, too, reminds you of a well-fed feline, squinting into a dewy oblivion. 

With a deftness you can't keep up with, his hands shift, reaching out to take hold of you when the sleep drips from your eyes. It takes no real effort at all for him to drag you to rest between his spread thighs, head pillowed on the tuffs of quills covering his lower belly. 

There's a twinge in your hips, but it's numbed by the palliative magic of the injection, pulsing like the soft beat of a headache through your bones. It'll hurt something awful later on when it begins to wear off, leaving you feeling more like a massive contusion than a person. But that's later. Much later. And as he rests his palm, warmed by your heat, against your nape, you find you don't mind the tenderness much at all, content to bask in the evidence of your coupling simmering, electric, between you, distinct in the air. An ozoneous tang. Heady. A sour, earthy miasma. 

You breathe it in. Breathe him in. 

And in the slow, soporific spool of your weaving thoughts, you can't help but wonder what he thinks of this, of you, as he reclines in the fur. Nothing at all, perhaps. 

Or maybe something. Something you can't even begin to unravel. An archaic, primordial sort of want—animalistic, alien. The kind that would make him scar his own kind for gnashing their claws at you in anger, indignant over your mere presence in their leader's nest. Who would take a creature not of the same species, and parade them around as they bared his mark for all to see. A mate. A conquest. A queen. A pet. The fickleness of it is not lost on you, but there's something about the knowledge that this is as taboo, as unprecedented for him, for his kind, as it is for you. 

And yet. 

He still picked you. Of all the humans in the galaxy, crawling around like lost, queenless ants, he decided to shun the staples of his culture and take you with him. 

That alone, you think, is enough. 

And so—

You relax. Melting into the wrought iron strength of his frame, liquifying under the raze of his nails grazing your skin, pulling you deeper into this sense of complacency. Where else do you belong, after all? 

You turn your head, nuzzling your nose into his quills. Into his skin. The potency of his smell is stronger here, so close to his groin, and you groan a little at the twinge in your cunt at the heady, briny weight of it settling on the back of your tongue when you breathe in deep. 

He chuffs a bit, quietly pleased by your obvious scenting. The way you bury your nose into the crease where his inner thighs bend, drawing in the pungence of his unwashed flesh. It drags your attention away from his heavy musk, head lifting to catch his blistering, intent gaze. It darkens slightly at the sheen smearing across your chin and nose, covered in the natural oils of his pelt. 

It's unlike yourself, but you find the depth of his intrigue deeply arousing, and slowly lick your stained lips, chasing the taste of him with your tongue. 

A rumble reverberates from his broad chest, shaking the bed with his quiet growl. It's the only warning you get, the only one he'll give, before the other hand folds over your lower back, pushing your belly into his sheath where he swells, hot and thick, between you. 

His eyes glow in the absence of light. Pale amber flickers when you arch into his chest, needy for him, and it unveils a catacomb desire much too primordial for you to ever dream of mapping. The deep pool of it unspools you, and you fall, weightless, to the bottom. 

Ensnared. 

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Running From The Flames {Epilogue 1/2}

Pairing: Pierre Gasly x OFC Warnings: parenting - that should be a warning lmao, sexual themes

F1 Masterlist || Previous Chapter - Epilogue 2/2

There was only one word to describe my life and that word was: chaotic. That being said, I still wouldn’t change it for the world.

The family calendar on the fridge was completely full and colour coded so we could all see where we were needed on any given day. Even so, I still lost track of my husband or our kids at least once a week. 

“Sydney, honey, have you seen your father?” I asked the spitting image of Pierre who was in the race simulator. He was always in the machine, practising for his upcoming debut into Formula 4 now that he had turned 15 and could move up from karting. 

“Picking up Addie from the airport.” He barely looked away from the triplet of screens in front of him as he answered with all the attitude of a teenage boy being interrupted in life. “It’s on the fridge.”

I looked at the calendar and realised I was looking at the completely wrong day. “Shit.”

“Ha,” he laughed loudly as he navigated the virtual track of the Red Bull Ring. “You forgot.”

“I didn’t forget,” I said as I scanned over the correct day and saw I had a board meeting to prepare for tomorrow. “I just thought it was Tuesday today.”

“Whatever you say, maman. You can tell me I’m your favourite, I won’t say anything.”

“I don’t have a favourite, I love you all equally. Now, can you finish that game and go do your homework? You still need to pack your bag for the weekend too.”

Addie was coming home from London for the week, taking a little break from her own busy schedule, to watch Sydney’s first race with us in Austria. 

It had been difficult to let her leave home at 18 but she had worked hard to get a place in the Arsenal Women’s Under 21 team. I had left home at the same age and Pierre had left even earlier, so we were hardly the exemplary figures to deny her. All we could do was make sure she stayed safe and she knew she could call either of us 24/7 if she needed help. It was also never that long between visits, making plenty of stopovers in England as we travelled. 

The travelling for work was tiresome but so far we had yet to miss a football match on Saturday or a karting race on Sunday. It did help being our own bosses so Pierre and I could manage our schedule around the kids. He had been running Strauss Fashion for the better part of the last ten years, after Granny finally retired properly, while I had been the Chief Technical Officer at Alpine, which Grandpa had purchased. 

When Harry passed away three years ago I found myself suddenly thrust into the ownership of the team and though there were plenty of offers to sell it, I decided to take the leap of faith and see where the journey would take me. I hadn’t looked back and so far we had two Constructors' Championship wins with our seasoned pilots, Gabriele Minì and Oliver Bearman.

We had come so far, it was hard to believe until I saw the wisps of grey hairs among the dark strands. 

“Maman!” I was pulled from my reminiscence and looked at my watch to realise how quickly the afternoon had gotten away from me as Clare bounded through the front door and leapt into my arms. “Maman, look!”

Clare had been a wonderful surprise that completed our family two years ago. After Sydney’s unexpected and frightening early arrival Pierre had been reluctant to try for another child, though he had always wanted three. I thought maybe he would change his mind after the terrifying memory faded with time but then a few years passed, we both got caught up in work, and after that it seemed too hard to imagine returning to sleepless nights with a newborn. 

But, the universe had other plans for us. What I thought was a long-enduring hangover, after celebrating the rebranding of Alpine into Gasly Racing, actually turned out to be morning sickness. Those final weeks before her birth were stressful enough to send Pierre to his doctor for a vasectomy but thankfully her arrival went exactly to plan and he could breathe calmly once again. 

“Hello my Clare-bear, wow, you have another bracelet.” You quirked an eyebrow at Charles as he arrived with Clare’s backpack on his shoulder and her spare carseat under his arm. “Uncle Charles has absolutely spoiled you.”

“Of course. A princess deserves it,” he stated proudly as he placed her belongings down and nodded his head to the simulator. “Is he all ready for the big day?”

“He is, I’m not sure I am,” I admitted as I put Clare down and she immediately went to interrupt Sydney by climbing onto his lap mid-race. If it was anyone else they would have received an earful but he just paused the game and listened as she told him all about her day at Uncle Charles’ house. “God help me when he gets to Formula One, I think I’ll have to revert the car back to a slower predecessor for my own sanity.”

Charles laughed but I wasn’t completely joking. The cars were so much faster than they were when he and PIerre raced. Though the safety features improved along with the technology that made them rockets on wheels it was still difficult to imagine putting my little boy inside one and sending it off. 

“You could keep him as a reserve driver,” Charles offered before shaking his head at the thought and taking a seat at the kitchen island. “But he’s stubborn like his father, he’d just find another team to race for.”

