#how well-hidden are these human colonies?

[swan2swan]

no, but really, what is that outfit?

What is that?

What IS that?

[yinyuedijun]

ZERO-SUM GAME

It’s different with Aventurine. You like being his luxury hand watch. You like being his elegant knife, his liar’s dice, his pretty poker chip. You want to be his object—the object of his affections, something he can parade around just like his expensive suits and his beautiful jewellery and his ostentatious furs. Look at me, he uses them to say. Look at what I own. Look at what I own despite this code on my neck. Look at what I've won despite my eyes and my blood. (Or: Aventurine wins you in a game of poker. He decides to cash out his prize right then and there—to enjoy you on the card table, laid out among all the chips and cards.)

8.6k words of psychological issues, explicit smut, and deranged characterization. aventurine tops, reader bottoms. public sex, voyeurism from strangers, piv, oral (reader receiving), fingering with gloves on, creampie. mild dubcon but the reader is ultimately into it. afab gn reader, they are playing a fem-coded role for an espionage assignment (dress, heels, makeup). themes of objectification. discussion of slavery and sa during slavery (not explicit). dead dove do not eat, mdni.

You are in the grandest casino of Kinyoshi Moon Colony, and Aventurine is running your latest husband into life-ruining debt.

You aren’t cut up about it. If your marriage (or concubinage, rather) were genuine, you'd maybe be annoyed about the loss of capital. But as it is, this relationship is an assignment from the IPC—one of the longest and most excruciatingly boring yet. Fortunately for you, Aventurine’s presence tonight means that you've finally gathered enough intel for Diamond’s needs. It is time for the IPC to terminate your latest contract, and Aventurine is here to collect you.

Which is a little funny, given your relationship. It is strange sitting across from your boyfriend, draped over another man and thoroughly ignoring him. You’re entirely focused on fawning over your husband instead—laughing into his ear, lighting his pipe and filling his whiskey glass, and oh, Mister Li, you're so funny, you're so clever, I think you should go all in!—but Aventurine doesn't react. He only smiles at the two of you, like he isn't bothered by the sight.

This is, of course, an act: when you came home from your last marriage (assignment), he'd made sure to pleasure you so thoroughly that you forgot all about your ex-husband (mark). Aventurine did not openly admit to any kind of jealousy at the time, but you could tell he hadn't been keen on letting another man touch you. He usually isn't too keen about anyone touching any of his things, in fact. Despite appearances, he always abhors the thought of losing anything important.

But any fears he might have are concealed right now. They’re always concealed. Hidden by the expensive suit, the countless stacks of chips, the golden walls and high-vaulted ceilings of the Venetian Zhijin, Masked by his generous gifts, his easy laughter, his careless frivolity. You can see right through his gilded smile. The rest of the table cannot.

They are all intrigued when Aventurine asks, a playful lilt in his voice, “How about we make this game a little more interesting, gentleman?”

The other players at the table consider him. The other plus-ones—concubines, courtesans, gigolos, and so on—look at him with calculated expressions of cursory interest. You do so as well, but only for a moment. Your gaze quickly returns to Mister Li’s face—your husband is meant to be your true focus, after all, not the game. You are not a player at this table, but an accessory. Closer to an expensive watch than a human being.

Some business magnate from the Triangulum Galaxy leans back and raises a brow. “I'm listening,” he says. You watch a bead of sweat travel down your husband’s neck.

“How about we up the ante,” Aventurine says, his voice light, “but instead of betting more money this time, we bet our dates?”

You think, in other star systems, other worlds, such a suggestion would invite riot. But Kinyoshi Colony being what it is, and the Venetian being the establishment that it is, the other players at the table only laugh. Nearly half of them deal in the trade of human beings anyway—this is nothing novel for them.

“Well,” one of them says, “it’s not like winning more money’s gonna make a difference to any of us.” A round of chuckling. He turns to his date—some noblewoman from Jarilo-IV who seems greatly out of her depth—and says, “What do you think, love? How do you feel about being part of my wager?”

She doesn't like it. She clearly doesn't like it, and she also clearly doesn't know how to say it. Were you not on the clock, you might intervene. Maybe. As it is, though, all you can do is observe quietly. All the power in this gambit lies with Aventurine. Even when surrounded by men who manipulate the wealth of entire cities, planets, galaxies—he remains in full control.

“There’s never any shame in folding,” he says, magnanimous. Then he looks your husband in the eye, smiling conspiratorially. “But I know there are some of us who aren't afraid to take risks.”

Li laughs. “You’re right about that, Mister Aventurine.” He gives you a fond smile. And of course he does—you’re his last shot at winning back all his losses for the night. “I think you'd make a pretty little chip, don't you?”

Although Mister Li is clearly less distressed at the thought of betting you than he was at the thought of betting his company just last round, you notice, out of the corner of your eye, a muscle in Aventurine’s neck twitching. It’s very, very subtle, and he'd have never let himself do it if the table’s attention were on him, but he did it. Perhaps it was involuntary. Your mouth curls.

“Sure, darling.” You try not to sound too giddy. “I’ll be whatever you like.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn't be so happy about this farce. This is, put plainly, a stupid way to extract you from your mission. Were the cards in anyone else’s hands, your husband could win and you might be stuck with him for another several weeks, at least—assuming that you aren't discovered and killed first. Or you could go home with another man and be subjected to the kind of things that men do when they trade human beings, and you don't think the IPC would care too much if you were. You are an asset before you are a person, after all. At this table, you are closer to an expensive watch than a human being—and at the Company, you are an overpriced knife.