“No way, I can at least trust my own team to keep him safe. Same goes for Marc.”

Charles chuckled at the mention of his son who at 8 years old he was already a junior karting champion. “He said someone called him Il Predestinato after his race last weekend.”

“Yikes, I’m sure they meant it in a good way.”

The front door opened again and Addie blew in with all the gusto of a tornado, whipping around the rooms to greet everyone before she was up the stairs to her old room. Entering a little more sedately was my husband, his arms laden with more suitcases than anyone needed for a week away, especially when she still had a wardrobe full of clothes upstairs. 

“You are lucky you only have sons,” Pierre said to Charles as he kicked the door closed behind him. “I don’t work out enough anymore to be carrying this shit.” 

He dropped the suitcases in front of the elevator and hit the call button rather than carrying them up the stairs before pushing them inside as the door opened. After a few bad winters, where not even the central heating could keep the aches of my bones at bay, Pierre had made the call for the elevator to be installed and it had been a godsend in moments like this when heavy items needed to make it to the floors above.

Sticking his head up the staircase he called out, “Addie, your entire life and everything but the kitchen sink is heading your way.”

“Thanks, dad!”

“What was that about?” I asked after he joined us in the kitchen while the coffee machine churned out our usual drinks. “I thought she outgrew the ‘I’m too cool to hangout with my parents’ phase.”

Pierre's lips pressed together and he took a seat next to Charles, picking up Clare who had left Sydney to return to his practice. “Elias.”

“Vettel?” Charles asked, his eyebrows lifting when Pierre nodded and pushed his mug away so Clare couldn’t reach the hot liquid.

“They have been out on a few dates, apparently. I’ll have to ask Davis about it, assuming he went with them, it’s not like it’s his job or anything. Did you know that?”

I shook my head at the news, cradling my mug in my hands as I leaned against the bench and wondered if she had ditched her bodyguard once again. “He’s a sweet boy from what I remember, much like his father.”

“I don’t like it. I don’t care who his dad is,” Pierre grumbled before repeating, “You are so lucky you only have sons, mate. Teenage girls are stressful.”

“Ah, but I have two boys who think it is funny to have a competition to see who can fart the loudest,” Charles said as he took a sip of his drink.

“I mean, that’s kind of funny,” Pierre said with a smirk.

Charles sighed deeply and rubbed his forehead. “Not when one always pushes too hard to win.”

The sip I was taking went the wrong way and I spluttered as Pierre laughed, “It’s all shits and giggles, until someone giggles and shits.”

“To think my poor mother went through this too. Drives me insane, mate. Bet you’ve never had to worry about that?”

“Thankfully, no,” I answered after recovering from choking on coffee. “But it also wasn’t bad enough to stop you from having another.”

“And on that note, I should get going. Mia won’t let me back in the house if I don’t pick up her favourite carbonara on the way home.” He smiled as he thought of his wife’s pregnancy cravings. It was the same one she had when she was carrying Marc and Antonio so it came as no surprise at the gender reveal when the backyard was splattered with blue confetti. “Thank you for letting me borrow Clare.”

“Any time,” Pierre chuckled as he clapped his friend on the back. Charles had been busy reinstalling all the baby gates and safety locks in his home, despite the baby boy not even being born yet, and wanted a toddler to help test his craftsmanship. “I won’t complain about a little free babysitting.”

Charles placed his empty mug in the sink and before kissing the top of Clare’s thick wavy hair. “Bye petite chérie, I’ll see you on Sunday.”

“Bye Uncle Charles,” she said with a wave, but it sounded more like Unk Cha and made him laugh as he approached the simulator.

I saw Sydney pause the race and Charles crouched down beside him, sharing a few quiet words of encouragement for the upcoming debut race. I couldn’t help feeling incredibly lucky to be surrounded by so many supportive people and my smile grew as a pair of arms wrapped around my waist. 

I turned to meet his lips over my shoulder and the magnetism that attracted us was still evident even after 17 years. Of course, like any relationship, there had been times when stress led to arguments and I would find him hours later in a spare bed, wide awake because he couldn’t sleep without me beside him. Those fights never lasted long enough to even remember what they were about and forgiveness came easy.

I turned in my husband’s arms and draped mine around his neck to admire him. Pierre was truly like a fine wine. Age had made him even more handsome and the small wrinkles at the corners of his lips and eyes were a testament to a life that was full of smiles and laughter. 

“Addie said she’ll watch the kids tonight,” Pierre whispered in my ear as he gently swayed to the melodic tune of his voice and I hummed with contentment. “And I got us a table at L'Ambroisie. You’ve been working so hard I thought we could do with a night away, just the two of us.”

“You think I don’t know your game, baby,” I whispered back, all too aware Charles was still chatting with Sydney and imparting some real world advice. “Wine and dine, pretty words, a hotel room. There’s only one thing you want.”

His lips curled into a smile against my cheek. “You know me too well.”

“You would actually get a full night’s sleep if you put your foot down.”

Pierre looked over at Clare who had helped herself to a banana from the fruit bowl and as if sensing she had been caught she looked up with an innocent smile. “How can I tell her no when she looks like that?”

“Mhmm, and that’s why she keeps climbing into our bed. You are a big softy.”

His smirk was flirty and fun as his arms tightened around me, pulling our bodies flush together. His breath was hot on my neck as he hid his face in the curtain of my hair. “Not tonight, ma femme. Tonight you will see just how hard I can be.”

Pierre backed up with a smirk but not before he sucked at the sensitive skin above my racing pulse. He knew exactly what he was doing and the smugness showed as he whistled a little tune on his way to help Clare peel the banana.

Shaking my head, I made my way to the stairs and said goodbye to Charles with the message to remind Mia that our plans for a spa day had been booked - but that didn’t mean he could slack off from the ankle massages he was giving her each night. He gave an amused salut but I didn’t see it as I pressed the button for the elevator. He was well used to the reminders by now, it wasn’t his first rodeo.

Knowing my evening plans had changed I went to my office and shut the door to silence the music drifting down the hall from Addie’s room. As CEO of Gasly Racing there was an endless stream of paperwork to be checked and signed, especially with the new expansion plan for the factory about to break ground. On top of that were the invites to attend fundraisers or speeches to prepare for the various charities I was ambassador for such as Women's Refuge.

When I finally emerged with my inbox up to date I could hear the laughter of all my children from where they lounged in front of the tv and the sound never ceased to make me smile. I had missed the sound since Addie moved out because it was rare to have all five of us here at the same time and I was reluctant to leave even for just one night when it came time to pack an overnight bag.

“We are allowed one night away, mon amour,” Pierre said as he stepped into the master bedroom to see me hesitating to step inside the wardrobe. “You and me, no interruptions.”

I relaxed into his embrace and sighed as he brushed my hair over one shoulder before kissing my collar. “And what were you planning that was so important it couldn’t be interrupted?”

His chuckle sent a shiver of delight down my spine and his fingers trailed down my ribs to the hem of my shirt before they slipped underneath the material to caress the soft skin over my stomach. I had to take a shaky breath when his thumbs caught the waistband of my skirt and I held it as I waited for them to hook underneath.

His lips brushed the shell of my ear and my lips parted in anticipation of his dirty words. “To sleep.”

“Huh?” I blinked twice, peeking over my shoulder to see his green eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“To sleep. Why, what were you thinking?” He tried to look innocent but when he drew his bottom lip between his teeth and his hand slipped down beneath my skirt he let the truth show. “Did you want me to tell you how I am dying for a taste of you? How I can’t wait to have these sexy legs wrapped around me when I make love to you tonight? I don’t need to tell you, baby, I’ll show you.”

I knew he could feel how damp my panties were for him from the smirk on his face and I almost whimpered when he withdrew his hand from where I needed it. “Now pack your bag, and make it quick, I’m absolutely ravenous.”

I bit my lip at the depth of his tone and knew exactly what it was he was dying to taste. I didn’t even look at what I was packing, tossing the first items that touched my hands before he stopped me and grabbed one dress instead. 

“This one,” he said as he held a colourful sundress that I rarely wore anymore, a soft smile warming his eyes. “It’s my favourite.”

Click here for the final chapter. 🥺

Tagging: @my-only-way-tocooperatewithlife @prrttysposts @alwaysclassyeagle @dr3lover @adalynneva

[mikelogan]

torturedpoets*tumblr*com/post/738611754795466752 hi! do you mind sharing what steps you use to color gifs like this? Some could assume that gifs with just one colour will be boring, but your colourings is always so nice 🥰

hi there!! i'd be happy to! i've never regretted saving a psd yet 😂 this is the post in question and honestly, for as... not great as the quality of my dl of the movie is, i'm still really happy with how it turned out! also i love women 😍

nothing too wild going on here, but even when i do "simple" coloring like this (gradient maps, my beloved), i still color the base gifs. once i have all the gifs made and plopped onto the canvas, this is what my coloring layers look like:

working from the bottom up, i almost always start with a brightness/contrast layer. i don't adjust either value, but instead set the layer's blending mode to screen. this movie is pretty dark, so i left the opacity at 100%, but sometimes, i'll drop the opacity as low as 20-30%.

i follow that up with a curves layer, where i utilize the black and white eyedroppers. click the black eyedropper and then click the blackest point on your gif. then do the same with the white eyedropper. it's a good idea to play around with different points, especially when you're working with super tinted scenes. curves layers can be a lifesaver!

on the levels layer, i did the same exact thing with the eyedroppers, but oftentimes, i end up increasing the black value, like you see here:

next, my FAVORITE adjustment layer: selective color! i like to color code my selective color layers, especially when i'm working on a super colorful set like my recent lisa frankenstein set. i always start with adjusting the blacks and usually the neutrals. you can right click on the eye/visibility icon to select a color. i use grey for these colors. here were my adjustments:

i'll occasionally adjust the white values when working with a really tinted scene, but these were fine, and it wouldn't make much difference anyway since we're putting a gradient map over top.

the next curves layer is just a slight adjustment for the top row of gifs to make the eventual gradient map layer more vibrant. i added this after the fact, but wanted it positioned here.

the subsequent brightness/contrast layer is the same thing. the top row just needed some more work. same as the original b/c layer, i didn't adjust the values and set the layer to screen. on this one, i dropped the opacity to 45%.

finally, the pièce de résistance, the gradient map layer! i just slapped on a gradient map adjustment layer. the color on the left should always be your darker color, and in this case, i want it true black. the color goes on the right, and bc this was a lesbian flag set, i just googled the specific hex codes for the lesbian pride flag and used those colors for each row! here's what that looks like for the orange portion of the set:

to change the colors, you just click on the lil square guys on the bottom of the gradient and you can choose a color from the color picker or just copy and paste a hex code.

and there you have it! i lovelovelove using gradient maps for big, vibrant pops of color, but also for gifs of scenes that are just. so hard to color lmao. call it a cop-out, but it makes my life a lot easier 😂

let me know if you have any more questions on this set or any others!!

[lord-of-the-wasteland]

// making a pinned rq.

basic DNI: proshippers, pedos, racists, LGBTQA+ phobes etc. - oc, canon character interactions are all okay - doesn't have to be FN but FN is preferred since I might not know every other media - please keep interactions sfw I want to create a safespace for everyone to enjoy - no gore or death threats, bruises or small mentions of blood etc are okay but keep it mild - no drug addict/drug abuse jokes, I've heard them all and I don't find them funny so I won't react to them sry

appearance: he has a damaged left ear with two visible cuts and chunks from his ear missing. [visible even when masked] furthermore Donnie has a lot of scars hidden underneath his mask, noticably two bigger ones across his left eye, one across his right eye, two scars each one on the left and right side of his chin, one scar running across his mouth and one more on the left side of his cheekbone. his eyes have a dark sclera and are duo coloured, being red for his iris [outer circle] and yellow for his pupils [inner circle] his face is most of the times covered in black war paint around the eye area. [think of Mad Max Furiosa or the warboys] warpaint is often running across his mask, like straight down from his eyes. ear rings can be applied to his right ear. very optional however. can transform into a badass nitro-fueled monster form. this monster this bears something that resembles his mask and armor, wereshark and other monster elements are mixed into it but mostly shark. the monster form is taller and more massive than his human form, also angrier lol.

armor: either base style or oasis colours, I will probably sometimes draw superstyles or own colours as well just so you know. his mask has very jagged teeth, this is just the way I prefer to draw them anyway. shoulder pauldrons with large spikes on both sides. a tad bit bigger than the in-game model. he has clawed gloves with metal clawtips at the end of each finger. armor plated shoes with spikes on them as well bandages or barbed wire can be wrapped around any armor part. wasteland warrior symbol can be applied to any part of his armor, not just the chest.

personality: my Donnie is a bit on the more serious side and it's very hard / yet not impossible / to break his bad guy personality. he CAN be soft or sometimes even silly-coded, however it takes a lot to get through to him. please try and find out lmao. he's actually decently kind to his henchman / wastelander crew, he would not insult them unless they screw up big time. easy to provoke so please have fun with that given fact lmao. he's often out there alone and not really prone to stick around other people, occassionally he does enjoy a little company however just to talk to or wind down. he's also quite fond of hugs or other physical touch.

[dandelionjack]

if you've watched nightmare in silver i'd love to hear what you think — it's a pretty good episode in my opinion and it's one of the few cybermen-as-the-main-monster episodes i actually liked, but it's also one of those episodes that takes some of its most interesting elements from something i like a lot more from the eu so that coloured my perception a bit (turns out constantly going wow just like zagreus makes you less capable of just enjoying the episode as it is. oops)

it’s… a mixed bag of an episode, honestly, provided how much stuff is actually in it. i liked select parts of it a whole lot, much room for thought there, whereas others … skeeved me out, to put it mildly. i don’t think neil could possibly have topped the masterpiece that is The Doctor’s Wife, and whatever he set out to do here… could have stood a little more editing??

to get the grumbling out of the way: the kids. Most Annoying Who Side Characters Ever award goes to them, singlehandedly taking first place away from that stuck-up nerd in Poison Sky. i don’t know if neil intended for them to act supremely slappable, but christ alive. just the constant dour negativity and ‘bored teenager’ unimpressed commentary … walking vibe drainers. made it hard to care about their fate tbh. oh they got cyberconverted? oh they got rescued and brought back? Whatever. call me a boomer apologist… i’ve never referred to a pair of children (fictional or real) as ‘ungrateful spoiled brats’ before but this could be the day i start.