But to Aventurine, you're a chip in one of his games, and you don't mind that so much. Men who only know wealth will throw around their riches thoughtlessly, but men who have endured poverty will hold onto them tightly—desperately. Aventurine takes care of his luxury watches, his elegant knives, his liar’s dice. His capital. And he never loses anything. He always comes to collect. You trust him to collect you, even with this stupid plan, so you are calm as you watch the dealer shuffle the cards.

The table makes their bets. Most of the players go all-in. A couple fold, perhaps feeling some degree of concern for their partners, but it's more likely that they just have shit hands. A lot of the ones who continue playing have shit hands anyway. Your husband doesn't do too badly—a straight flush. He seems confident.

Then Aventurine lays out his cards. Ten. Joker. Queen. King. Ace.

All hearts.

You have to take a sip of your whiskey to stop yourself from laughing.

Aventurine, himself, has the grace not to look too smug about the outcome. Or maybe it's very unremarkable for him, all these winnings being pushed over to him—poker chips and human beings. Some of the other dates are clearly anxious as they move toward him (they are expected to be loyal to their husbands), and some are clearly excited (they are expected to be frivolous, hedonistic playthings). He humours them all, for a little while. Puts on the usual show as they crowd around him, charms them because it'll be good for business partnerships in case any of their husbands care even a little bit about them. You'd do the same in his shoes. But in your current ones (six-inch heels, black leather, red bottoms, luxury), all you can do is seat yourself on the card table and light up a cigarette. Waiting.

Aventurine eventually sends them all off. All I wanted was to get to know you, he says cheerfully, which is probably not a lie. After they leave, he asks the dealer to close the table and go on break. Turn a blind eye. You raise a brow when they obey him.

How interesting.

You're still enjoying your cigarette by the time he turns to you. You flash him a smile, one of the ones that you use for work. His expression doesn't change, but his thumb brushes against one of his many rings—switching off your synesthesia beacons for some privacy—and he leans back to study you. You know he's admiring you, but it could be mistaken for a leer.

“Well, well,” he says, “If it isn’t the esteemed concubine of Li Fengzhi.”

“The esteemed fifth concubine,” you correct. He hums, looking surprised.

“I thought you were the fourth. Did I misremember?”

“No, just misinformed. He took another concubine right before I arrived on Kinyoshi. He acquired a sixth just last week. Turns out he picks up paramours like they’re strays.”

“How inconvenient.”

“It made no difference to me,” you dismiss. “I’m his favourite anyway, but I’m sure you knew that already.”

“I’d have had to be blind not to notice it. You have the man wrapped around your finger.” Aventurine leans back, studying you as you smoke on your perch. “But before we continue—why don’t you come a little closer, esteemed Fifth Concubine?”

You make a face. “That title doesn’t sound as nearly as flattering in Avgin dialect as it does in Zhijinese,” you note, though you get off the table anyway. You don’t go very far, electing to seat yourself on his lap, your arms draping around his shoulders. The feathers of his jacket tickle at your bare shoulders; the satin of his gloves glide down the skin of your thighs before settling on your calves. “Since you’ve won my company for the night, though,” you sigh, “I suppose I can humour you, Mister Aventurine.”

“Lucky me.” He leans in, his breath sweeping the shell of your ear. His fragrance surrounds you, your body warming at the familiar scent of ambergris and vanilla. You realize, all of a sudden, how much you missed it. You have to stop yourself from pressing your face into his neck and melting—it would be a dead giveaway for your identity and also too revealing of your feelings. Aventurine might be endeared by it, but he might also find it disconcerting. He often needs to be tricked into intimacy.

He does enjoy being wanted though, and he can obviously tell that you want him. He pulls you closer, one of his hands giving your thigh a generous squeeze. It makes you throw your head back in a laugh, exposing the soft skin of your throat. You aren't surprised when he takes the opportunity to kiss it, his lips gentle against your pulse.

“You’re being very forward,” you tease him. “Did you miss me?”

“I’m just trying to be careful,” he defends himself between kisses, his breath warm on your skin. “We should try to conceal our mouths as much as possible. No one can intercept our synesthesia beacons, but someone could still read our lips.”

You give him a funny look. “We’re the only two speakers of Avgin in the known universe. Who could, other than ourselves, could read our—mmph…”

Aventurine has caught the rest of your sentence with his mouth. He’s hungry and wanting for you, the heat of his lips overwhelming. Your tongue is as practised as his, but you find yourself too distracted by your thrill to focus, your kiss wet and eager. Messy. Unprofessional.

You’ve never kissed any of your husbands like this. You’ve never kissed any of your other owners like this. You feel dazed when he pulls away.

You compose yourself. “So you did miss me.”

He smiles. “Guilty as charged.” A gloved hand rests on your face, satin tracing your lips. “How could I not? You’ve been away from the house for so long.”

Your eyes narrow. There’s no idiom for this in Avgin, so you flip briefly to Interastral Standard: “Pot, kettle, black. You leave home all the time.” You smack away the hand at your waist, petty. He looks amused. “And you almost always die.”

He switches out his smile for a pout. “Don’t tell me you’re still mad about last time.”

“You nearly got yourself blasted with atomics, so yes, I’m still mad at you.”

Now he’s frowning. “Am I going back to sleeping on the couch when you come back?”