additionally: the hell was that stuff about clara at the end? “too short and bossy and your nose is all funny” “mystery wrapped in an enigma stuffed into a skirt that’s just a little too tight” go to hell gaiman. genuinely. here i was relying on you, thinking you’re immune to casual misogyny. especially since it doesn’t even make sense… clara’s skirts are never tight? not once? i understand that the former comment was a bluff to get out of admitting feelings but, again it’s not even accurate, since jenna coleman’s nose completely fits the beauty standard?? baffles me

those are all minor nitpicks bc other than that the episode’s fun! and creative, especially all the scenes with the cyber-planner and their high-stakes chess game (you like chess dontcha). i haven’t listened to zagreus (YET) but from what i’ve gathered from internet osmosis the doctor gets possessed by an … evil nursery rhyme? lmao. seems legit

anyway nightmare in silver has unfortunately made me understand people who find matt smith attractive. i’ve cracked it: it’s a dormant gene that only activates when he’s playing an intimidating villain. especially here, when he’s mr clever, a warped mirror of eleven, with the boundaries between the two blurring so far as to confuse even clara. this moment is top notch:

which one of you said that? she’s right to question it.

he’s been quietly manipulative with clara for the entire duration of their travels so far, concealing from her the truth about the ‘mystery’ that her whole existence presents to him, while she remains the object of his puzzle-solving quest. a particularly odious example in this scene in Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS, where the doctor is fully aware that their impending doom at the cliff is an illusion, but puts on the pretense that they’re about to fall to their deaths anyway, building all that fear just to to coax clara’s “secret” out of her (“since we’re both going to die here, you may as well tell me what you are”). as soon as he gets what he wants — or, rather, doesn’t, because there’s no satisfactory answer yet — he reveals that he’d known all this time that the TARDIS wouldn’t have let them fall.

that’s what makes mr. clever so insidiously, well, clever as a plot device: eleven’s not possessed by an external force, not quite. no: it’s his own shadow showing. he’s always been like this. the cyber-code slowly taking over the right side of his brain is just as smart as him, just as manipulative, just as much of a trickster. all his darker traits turned up to, well, 11 (sorry not sorry). “allons-y!” “fantastic!” “you’ve had some cowboys in here” mr clever is a parasite that takes the worst and best parts of the doctor, cuts them up and re-attaches them in a parodic audio-collage, and isn’t that just so fucking ingenious

another line that’s just a straight banger, not much to say about it really other than the fact that it cuts straight through to the core of the narrative:

this spun out of control and turned out far far longer than expected, my apologies (not really. you asked!)

[orionsangel86]

Watching The Sandman again for the hundreth time and I know everyone always loves to focus on Dreamling, but can we talk about Rose Walker for a moment?

The Sandman is often applauded (and complained about) for being an extremely gay show, but I particularly love how even the characters who aren’t canonically gay come across as extremely gay.

Take Rose Walker. The main character of The Doll’s House story. Neither the show nor the comics ever give Rose a sexuality, but there are some very glaring factors that heavily support her being queer.

The first time we see Rose is in episode 5 24/7. Judy, the lesbian at the diner who has had a fight with her girlfriend Donna, calls Rose and asks if Rose knows where Donna is. We know that Rose considers both Judy and Donna close friends and has a picture of Judy in her apartment.

Rose’s only other friend that we know of besides Lyta Hall (who she got to know via proximity since they were neighbours) is her friend Carl who she clearly is close enough with to let him house sit for her (even though he has sex with The Corinthian on her bed!).

So her closest friends are a lesbian couple and a gay man. I know I know straight people can be friends with queer people but statistically speaking queers flock together. Its more likely that Lyta is the token straight in the friend group than Rose AND Lyta both being straight.

I also question her choice of seeking out accomodation in Cape Kennedy. Isn’t it interesting how she ends up in a very strange B&B also managed by a gay drag artist and filled with colourful characters including Chantal and Zelda (I know their relationship is supposed to remain ambiguous but imo the show also leans more into them being lesbians due to Chantal’s dream where she calls them “soul sisters” and “gothic brides” and I dunno I just think the fact she refers to them as brides is pretty telling!)

Of all your accomodation choices in Florida, this in particular seems like the kind of place one would go to if they were specifically looking for somewhere advertised as “LGBT friendly”. All the characters staying at the B&B are either canonically queer or heavily queer coded.

Gilbert/Fiddlers Green isn’t technically human, but his whole aura is distinguished older gay man - he’s played by Stephen Fry after all!

Also I could go on about Barbie (who I theorise found the accomodation for her and Ken) but without revealing any comic spoilers, she also later surrounds herself with basically all queer people. I know in the comics she is strictly heterosexual, but nah she dreams like a queer theatre kid on speed or something lmao. That girl is a bisexual disaster all the way and yeah I may be projecting on her as a fellow blonde overly dramatic dreamer and disaster bisexual but I claim her for my own okay just let me have this.

So yeah, the queer friendship groups, the specific seeking out of an LGBTQ friendly b&b in Florida, and the fact that she literally wears rainbows in her hair and I think its clear enough that that girl is a baby queer if ever I saw one.

Due to the merging of Rose and Lyta’s stories in the Netflix show, we should actually get to see more of Rose in future seasons. In the comics, after the Dolls House book, she doesn’t appear again (unless she turns up in the Wake since I haven’t read that far ahead), but by making her Lyta’s companion in the show, we know she will appear again since Lyta and the baby (Daniel not that he has been named yet in the show) are reoccuring characters throughout the entire Sandman comic run.

Maybe I just crave more lesbian and bisexual women rep in my fave shows, but sitting here watching this show again it just tickles me that in the entirety of season 1, it is so easy to view practically every major female or female presenting character as queer. Joanna Constantine and Rachel, Judy and Bette, Lucifer and Mazikeen (bring on the make out scene in season 2!), Chantal and Zelda, and in my opinion, Rose Walker, Barbie, Lucienne, and Gault are all queer coded WLW.

(Lucienne and Gault is just a ship I love okay but you can’t deny there was some flirting in episode 10!)

It’s been such a crappy year for lesbian rep with lesbian shows getting cancelled left right and centre. I just think lesbians should therefore claim the Sandman as theirs. if nothing else, claim it out of spite. It’s a fantasy show with a pathetic wet cat emo boy as a main character who literally surrounds himself with lesbians, is probably in love with his best friend, and considers a slutty gay serial killer with teeth for eyes his greatest ever creation. It just seems to me like the kind of show that should appeal heavily to WLW okay! Plus there are more lesbians coming in season 2! Encourage your lesbian and bisexual friends to go watch The Sandman now!

[aggressiveguitarnoises]

i have media studies exam (although mock so its fine) that i didnt study for so im gonna force myself to practice by applying barthes narrative theory to season 1 hannibal (vaguely tbh cuz its the whole seasom but ok)

hermeneutic codes(how do u even pronounce this omfg) :

enigma codes, they are def crucial to this show as each episode raises more and more unanswered questions as the audience continues watching the show, questions like who is commiting the crimes, is will ok, does he know how fucked up his clocks are, is crawford fucking stupid, is abigail ok, what the hell is hannibal doing, why are they using cat guts for strings, are the dogs gonna live oh my god please can the dogs be okay for once

usually done by leaving cliffhangers for each episode

it drives the audience forward and interests them so they continue watching the show to find out the answers to their questions

its also a convention to use hermeneutic codes for horror crime shows like hannibal

Proairetic codes:

action codes, the actions done to drive the narrative forward, previous events drive other events into action. ngl this one is fucking stupid to apply i dont get if i ever apply it correctly

in hannibal, proairetic codes tie a lot with hermeneutic codes as the actions of the characters raise questions for the audience questioning their choices and makes the audience wonder what will happen next. the action creates tension and makes the audience wonder how the created problem(if there is one) will be resolved. for example when hannibal lecter called abigails father to inform him that "they know" and that fbi is on the way. this drives the narrative forward as then the audience wonders how the characters will react and wonder how the actions will affect the story. this action ended up with abigail becoming an orphan and their suspect dead, creating a few side plots and introducing new characters. this constant tension created by each action drives the narrative forward and engages the audience to continue watching the show

semantic codes:

connotations, things associated with something, the deeper level meaning of a symbol. this one is hard yet so easy cuz theres literally SO many of them

they basically give insight into the plot and characters, building personalities and maybe even starting the deep questions the audience will have

for example, for hannibal, hes quite sophisticated, the semantic codes for that would be how he wears suits all the time, his overall style and his acquired taste. those things connote sophistication, wealth and even control and power (especially the suit and his high respected position as a psychiatrist)

but another thing that can be derived from things like how hes always careful, always has a cloth that doesn't leave any fabric fibres, how he doesn't use anything digital, only physical things like journals to leave no traces, the fact that hes literally eating his evidence lmao, his knowledge and experience of human anatomy and mind connote that hes a careful, experienced, ambitious man and prob(definitely) is a serial killer

symbolic codes:

it has such an easy concept that its literally confusing to understand. its basically symbols, binaries, a thematic/structural device, but it's basically about themes and contrary signs specifically, which is ig why its kind of difficult to understand since its specifically binary symbols

some symbolic codes in hannibal would be life vs death, clearly a reoccurring theme with all of the crimes happening, good vs bad, murderers and their victims, health? both physical and mental? stability? work vs personal life? idk its so hard to pin point it even tho its so easy and common idk

a better example woukd be the bad vs good binary used in star wars with ghe colours of light sabers

Cultural codes:

literally cultural and social conventions, knowledge that comes from the outside world of the text, specific connotations used

example, FBI for crimes and america, religion and faith, the whole fbi units especially medical, even Christmas is a cultural code as its a celebrated event of certain social and cultural and religious conventions

bruv i cant think of any more examples even tho i know theres so many

hope yall enjoyed my silly analysis of hannibal as my media studies application practice if u read it all xx

[plaexus]

Hi plaexus! How would you differentiate the affection jm shows uar / nyz vs mj? Im obsessed w jmj rn and no doubt OT4 all adore each other as friends and colleagues, but sometimes i feel a bit too delulu knowing that you could also reasonably cut a jm/uar vid from their 240922 live say. idk, just curious your thoughts or reasoning on why JMJ especially like each other / are somehow more romantic coded (all in good fun)

i feel like jm's dynamic with uar and nyz are more defined than what she has with mj.

with uar, there's definitely a "two hot girls maximising their joint slay" kinda thing going on. if i could compare it with something, they feel like college bestfriends. or the first friend you meet at your first job who ends up being your ride-or-die for life. like, that friend who you meet when the two of you already have well-developed pre-frontal cortices lol. you still get into crazy shenanigans with them, but you're both mature and confident women at this point. you didn't grow up with them, so they missed a lot of your awkward and low points, but you trust them enough to be your maid of honour and also to bail you out of prison lmao. i think jm trusts uar with a lot of things; them being the same korean age gives them that unique dimension of having close to no pretenses or facades with each other. i said this in another answer, but i think quality time is of prime importance to them. hence, the many dates and tiktoks together.

for nyz, i hate persisting this stereotype, but it mostly holds water: jm does baby nyz quite a bit more than the other girls. she cherishes her sooo much. she's her happy pill; jm said that she watches nyz's laugh compilations when she's feeling down. i wouldn't say she treats nyz like a daughter whom she birthed herself, as many people like saying, although for good reason. i just personally feel it's an overly reductionist view of what they have. jm respects nyz a lot for being the amazing artist and professional that she is. she's always admired her as a "senior", despite being younger than her. and she's supported nyz ever since, helping her with the korean language and all. as roommates before, they probably also have a sisterly bond that goes deeper than with the other girls, i'd like to think. and as long-time co-trainees, there's an element of them growing up and chasing their dreams together. just like jmj, so many of their memories are coloured by each other's presence

for jmj, i don't even know lol. i've written so much about them just on answers to asks alone, and yet i still cannot decipher them. my thesis statement mirrors my ambiguity about them: jmj have the most varied yet undefined dynamic out of all the aespa pairings. they have certain elements of the other duos, like knowing each other since their teens, unnie-dongsaeng, and liking quality time together, but they're just different precisely because they're quite vague. like sure, they've mentioned once or twice how they're like family/sisters and are bestfriends, but those titles have never been things they repeatedly highlight. they tend to use more beating around the bush type of descriptors like how they are just very comfortable with each other, how they're quite different but they just click.

as much as they try to show equal affection among the members, they both comically fail because it's clear to anyone with eyes that they favour each other. their jealousy of other people shows when it comes to each other. jm having to preface her answer in that weekly idol guesting about who she thinks her soulmate is by saying that it kinda applies to all members, but her being quite confident anyway that her choice is mj. jm choosing mj as her aespa bias even after telling all of them to appeal to her. jm saying in synk road that her preference at that time was nyz, but the lie detector toy saying otherwise. and it's not the "lie" that was telling (that toy has no physiologic basis anyway), it was jm's reaction after. profusely apologising to mj for choosing nyz, when she should have been just as apologetic to nyz, ultimately making it look like she did lie. mj's no better; she mentions jm quite often, her body language shows how she seeks jm as well, she whips out all the love languages when it comes to jm.

i've always said that regardless of what jmj have, it must be love at its essence. whether it's romantic or not, their bond seems to transcend whatever definition or categorisation people have tried to box them in to better understand them. they're wonderfully perfect in their obscurity as a pair. and i love them that way! if they change and suddenly have these reliable and fixed interactions, i'd be quite devastated

[harlowhockeystick]

happy new year from sYdney, aus! (Lmao i’m a loser who will never get over that)

i was scrolling thru ur sidney crosby stuff (bc this man has me GRIPPED I’m so embarrassed and obsessed) and I saw some of the teacher!reader stuff and I know most ppl default to like…teacher of young kids but please consider - high school teacher!reader

like yes reader is younger (I’m still thinking of ur age gap!sidney oh lord) but she’s been teaching high schoolers for nearly a decade now. so what if ur 36 and 180cm and a professional goon athlete on the ice. so what if ur shorter than literally all of sid’s teammates. hs teacher!reader has a presence and you WILL listen to her when she tells a room full of adrenaline fuelled hockey players to stop throwing their nasty underarmour clothing at each other for 5 seconds so you can all finish your damn gatorade and HYDRATE, evgeni, you think kidney stones are a joke, do you? or just giving someone the Teacher Look when they’re being a bit too sassy or just casually slotting in to help Dana in the equipment room.

dealing with the media? easy as pie - they’ve got nothing on private school parents who don’t understand why little johnny isn’t in the top class, he just needs to be challenged and extended, don’t you understand that’s why he doesn’t do anything in class, because he’s bored, he’s actually VERY capable! (sidney was shell shocked with a fear boner the first time he hears the tail end of your phone convo to a parent - “unfortunately mr x, i have yet to see any evidence of this, so our decision stands. Have a good day now :)”

the whole hockey schedule? oh lord, reader is a professional at timetable management, don’t you even worry. She’s an excellent coordinator (yes, a shared and colour coded google calendar for her and sidney’s relationship) she understands how both their schedules can be insane, but most importantly understands the importance of work-life balance and setting boundaries for yourself! she helps pull sidney out of his head, reminding him that it’s just as important to take care of himself if he wants to keep taking care of others. she reminds him that it’s okay to be a little bit selfish, and really, that it’s not actually selfish at all to admit to another person how tired and frustrated you are, or to talk about things from years past that you thought you’d gotten over, but no, really, you just buried it for the sake of your team and career.