“Yes,” you say. His deepening frown is meant to be read as a joke, but you know better. Deciding to throw him a bone, you lean in, whispering playfully into his ear: “You can still fuck me on it though.”

Aventurine hums, as if considering. His hands traverse your sides as he contemplates your suggestion. You move to straddle him, your thighs squeezed around his hips. When you grind against him, you can feel how much he wants you despite his composure, his control—his length straining in his pants, pressed against the silk covering your core.

“I don’t think I can wait long enough to fuck you on the couch,” he says, voice teasing.

“No?” You hum as his hands travel upward, feeling every inch of you. “The ship on the way home, then?”

“We don’t leave until tomorrow. Do you really think I can wait that long?”

You don't expect to feel the warmth of his hands on your chest. Your breath hitches when he starts palming your tits through your dress, neon eyes admiring the curve of them. One of his thumbs skims over the peak of your breast, and his mouth curls when your nipple hardens. “No bra? That's convenient.”

“I—” You squirm in his grip, whining. It just makes you grind against his lap more, your cunt moving against his slacks. A wave of heat runs through your lower half, and you clench around nothing. You can see people from a nearby table glancing at you, doing double takes. You can feel their lingering gazes on you, and you know Aventurine can too.

“I—are you going to”—your voice shakes as he pinches your nipple, as his other hand moves to squeeze your ass instead. Your dress is short—designed for easy access—and his fingertips easily skim the underside of its skirt. You wonder if he’s going to pull it up. You wonder if he's going to go even further than that.

But that would be an absurd thing to do in the middle of the busiest casino in the colony, which also happens to be the busiest trade hub in its star system. It would be absurd even for the two of you. Nevermind the reactions of the other players in the room—the staff here would immediately blacklist you, and so would every other gambling house in Kinyoshi.

You try to calm yourself. “Are you—ah—going to take me upstairs?”

He's fully kneading your breasts now. You can feel your clit throbbing, your body responding to his rough and unrepentant touch. “Hm… I don't think I want to.” Aventurine’s voice drops. His smile takes on a distinctly wicked quality. “I think I'll take you right here.”

“But we’ll get kicked out,” you whine. Even as you protest though, you're panting and moving your hips now. Grabbing at his arms, rutting against him like you're in heat. His fingers hook around the thin straps of your dress, pull them down your shoulders, already starting to indulge despite your reservations. You bend into his touch.

“Kicked out? By who? The staff?” He smiles, as always. “I own the place now. I don't think they'll be giving me trouble.”

“Y—you what?” For a moment, you're too shocked to keep up the wanton show. “You do? Since when?”

“Since last night.” He thumbs one of the straps that's fallen halfway down your arms. The rest of your dress threatens to come down with it. “Technically it's the IPC who acquired it—or, well, their shell company did—but I'm their designated representative here. I signed the contract.”

“The IPC isn’t going to be upset that you're fucking a concubine, who's not even your concubine, on their new property?”

Aventurine shrugs. “They know the kind of establishment the Venetian is. People gamble with humans here all the time, you know, so this has definitely happened before. The IPC definitely expects it to happen again. And besides”—he returns his attention to your dress, starting to slip the fabric down your shoulders—“I'm just cashing out my winnings. I'm sure they wouldn't deny a gambler his vices. That'd be bad business.”

You want to say more, but then he tugs, suddenly exposing you. You’re bare in front of him—in front of everyone. You can feel eyes on you. Heat curls in your gut as he grabs your tits again, his satin gloves smooth across your skin, and your nipples pebble beneath them. “Hm… much better.”

“But…” You bite your lip, glancing around. There are so many people watching now—so many voyeurs, who've forgotten about their games and their slots. Though there are a greater number of people who are continuing as usual, studying their hands, smoking their cigarettes, unperturbed. All regulars and VIPs, you know from your intelligence.

Aventurine pauses as you catalogue the room, raising a brow. Probably he's surprised at your sudden modesty; you usually have none when his touch is involved.

“Of course,” he adds, “if you'd rather enjoy the suite upstairs…”

“No—I don’t mind staying down here… it's just that I’ve never…”

Your voice trails off. Your eyes traverse the space again. There are people who’ve fully thrown their cards down, greedily drinking in the sight of you instead. Even some of the dealers are watching between hands, glancing at you instead of watching for cheaters. Like this is public entertainment, like you're a show.

Aventurine tilts his head.

“You've never had sex with an audience?” he guesses. He sounds surprised—perplexed. You don't know why. You know he knows it's a stupid question. You know he knows the answer.

You had sex in front of people all the time before you met him. You did it for the exact reasons that he’s almost certainly done the same. To this table of business magnates, you are closer to an expensive watch than a human being; to the IPC, you are more like an overpriced knife; to this gambling hall, you're an interesting sideshow.

To your captors who fucked you in public, you guess you were something like a toy.

The thought sitting in your mouth is this: you've never had sex with an audience and enjoyed it. It was painful—not painful for the heart or the mind or anything else sentimental, but painful like it felt you were a fish being gutted open by a knife. And even beyond that physical pain, you simply didn't enjoy being passed around. You didn't like being owned by those people. You didn't like being an object for their entertainment, a spectacle to be consumed.