the whole public persona/reputation vs privacy thing? she totally gets it and understands sidney’s need first privacy. hell, that’s why she so fucking tech savvy - she knows ALL the tips and tricks to keep her socials locked away from prying student and parent eyes. It sparks this sense of safety and security in sidney? like he knows for sure that his privacy is protected, and that he trusts reader so much not to accidentally or not take advantage of his fame and fortune?

uhhhh anyway sidney being in shock-scared-and-horny-awe at your absolute confidence, breadth of knowledge, and commanding yet calm presence despite your age and (comparatively) tiny size. sidney discovers he has a competency kink when you accidentally use your teacher voice on him bc he keeps trying to distract you with kisses and cuddles while ur trying to finish off some marking. like, you stare at him over the top of your glasses and go “sidney crosby, you’ve got two choices right now - you can sit down on the couch in silence and wait literally 10 minutes, or, if you want to continue as you are, one of us is going to sleep in the guest room tonight, so let’s make good choices now, eh?”

he sheepishly goes to the couch and waits for you to sit in his lap after u’re done so you can pepper his shy lil face with kisses, calling him a “ridiculous boy” with such fondness in ur voice it makes him giggle

omg stop i LOVE THIS!!!!!!!

[bisexualboysbroadcast]

okay, are you ready? here’s my be mine superstar melt:

1. I am unbearably obsessed with the personality “swop” that happened between these two actors. going from fiat our little sunshine brat in dsn to Ashi our regal serious actor in bms and Leo our serious big boy protector in dsn to actual puppy sunshine baby punn in bsm -> getting a swop like that shows me their range as actors but also just different sides to their acting personalities and how well they know each other which is pure magic in romance

2. I’m OBSESSED with the way they met. like yes punn is madly in love with ashi as a fan boy (the little poster kiss really ruined my life), but to have an accidental bump in meet-cute and then (as far as it looks like the plot is heading) to end up working together is a delightful start to their story (cause it alludes to plot directions like “oh fuck I’m in love with you what am I supposed to do with these feelings??” , and “secret relationship eras (my beloved)” and “how can you date him you’re just a student intern and he’s a superstar” and “but I love him. I love him.”. can you tell I’m ready for this?)

3. the sets for this show seem to be out of this world. not just in relation to the period drama ashi (and co) are acting in but also the cafe where punn met his friends, the bar where doctor and superstar met (HAH!), punn’s mom’s cafe, dad’s art studio. all of it is so good. and from what I can see they really seem to be using the lighting and set structure to show personalities which is incredible in and of itself. (e.g. if you notice the lighting and set is pretty light/airy/flowing when punn is the central focus (that shower scene speaks for itself); but quite dark/wood/sort of solid when ashi is the focus)

4. the costumes, oh good god, the costumes! firstly just how beautiful the period drama stuff is ! ashi’s white cloak? and title’s full princely (guard?) suit? IMMACULATE. but also their casual clothes. ashi being so neat, tidy, and elegant always. versus punn who is soft and comfy (that lil grey cardigan did so much for my heart). as far as I can see (and probably because there’s been so many costume changes as a result of ashi’s job), there hasn’t been any colour coding between him and punn (yet?). so not much to say on the blue boy/red boy (/other colour variations) connotations. they may just play this out in style more than colour which is always less obvious but satisfying all the same, but I guess that’s just a waiting game.

5. so so happy with all the touching we’ve had. and I don’t just mean punn and his delusional body pillow cuddling (although that’s so relatable). but also between doctor and superstar (I really need to get to their names lmao) -> their entire scene was iron melting! the thumb swipe across the bottom lip, the finger brushing against the hand, the dancing (holy fuck), and then naturally the sex. SO GOOD. but also yes punn and his little prayer to his ashi poster, punn and his brother pai fighting (ah sibling love), even the touching between the three superstar friends. I like that the intimacy of touching is already being shown in a full range of ways. parents to children, sibling to sibling, friend to friend, love interests, lust. EATING SO GOOD!

anyway, now that I’ve talked y’all’s ears off, I am so happy to have a Monday night (more like Tuesday morning) watch for the next few weeks and I’m beyond excited for wherever this one will take us !!

[nyoomfruits]

First of all I loved loved loved the fic so much, you dont even understand. I had to get to work at 6am today and I still read it in one go staying up till nearly one... (Also: your Oscat fic was my 1st landoscar!!) I know this is not really director's cut, but god so many times during reading I thought about Oscars PoV (your Lando truly is so painfully yet fantastically oblivious) and the way this man has been suffering and pining away for a literal decade only to get himself in the most of all insane situations with his colour coded marriage binder. So I guess my question would be for any insights into his head, any headcanons from his perspective (during the fic and/or the previous TEN YEARS HE HAS LIVED WITH LANDO) or maybe even a small scene from his PoV, pretty please with breadsticks on top??

Also delightful cameos from Daniel, George, Alex, Max, Charles, Logan and Lando's family <3

i'm so bad at like. the other pov when i write fics lmao i can't explain but??? i know what's going on in oscar's head but also not really??? BUT i can give you this like one fun little detail:

“It’s just annoying, that she can’t see I’m happy the way I am right now, you know? I have enough money to do whatever I want, I have the apartment, I have you,” he snorts. “Maybe I should just marry you. That would surely get my mum off my back.” There’s a clattering noise as a packet of Oreo’s tries to make a break for it and hits Oscar square in the nose, making him stagger back a little with a strangled noise. Lando laughs, and picks his phone back up, scrolling through the options of the restaurant. “Yeah,” Oscar says, when he’s retrieved the packet of Oreo’s from the floor. He opens his mouth to say something else, maybe, but Lando interrupts him, waving his phone around. “Let me guess,” he says. “You want the Chicken parm?”

its VERY subtle but basically the packet of oreo's didn't 'try to make a break for it'. oscar fumbled it when lando basically insinuated they should get married. idiots in love <3

[moonspirit]

HI HELLO WOFE!!

For the questions game!

3, 7, 5, 12, 14, 20, 31, 35

-Clouds ☁️

HELLO WAIF!!! This got long cuz I can't shut up, so under the cut #_#

3 - 3 films you could watch for the rest of your life and not get bored of? OOOOkay! Interstellar, Titanic, and Your Name (although other equally strong contenders are the Avatar movies (james cameron), any Ghibli movie, and The Martian, which I remember you love too T^T Yay common movie!)

7 - what scares you the most and why? Forgetting. More than being forgotten, which doesn't really bother me, it's forgetting. Even if a portion of my life has been dark or bleak, there's been a lot of nice things to appreciate even then; I try to write it all down in a journal every day. I think life's value is really all the moments and memories that fill up over time; I'm scared of a day coming when I don't remember all the lovely things I've encountered in my life.

5 - what made you start your blog? Ahh... I've honestly been here a long time xD Since late 2013 or early 2014, I don't remember very well, but O L D. At first I just started one to post my graphic designing pieces, but then stayed for the fandom culture and very specific humour which made me feel at home. I've left now and then, but I've always come back.