But it's different with Aventurine. You like being his luxury hand watch. You like being his elegant knife, his liar’s dice, his pretty poker chip. You like being his plaything, spread for his viewing whenever he wants. You want to be his object—the object of his affections, something he can parade around just like his expensive suits and his beautiful jewellery and his ostentatious furs. Look at me, he uses them to say. Look at what I own. Look at what I own despite this commodity code on my neck. Look at what I've won despite my eyes and my blood.

You want him to own you too. You want him to show everyone that he won you, that he bought you, that you're his possession now. That he, and he alone, is free to treat you like a toy.

You're getting wetter just thinking about it.

“Nevermind,” you whisper. “Let's do it.”

His smile widens ever so slightly. Slyer than usual.

“Good,” he says. He guides you into standing. “Let’s get you settled then.”

You're seated back on the card table. The cigarette is forgotten in the ashtray next to you. Aventurine takes the time to straighten out your dress, lifting the straps back up and affording you some modesty—before he gently lays you out.

You look up at him as you're spread in front of him, laid out next to his royal flush and winnings. Like you're another chip in his stacks, the most expensive one. He puts a hand beneath your leg, drapes it over his shoulder. He takes the opportunity to kiss your calf, his lips delicate.

You glance at the tables around you. You watch the business owners and politicians as they watch Aventurine. You watch them as they watch your boyfriend pepper kisses up your leg, unless he's settling in between them. Your thighs spread easily for him, and you don't resist as he hikes up your skirt.

Then he frowns.

“I’ve never seen these panties before.”

“They’re new,” you relay.

“From your husband?”

“Yup.”

“I see.”

You can't see his face, but he sounds distinctly displeased. You expect him to complain, to say they're not expensive enough or not designer enough or just plain ugly.

You don't expect him to tear them right off.

“Aventurine?!”

You're so surprised you sit up, just in time to see him throw tatters of silk to the floor.

“What?” He looks up at you, expression unbothered, almost mild. “It wasn't your colour.”

Your mouth opens. “But it was still very nice!”

“I'll buy you nicer ones later. I’ll buy you a whole drawer of nicer ones later, when we’re done here.”

He looks down again, humming. Your cheeks flush as he spreads your legs again, baring your glistening sex to him—this time completely bare. Satin glides along the inside of your thighs, and your breath hitches when he reaches their apex. You feel the light touch of a finger along your opening, and you feel your body responding, tightening around nothing.

“Tell me,” he says, “What else did your husband do with you?”

His voice is casual, almost disinterested, but you know Aventurine is listening carefully.

“Not much,” you answer truthfully. “I haven't cum in months, you know.”

“Oh?” He sounds surprised. “You don't have sex with him?”

“No. He's fucked me a lot. It”—you whimper, pausing when you feel his fingers spreading you open, fluttering hole and swollen clit exposed to him—“it just wasn't very good.”

“Then”—you feel a thumb press against your clit, and you swallow—“he never touched you here?”

“N-no.”

“Stupid of him.” He’s drawing slow, lazy circles into the bud now, making you squirm on the table. You press yourself eagerly toward his familiar touch, having desperately missed it for months. Aventurine, perhaps sensing your neediness, asks, “And you didn't touch yourself?”

“He didn't let me,” you whine, and now he's frowning at you.

“I knew I should have gotten you out of there sooner,” he says, and you have to bite back a laugh. Aventurine’s mouth curls at the sound, and he leans in to place a kiss on your thigh. “But that’s fine. I'll make it up to you now.”

Aventurine kisses are soft and precise. They pepper a path up your thigh while his fingers continue to play lazily with your clit. You want—need—to feel something inside you, but he doesn't oblige. His fingers merely run along your entrance, teasing your dripping pussy with luxury satin, and that's all they do, even as your hips buck needily toward him.

He pauses for just a moment. When you look at him, you see him staring at you—at the brand on your inner thigh, the commodity code that your captors left on you, branding you as a product to be used and sold.

His voice is almost soft when he asks, “And what did your husband say when he saw this?”

“He never did,” you reply. “He always fucked me from behind. And he never went down on me.” You pause, thinking about the way he spoke of his business. Of his trade partners. Of what your captors had done to your home when you told him about it, feigning intimacy only to be matched in cruelty. You think about the way he fucked you, how it felt to be gutted open on his expensive, silk sheets.

None of it matters to you, really. This is behaviour that you’ve long accepted, that your body always anticipates. But you always like to offer Aventurine intimacy, whether real or feigned, whether he returns it equally or responds with undeserved cruelty: “I think it wouldn't have bothered him if he had noticed it.”

You can't see Aventurine’s eyes, but you can feel his reaction when he places a chaste kiss on your product code.

“I should have gotten you out of there sooner,” he repeats. Then he pauses. “Maybe I shouldn't have let you go at all.”

“I didn't mind,” you say. You aren't lying. “You gave me up for a reason.”

He stands. Cups your face with a palm, luxuriant fabric and gold rings pressed against your skin. Sometimes he's given up the aventurine stone temporarily for assignments, parting with it in elaborate gambles that he always manages to win. The way he’s touching you now reminds you of the way he holds the gem whenever it returns to his hand.

“Well,” he says, “I’m sorry it took so long to get you back.”

Aventurine tilts your chin up for a kiss. You meet it eagerly, and it's so tender in its familiarity that every memory of your husband fades. There's only Aventurine, and his gentle mouth, and the way his hands slide your dress down again, how he palms your breasts again. How he teases one nipple with his expensive rings until you're moaning into his mouth. How his other hand travels down until his gloved hand is cupping your heat. You drag your hips against his touch, desperately seeking some kind of friction, your wetness drenching the cloth. Your cunt clenches around nothing, your body aching to be filled by him, aching in a way that it does for no one else.

It’s one of the most addictive feelings you've ever known.

Aventurine only stops touching you so he can push away all the chips, clearing space on the table. He ignores the cacophony as countless stacks fall over, not sparing the plastic coins a single glance. Like you're the only prize that matters to him, even though the sum of his winnings come out to more than you ever were worth.

He lays you out on the table again, flat on your back, exposed, before kissing a path down your body—your neck, your breasts, your stomach, between your thighs. He deigns to give your product code one more kiss, his lips so gentle that it makes you tremble—and then he finally puts his mouth on you. He licks a hot stripe from your dripping pussy up to the crest of your sex, and your eyes close in bliss.

If you felt any uncertainty before this, it's completely gone now. Your hands ghost over your tits, playing with them as Aventurine’s tongue plays with you. He sucks on your neglected clit, fingers squeezing your thighs, keeping you spread open and still for him. He presses in, lets you drag your cunt over his greedy mouth and grind your clit against his face. Heat and pressure coil tight in your belly as he pleasures you, your body flushing with the kind of bliss only Aventurine can give you. You’re so lost in it that you almost don’t notice how quiet the rest of the hall has gotten, the cacophony of chatter and slot machines oddly subdued—almost missing. In their absence, the obscene noises that Aventurine is drawing from your mouth and body are louder than they should be.

The pleasure in your belly is just starting to swell when he pulls away. You give him a pleading look as he leans over you, but before you can start begging for more, you feel his fingers press against your heat. He watches you with keen eyes as he starts rubbing your pussy, maybe enjoying the desperate noises you make at his touch. You buck your hips, moaning as your clit and entrance grind against the fabric of his gloves, seeking friction. You’re empty, aching, desperate to be filled, but you think you can finish like this, just by rutting against his satin fingers—

Aventurine withdraws his hand, and you whine.

“No,” you beg, “please, please keep going, I was getting close—”

He raises a brow, feigning surprise. “Keep going?” He brings up his hand, shows you his gloves. The satin is soaked, shiny and stained with your slick. “I don't think I should. Look at what a mess you’ve made of my gloves.” Aventurine hums, frowning. “These are designer, you know. And limited—there are only 95 pairs of these in the whole universe. And you're ruining them.”

“I'm sorry,” you say, mind so fogged with lust that you can't even return his teasing. “I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you, I'll do anything, just—just let me cum—”

“Anything?” His smile is sly.

“Anything.”

“Well. I suppose if you help me clean this up, I wouldn't mind rewarding you with more.”

You don't need to ask what he means by that. When he holds out his hand to you, runs a finger along your lips, you obediently open your mouth for him. Your tongue slides along the wet satin, only making his glove messier—but he seems not to mind. He merely watches intently as your tongue cleans his fingers, taking in the obscene image of you hungrily lapping your own slick off the expensive fabric.

He lets you ruin his glove thoroughly before finally drawing back, peeling it off.

“I'm not sure that did any good,” he says, frowning. “I’ll probably need to buy a new pair. But”—he pulls away, and you feel him settle between your legs again, his hands spreading them. “I'll still reward you for the effort.”

Aventurine is quick about getting his mouth back on you. His tongue is hot on your skin, expertly teasing your clit. You feel his fingers running along your entrance again, growing sticky with his need. He laughs when you press your hips toward his hand, desperate to be filled.

Then he's pressing his bare fingers into your heat, and your back is arching off the table.

The moan you let out is obscene. It only gets worse when his fingers curl, making the pressure in your belly even heavier. Utterly shameless, you beg for him as he fucks you with his fingers: Aventurine, please, please, I need more, please, I'm so close, I'm so close.

As if taking pity on you, his mouth finds your clit again, his fingers pressing into your sweet spot at the same time. And he doesn't let up, pushing into it even when you think you can't take anymore—tongue swirling against your overstimulated bud, fingers making you gush uncontrollably. You practically sob when you cum, a noise of desperation that echoes in the gambling hall.

His smile looks a little fonder than usual—or maybe just entertained—as he stands again and leans over you. You taste your own release in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, and he strokes your face when he pulls away.

“So good for me,” he praises. “Are you going to let me do more?”

You nod eagerly. “Whatever you like,” you say, all sense of shame gone from your body, “and however you want.”

Aventurine’s mouth curls. “Your husband fucked you from behind, right? Why don't you bend over for me, then? Let's show him how he should have been doing it.”

You see the diamond pupils of Aventurine’s eyes glance off to the side, where, sure enough, your husband is spectating with some of his business partners. You force yourself to turn away before you can smile, hiding your expression from the other men. You’re not meant to derive any real pleasure from any of this, let alone pleasure of the vindictive kind. Your relationship with Aventurine is supposedly nothing but a gambler and his newly won, human plaything. It would be suspicious if you appeared to be anything else.

You slink off the table in a distinctly performative way, and Aventurine plays equally into the show—probably an act as familiar to him as it is to you. He guides you into turning around, your eyes falling on the scattered cards on the tabletop, the casino’s eyes falling on you. His hands waste no time in pulling down your dress and reaching around to knead your breasts, in full view of the rest of the gambling hall. You're only vaguely aware of your audience now, registering the interested, hungry stares, but not really caring. You're too focused on the way that Aventurine is tugging and twisting at your nipples, at how he’s pressed up against your ass, his cock straining through his pants. You grind needily against him, whining.