12 - what’s some good advice you want to share? This is tricky, because I give myself advice, and don't follow it #_# But something that has helped me a lot is to see only the present moment as truly valuable, and to soak in every bit of that, in touch, taste, smell and seeing. That way you've lived that minute or that hour, fully, and even if you don't get to live the next, you can find some peace. Why I say it helped me is because I always fret about the future, about whether this or that will happen, etc, and this shut up all those unwanted anxieties. 'Now' matters. Tomorrow will come, but I'll deal with it when it comes.

14 - what’s something you’ve always wanted to do but maybe been to scared to do? I think... to live more spontaneously? XD I'm a planned/organized person, I need to see things on an agenda to breathe easy lmao. I envy people who can just live everyday spontaneously as it comes, without a care in the world.

20 - favourite things about the night? EVERYTHING!!!!! ALL OF IT!!!!! I love most the drop in temperature, the silence, the occasional owls and bats, and also the lights in the distance. I live in a suburb, and while the immediate vicinity isn't bustling with noise and is mostly covered with trees and wildnerness, I can see the city in the distance. I like watching the pinpricks of moving vehicles, and wondering where they're going and to whom. The best thing of course, is the night sky. I spend inordinate amounts of time studying the stars and constellations haha xD Still don't have a telescope to see Jupiter's moons, but! one day! soon!

31 - are you messy or organised? V E R Y organized. Though in times of stress, it devolves into organized chaos, but still organized. My phase of using colour coded memo pads and cute stationery has long gone (tho I still love cute stationery T^T), so I just keep things simple now. A list. Ticked off. Etc.

35 - do you trust easily? Yeah. I shouldn't, given some stupid shit that happened some years back, but I still do xD I like to believe people are good (which is strange considering I hate human interaction, but then I suppose it applies to people I form bonds with, like you!)

HAVE I EXPOSED MYSELF ENOUGH YET??? AM I STILL GOOD TO MARRY???

[vallikesgivinghugs]

Trigun but make it Steven Universe (kinda?)

Pinned this cause I kept freakin' losing it lmao this is for me X3

Right so I've been thinking about Trigun too damn much, honestly new obsession (thanks AuDHD). But anywhoosies, I was thinking about Trigun and saw a picture of Steven Universe and my brain went place so here's a gaggle of thoughts about what if Trigun was set in the Steven universe setting but also not really because it's still trigun somehow.

Also I have watched Stampede and the 98 version of the anime (+badlans rumble). I have not read the manga, yet. So like don't come for me, I like the new looks in Trigun Stampede.

all the thoughts under read more. It's a lot and it's mostly rambly so please be warned.

Okay so plants are gems. Established in my brain that they are gems. But the plants themselves, since they don't have a 'soul' persay like independents, don't have a corporeal form/humanoid body like the independents. Living in big clusters of living thought that are linked to each other through a telepathic connection through the 'earth'. The independents aren't 'rooted' so they have to be very close by or touch the clusters to actually communicate with the plants. Also only diamonds are considered plants/independents. Independents have this ethereal look to them that distinguish them from ragular gems despite looking much more humanoid than the plants. Every other gem person is simply called a gem. They are a lot less powerful and a lot more humanoid in looks and nature, some even have normal 'human' skin tones.

In this au, the serum people like Livio and Wolfwood are either half-gems who's mothers were forced to birth them or they were created in a lab using shattered/dead gems and attaching them to human children/babies. Even less childhood for them in that second option, maybe i'll decide by the time I get to explaining the character concepts.

Also i'm going be be free as fuck with the rules of off-colour gems and fusions and stuff because i do what I want. Headcannon that all independents are off-colours.

(I wish my art skills were better I'd be drawing a bunch of refs for this, maybe later)

Okay so onto the character ideas. The character appearances are based of Trigun Stamped in my brain but feel free to imagine them however yeah? Not much about the characters themselves more about what i imagine them to look like y'know?

Vash: An off-colour yellow diamond (blue eyes, also when he comes in contact with the plants his marking glow blue too instead of yellow), his diamond form has the spiky broom hair. His gem is on his belly (a la rose quartz/pink diamond). After getting hurt by Nai, his gem cracked making on of his arms unusable, he disguises himself as a yellow topaz which has the floppy spiky hair, compared to a regular yellow topaz however his skin colour is still a tad too yellow to look normal. He wears his shades to hide his eye colour specifically. Also the coat was a gift from Luida and Brad who in this Au, are humans took in the runaway gem after he crash landed on earth.

Nai/Millions Knives: An off colour white diamond (teal/green eyes, also when he comes in contact with the plants his marking glow teall/green too instead of white). Similarly to Vash, his skin is slightly to pale and just white to look natural compared to regular white gem people. He rarely interacts/interacted with people other than Vash, Rem and the plants so it doesn't come up often but when he does interact with other gems like Legato he makes his eyes/hair/head glow (a la white diamond) so you can't really tell he's an off-colour. His gem is situated on his chest, and before you say but Nai should have his gem on his head, when was this man ever logical. Mans is an emotional wreck obsessed with his brother (blue/yellow diamond coded if you ask me). Goes after Vash to earth with Legato, his most loyal subject, and meets Conrad a human scientist who is the reason why Tesla is dead and gone (still) and to make ammends with Nai offers his sciency services to help find Vash.

Tesla: A yellow off-colour diamond (same as Vash, cause y'know they look basically the same), was sent to earth to observe and report information to the plants, long before Vash and Nai were even born. She was either lured or captured by scientist who experiemented on her until she was shattered. The reports stopped and neither Nai or Vash were told about her until they both landed on earth and came to learn of it in their own time. Her gem placement is unknown but I'd like to think it was on her forehead because diamond trifecta having the big three gem placements my beloved.

Rem: A black pearl assigned to care for Vash and Nai, by the plants, after what had happened to Tesla. Her gem was either situated on her nape, the back of her neck, or on her throat. Can't decide. I just know that Nai was the one who shattered her and Vash tried to intervene and that's how he got hurt. Two in one trauma for poor Vash.

Legato: Legato, I just knew I had to make this man a full gem. A lapis that was treated as a no good thing because he looked off-colour until he was saved by a brilliant and 'perfect' white diamond (oh honey). Mans is a Lapis Lazuli that had a gold deposit crossing where he was incubating that not only granted his stronger telekinectic powers but also made him look off-colour because he retained some of that gold in his eyes and on his body. I dunno if I want him to be an off-colour or just a really rare variant of Lapis Lazuli. His gem is situated in the palm of his magic hand he has in the animes. Legato is humanoid looking, moreso than Nai but because he is a blue gem his skin looks like he constantly has a bad case of frostbite and his hair is slightly too blue and perfect to look like it's a dye job.

Wolfwood: A half-gem, half-human. I think what I want to happen here is that his mother, a gem, fled to earth, fell in love with a human, became pregnant, gave her life force to her child and dad decided to put Nico up to a local orphanage where Conrad found him later one when Nai/Vash came/crashed into earth and experimented on Nico (similar to what happened in Trigun Stampede and all that). Nico's mother was an black opal, her gem became his gem, it's situated right above his heart.* He looks overall human but his hair is unaturally glossy/shiny with that opaline shine.

Livio: Similar shtick to Nico but I like to imagine that he did exactly have a dad, his mother fell for a human the human left and she ended up leaving Livio (giving up her life force in the process) at the same orphanage where Nico was. His mother was a yellow topaz (oh shit look at that, Vash being a constant reminder of Livio to Nico in his disguise, you love to see it.) and His gem is located over his eye (you know the one with the mask, the fancy one)* He looks mostly human but his remaining eye matches his gem eye in colour.