Aventurine kisses your shoulder. “Poor thing. You've been neglected for so long, haven't you?” His hands retreat, and you hear the sound of a zipper being undone. Then your skirt’s being pushed up and you're being bent over, your dripping pussy fully presented to him. When you feel the press of his cockhead against your entrance, you desperately try to push yourself back onto him. But he doesn't allow you to—only running the tip along your wet folds, still sticky from your release, while he stills you with a gentle touch on your hip.

You make a pathetic, desperate noise. Aventurine chuckles, though there’s now a breathy quality to his voice.

“Be patient,” he chides. “I'll take care of you.”

You know he will. He always takes care of you, in a way that no one else ever has. Even when he gambles your life for some mission, even when he can barely afford you the barest hints of intimacy, even when he displays your body to an audience of slave traders and murderers—he always takes care of you. Even if you are only a knife or a wristwatch or a chip in one of his games, he still treats you like you're worth holding onto.

Aventurine finally moves. Your eyes flutter shut as you feel his cock sliding into you. Usually he needs to be careful after your long missions away from him, knowing you'll be tense. He understands that your body always anticipates being in pain after being touched by other people. But he has you so worked up right now—still dripping from your release, still pliant from his fingers, still eager to please him before the crowd—that your cunt easily swallows his length. The stretch is pure bliss, pleasure unfurling in your body as you're filled up properly for the first time in months. He's just as affected as you, breath shaking as he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he breathes—laughs. “Nearly forgot how good this feels.” He pauses, his breathing slowing—almost stopping each time you squeeze around him. You turn back, throwing him a pleading glance, and he meets it with an endeared smile. “Eager today, aren't you?” He hums, a hand sliding along your waist. “You really do need to be properly fucked.”

He's stalling. Trying to give you a moment to adjust, but you don't need it. “Yes,” you encourage him. Aching for the press of his cock against your walls, you grind against him, and you hear a strangled groan as you force him to move inside you. “Please, Aventurine—please, please fuck me, I need it so badly—”

He hums, both hands grabbing your hips, his fingers sinking into you. “Well. Since you asked so nicely.”

The first thrust has your eyes going wide, your hands reaching for the card table as you’re forced to bend over. You spread our palms next to the mess of heart cards and shiny tokens, bracing yourself for the way your body’s about to be used. He doesn't give you time to breathe after, each stroke filling you deep and fast. The rest of the gambling hall grows very, very quiet as Aventurine fucks you, and suddenly all you can hear is the appreciative murmur of the crowd, clink of ice cubes in aged whiskey, the noisy flick of lighters as more patrons opt to pause their games and enjoy the show. You hear the shattering of all the stacks beside you, hundreds of thousands of dollars in chips fall over beside you, tokens clinking as they roll across the tabletop. But all of that is soon drowned out by the wet noise of your pussy being fucked open, the squelch of your slick around his cock. You moan each time he bottoms out, eager to be filled.

When you feel his cock press into your sweet spot, your moans quickly turn into cries.

You hear something like a breathy laugh from Aventurine. Your body always reveals itself so easily to him, and you know he enjoys it. He hits that spot again and again, builds an agonizing tension in your body with every thrust of his hips. It has your pussy gushing around him, your thighs growing wet and sticky with your need.

Just when it feels like you can't take anymore, he reaches down and presses his fingers against your throbbing clit. Your knees buckle as he toys with you, chest heaving against the table as he sets a brutal pace. You're—overwhelmed, mind going hazy as you're fucked mercilessly. So far gone, you can hardly register the disgruntled expression of your husband, the hungry gazes of his companions, the way that other players are starting to shift in their seats, palming themselves at the sight of your pussy being split open. There's only the tight coil in your gut, the chips between your fingers as you grab uselessly for something to ground you, the cock that's filling you over and over and over—and oh fuck, you’re going to cum, you're really going to cum after being won in a game, from having your pussy used like a sleeve, from being watched by men who will never own you no matter how many times they trade you, no matter how many times they fuck you, no matter how many times they pass you around, because you'll only ever belong to Aventurine—

Your orgasm crashes through your body, and you sob.

It's a broken, blissed out noise. Your pussy is equally shameless, gushing as you pulse around Aventurine’s cock. You go limp as he fucks you through your orgasm, uncaring about the mess you're making. He only groans as you squirt all over him, hips stuttering as he reaches his own peak—spilling himself inside you, pumping you full. Aventurine’s body slumps over yours as rides out his high, his face pressing into your shoulder. You find the wherewithal to shift yourself, just enough to your lips against the tattoo on his neck. He looks at you for a fleeting moment, the blue ring of his eyes electric on you, before capture your mouth in a desperate, messy kiss.

The two of you stay there for a long moment, panting into each other. Then Aventurine collects himself, remembers how to talk: “Fuck.”

You piece yourself together just as easily. Maybe even faster. Smiling into his mouth, you ask, “Enjoy yourself?”

“Clearly.” Aventurine presses his lips into your neck, lingering only briefly. “Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Aventurine takes his time with moving, as if basking in the afterglow—or bragging in it. But he does rise, eventually. Pulls out slowly, making you shudder. He helps you to your feet, lets you hold onto him for support. His spend drips down your thighs as you right yourself, messy and hot on your skin. You can feel it sliding down your legs as you walk, braced against Aventurine as he guides you in the long walk toward the elevator. It slips all the way down to your calves, to your expensive heels, even onto the marble floor.

You're fairly certain that it's not an accident when Aventurine flips up your skirt as you pass your ex-husband. At the very least, it isn't a mistake when you stumble in that same moment, bending over and giving him a good look at your well-used pussy, now overfilled with your boyfriend’s cum. You don't stop to look at him, but you know he must be red-faced, displeased—aware that he’s been humiliated. Beaten by a Stoneheart, concubine stolen by Sigonian, one of his favourite possessions claimed by a former slave. You'd laugh if you could.

You can't help but kiss Aventurine while the two of you wait for the elevator, a smile glowing into his lips.

It's absurd, but a staff member approaches the two of you as you indulge in one another. Aventurine pulls away as you’re approached, looking mildly annoyed as he switches on his synesthesia beacon.

“Sir,” the staff says, “you’ve left your other winnings at the table.”

Even in his post-orgasm bliss, Aventurine responds promptly. “I’ll cash it all,” he says. “Send the money to my room. I'm not coming back tomorrow.”

“Very well. And the terms of the… human resource exchange that just happened?”

Aventurine’s jaw clicks. It's quiet, but surprising. You watch him carefully.

“We didn't bet contracts,” he says. “This is a concubine, not a slave. But tell Mister Li I'll buy them anyway. I'll pay whatever price he wants, which I’d wager is the company that he gambled and lost to me. Maybe suggest that to him.”

“Of course,” the staff member replies, bowing. Despite the first-rate service, Aventurine looks like he can't get out of there sooner enough as he guides you into the elevator. You give him a curious look as the door closes.

“You're going to give up a multiplanetary corporation just for this?” you ask.

“Not entirely. The IPC was planning to acquire it anyway. It'll be ours again in a few months.” He stares at your reflections in the mirror, his strange eyes lingering on your dishevelled form. “We’ll put your intel to good use,” he adds, and although Jade or Diamond or any of your real bosses would say this with a smile and reward you with a bonus, Aventurine’s expression is unreadable.

“What's on your mind?” you ask, fingers brushing against his hand. “You’re worried about something.”

Aventurine blinks, and it takes him a moment to recover.

“Nothing. Just hoping we didn't give our relationship away just now.” He cups your face with a hand, guides you into looking at his smile. A deflection. “I might have gotten carried away.”

You lean into his touch, eyes playful: a performance. As if he's some stranger that you're servicing, a captor being entertained; as if you're a plaything about to be used. As if you expect to be treated like the disposable commodity that your husband just gambled away.

“I wouldn't worry,” you reassure him. “I'm sure after the show we put on, it'll be clear to anyone that you're only keeping me around for sex.”

It's very, very subtle, but a muscle in Aventurine's neck twitches. He'd never allow it in a game of cards, never before the IPC, never before the prying eyes of slavers and killers—but he allows it in front of you. He always unwittingly bares himself to you, even as he swallows his discomfort before adopting his usual, vulpine expression. You don't think anyone else would notice what lies beneath the gilded surface of his smile, his liar’s eyes. You don't think anyone else would notice his tells, his vulnerabilities, his quiet fear of loss.

After all, there is no one else in this universe who knows how to trick him into intimacy.

Winning has always come with a certain emptiness for Aventurine. Gambling is, after all, a zero sum game. He plays a royal flush and people lose their homes. Winner takes all. He survives the fighting pits, his blade dripping red with the lives of other slaves. Winner takes all. He runs from the stench of blood and burning flesh, praying for thunder and rain loud enough to drown the screams of his dying kin. Winner takes all.

He alone survives. He alone enjoys his riches. Ever since the Avgin died, he has always been by himself. There is no amount of coin nor credit that will ever change this.

Here is another unyielding fact that hollows any win: that no matter how many credits he collects, he will always be a chip himself. He will always be a plastic token worth sixty coppers. Gambling is a zero-sum game, and ever since the day he was chained, Aventurine has been the pool of riches divided among winners. He has always been the commodity being traded between hands. He has always been the prize to be cashed out and used. Even now, with all this money and power, it will never be him who comes to collect: it will always be the IPC. Winner takes all.

Such is his fate. Luck is always on his side, but he has always had the losing hand against destiny. No matter how many times he wins, there is nothing that will ever truly belong to him.

But then he met you.

Then he met you, and now his luck does not always feel like such a cruel or empty thing. Now the zero-sum game has meaning. He hedges his bets in the market and buys out a planet, and acquires you along with the shares. Winner takes all. He gambles his life against a nuclear power and comes out on top, and the IPC allows him to keep you by his side. Winner takes all. He plays a royal flush and wins at a table of slave traders, and he gets to fuck you until you can't think of any cock but his own. Winner takes all.

Gambling is a zero-sum game, and when you're the reward, Aventurine wouldn't have it any other way. He’ll never share you with anyone. He'll never sell you to anyone.

He’ll never lose you to anyone.

Sometimes it surprises him, this attachment he feels to you. He doesn't quite understand it, but he thinks it mostly just has to do with how good it feels to fuck you. Much like gambling, Aventurine has never enjoyed sex until you came along. Sex for him has always felt like a humiliation, like being gutted open as a captive animal, like being won and passed around in the grand hall of some gaudy casino.