Also, humans don't really know what gems are, most humans aren't even aware gems are a thing. Most gems look like strange humans but some of them are luckier than other when it comes to looking human. Their gem colour determines the general base colour of their whole self, Nico's mother looked like a very dark skinned woman with dark glossy hair being a black gem. While Livio's mother looked a little more golden than the average person but still fairly normal being a yellow gem person. Gem people like Legato who have blue, purple or green, colours are usually not as seen in the human skin except for the veins have a harder time blending in with humans. However, even if a gem manages to blend in, it's the gems that give them away. Livio's mother wore her hair in a way that hid her eyes from humans while Nico's always wore clothes that hid her gem.

Miss Melanie didn't quite understand what the boy's were but she made it work. She dressed nico in clothes that would keep his gem hidden and when Livio arrived at her doorstep she fashioned him a small eyepatch to hide his eye. She decided to protect them as best she could despite knowing their were different from the regular child.

*So I put his gem over his heart because yeah it fits but man I was tempted to put it on his nose because it's funny (still might honestly X3) or heck even put in on top of his hand, the one that holds the punisher for the trauma of it all and have Livio also have his gem on top of his hand but on the opposite one. But then I decided against that because Legato has his gem on his hand and even though it'd be a fun 'all gungho guns have their gems on their hands/near their hands' thing I didn't vibe with it as hard.

If Nai and Vash were to fuse it would be a disaster of limbs despite being both diamonds. They're core values and ideals different too much (see malachite from SU). So many eyes, arms and legs a real monster. They'd make like a pale yellow diamond together though.

Nico and Livio fusing would make like a miriam jasper. I think they'd kinda become a almost erfect fusion. Like maybe gain a singular eye or something.

Nico and Vash would probably make a good fusion too, maybe have an extra pair of arms or eyes because they view/react to the world differently but over time they'd kinda lose that extra pair of something because they understand each other too damn well. They'd me like a chocolate diamond or like amber.

And finally if Legato and Nai were to fuse they'd make a moonstone or like an aquamarine. Legato is so damn devoted I think they wouldn't even have an extra anything tbh Xc

Milly, Meryl and Roberto are humans in this Au!

All the gungho guns are half-gems except for Legato cause he's special. I didn't think too much about them yet so like most of them I don't have ideas for but uh, here's some.

Elendira (we're giving her, her trimax form because of course we are, what a queen), would probably be some type of red gem because crimson nail. A garnet or perhaps a ruby maybe?

EG the mine, probably like a green gem (98 anime him had green hair but also green just fits). Maybe not an emerald but like a peridot? or maybe malachite.

Midvalley is definitly a purple gem, it's just his vibe, that suit of his is the 98 anime with the pink and the purplish brown is just *chef's kiss*. Amethyst or Sugilite possibly.

Zazie the beast, dolomite with cinnabar. White gem with red desposits. The stampede white/red hair look has me in it's goddamn clutches okay.

And then finally Dominique the cyclops, i like her she's nifty. A red garnet, a dark one. It looks black like her eyes and hair in the shadow but then in the light it's a bright blood red like her demon eye.

Maybe i'll figure a gem for the others later, we'll see.

[moriartyluver]

right? I'm a woman of color too and find it so annoying that every "self insert" fanfic says stuff like "her pale skin"/"her blonde hair"... like no i ain't got no light colors lmao-

yes i just knew you HAD TO like russian lit!! i love all of the books and writers you mentioned.

oh and the little false lovers sneak peak u gave us... it reminds me of "Your Best American Girl" by Mitski.

"You're the one, you're all I ever wanted, I think I'll regret this." 'cause liams prolly the only man she's ever loved this deeply and yet he rejects her and tries to khs...

Plus fl herself is a woc so i think she's pretty much coded by that song. It hurts. Thank you.

P.S. I'll be using 👹 for you to recognize me because I'll keep sending lil comments if u allow me to!!

-����

“Her ocean blue orbs 🥺” SHUT UP. Like I asked for a self insert fic, NOT and oc fic. U will never catch me giving actual physical descriptions for my characters, I would rather DIE than give them a certain height, weight, hair colour etc, even if I am short and fairly thin like most stereotypical y/ns. Like other types of girls exist tf??😭

Big mistake can here 🙋‍♀️and I can guarantee that fl is somewhat influenced by ‘your best American girl’ LIKE SHE WAS STRESSING over the idea that William didn’t like her because of her skin colour (which I’ll get into in more flashback chapters), and the fact that she had a little accent when she initially came to the uk meant she felt she wasn’t being taken seriously ☹️

Like Yknow that part that’s like ‘your mother wouldn’t approve of how my mother raised me but I do I think I do’ is literally so fl and her mother. They may have a good relationship but it doesn’t change the fact that her mother was trying to make her immune to poison as a kid 💀 (also ur welcome 🥰)

P.s. please do send little asks as much as u like! I love getting anon messages (that aren’t death threats because I don’t ship sherliam 😭). The only other anons I have are 🦢 anon who disappeared off the face of the earth and 🎀 anon who revealed themselves and doesn’t really send asks no more lol

[symphonic-scream]

Of course I would like to hear more

This came in earlier but I was writing the other one so I'm just gonna give more

So, ages. Makoto and Haru are 31 when they meet, 32 when they start dating, move in together 9 months later, and are married at 34. When they're 31 Akira and Ren are 6, and Kotone is 14. Making the twins 9 when Okujima get married, and Kotone 17

Everyone in this family is gay. Sae is married to Tae, and gladly watched her nephews when Makoto plans for date night with Haru to. Extend to the morning. Until they move in together that is

And when that does happen, Makoto is. Conflicted. Their situation is, pretty close to sugar momma territory. In her opinion, that is. Haru just loves her and wants to treat her well that's all

Morning routines when they're all under one roof flow smoothly. Haru gets up first, dragging Makoto to the kitchen to start their early breakfast and begin breakfast for Kotone and the boys. Everything is colour coded, too. Purple for Haru, Navy for Makoto, blue for Kotone, red for Akira, and black for Ren. Mugs, lunch bags, sets of chopsticks, and even those medication organizers

Haru takes vitamin supplements, and has since she had Kotone. Just to keep everything running well, after that minor bit of trauma. Kotone is the only one that doesn't have a morning med to take lmao. Makoto has her antidepressants and her morning ADHD dose, and both twins have that last one as well. Akira ends up a little anemic around age 10, so his diet changes to include iron-rich foods. Not Ren though, hes a big fan of dark chocolate, eggs, and tofu

When Makoto is first dating Haru, Kotone is. Wary. She's like, 15. She's protective of her mom, too. When she gets past that, she feels more comfortable talking about girls and feelings with Makoto than Haru. She's not sure why, but. She thinks Makoto sees things the way she does, romantically that is

Makoto: oh, kiddo, you're so gay

Kotone: I know,,,, but it feels weird to talk to my mom about girls,, she's known my friends for too long!

Makoto: and I barely know them. But I'd like to know them, if you're willing to tell me

Kotone is always showing Makoto the messages she receives from her crush... And then crushes... Squealing at kissy emojis from Yukari, or something especially flirty from Mitsuru

And, Makoto as wing woman is just as awkward as her future daughter. Yet somehow it eventually pays off

(yeah so. Endgame wise it's, Kotone with both Yukari and Mitsuru, and Ren with Ryuji, and Akira and Goro)

But that's for the future

Pstt. Lemme know if you want more. Or if you have any questions. :)