Which is, in fact, another thing he never thought he'd enjoy: having sex in the Venetian Zhijin before an audience of revolting men. He'd resented having to do it as a slave, but he’d enjoyed doing it with you as a Stoneheart. He'd even do it again if he could—take you over and over again on that card table, fill you up with his cum. Spread your cunt in front of everyone, so they could see for themselves that you were now his. Winner takes all.

Winning doesn't feel empty when you're his reward. Sex doesn't either. Because Aventurine isn't a chip or an animal or a commodity when he fucks you—he's a player. Someone with a seat at the table, as just as wealthy and powerful as the slave traders around him. Someone who’s allowed to own something—really own something.

Really allowed to own you.

Aventurine owns you. When he fucks you, he is a player at the table, and you are the prize he gets to keep. And no matter how you feel about him and how you act toward him—this is all the two of you will ever be. He knows this. He knows that you know it too.

So sometimes he can't fathom it, the way he treats you in bed. The way he always kisses your commodity code when he sees it, the way he allows you to kiss his own. The way he always thinks about pleasuring you until you're drunk on his cock, so addicted to him that you’ll never want to be touched by anyone else. The way he always likes how your body feels when it's being shaped by his hands. How different it feels from being forced to touch other people.

How badly you make him want something that he's always hated.

And this is what he understands least of all: how he doesn't like to hear you say aloud the true nature of your relationship. How he doesn't like it when you accept this reality and say, you're only keeping me around for sex.

It hollows him out when he hears it. A bitter feeling swells in his throat, and he forces himself to swallow.

Aventurine keeps his face neutral as he enters the suite with you. As soon as the door is shut, you pull him close—close enough for him to see the blurred lines of your lipstick, smudged from his mouth; close enough to see the white diamond necklace on your neck, a collar for a concubine; close enough to see the finger-shaped discolorations on your throat, poorly hidden by your foundation.

Close enough to see all the things done to your body by others—all the things you didn't choose for yourself.

“How do you want to have me next?” Your fingertip traces his lips. “On the bed? In the shower?” Your eyes are playful. “Maybe against the window?”

Aventurine’s hand cups your cheek, gold rings pressed against your skin. His hold is delicate, more careful than with anything else he's ever handled—any of his watches, his furs, his jewellery. Even more than with the aventurine stone.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You blink.

“Kiss me?” Your brow ticks up, but then your face lights up in supposed understanding. “Okay. You can kiss me. And then?”

“And then I'll keep kissing you.”

You tilt your head, not understanding. “Really?”

“What? Is that off-limits now?” He leans in, expression playful. “Don't tell me I've got to go back downstairs and win back permission to kiss you from your husband.”

Before you can say anything else—ask anything else, perceive anything else—he presses his mouth to yours. Your eyes widen for only a moment before falling shut, your arms wrapping around his neck. Your lips part for him, and he delights in the noise you make as he deepens the kiss.

He did lie, in a way. The two of you do end up fucking again—this time in bed, your mouth gasping into his as you fall apart for him, wet and needy around his cock. You're so warm around him, so pliable beneath him, so desperate when possessed by him. He knows that he could keep going, that he could do anything to you, that you'd be eager to let him use you however he wants.

But all he does afterward is kiss you.

This is yet another act that he never thought he'd enjoy. Kissing has always felt like a chore or a power play or a manipulation. It has always come with a certain emptiness—just like gambling, just like sex. And then he met you, and now it no longer feels so hollow. Because when he wins bets for the IPC, he feels like a poker chip in one of their games, but when he’s fucking you, he feels like a player at the table. And sometimes, when he kisses you—when he holds you close, when you come down from your high and press your face into the crook of his neck and in the vulnerable haze of your bliss, tell him, I missed you—

—he finally feels like a human being.

end notes: christ alive I have never written anything so horny glddjsksjs. I apologize for both my mid smut writing and deranged characterization 💔

initially this was supposed to be brainless pwp about aventurine eating you out on a poker table but I kept asking myself “why the hell did aventurine gamble for human beings and why are these two insane enough to be fucking in a casino tho lol”, and thus a coherent narrative was born from my shameless lust for this guy! but please also don't take the story too seriously because this is a dumb smut piece first and foremost and I mostly wrote it with my clit 😔✌️

that being said, if you are curious about the subject matter that I covered – here's an afterword expanding on my intentions with the themes.

[tomahachi12]

What's the story behind your drone-sona? Since she has the Cabin Fever tag, I was curious what's the story behind her.

BUCKLE UP, IT'S A LONG ONE (some of this is headcanon crap, so not all info would be show accurate)

Toma (012) was a just regular worker drone working within the offices of the JCJenson Mining Facility.

The area of the offices she worked in had drones split into small groups to complete larger projects. She was part of the group which included Nori (002), Yeva (048) and Alice (017) (I LOVE THEM LEAVE ME ALONE).

She was usually tasked with taking paperwork back and forth between her group to turn in or for them to work on, something she was.. pretty bad at.

Because of Nori's shenanigans, their group often got in trouble with the humans.

At some point, Drones began to be selected from a lottery pool to be transferred to the lower levels of the facility. At first, the Humans would play this off as a "promotion" of sorts in order to keep the drones from becoming suspicious of their intentions and keep their minds at ease.

As time went on, the humans dropped the façade and the drones began to fear these selections, given that the chosen drones were never seen or heard from again after being selected.

Eventually, Toma's ID was drawn as the next to go. (she was chosen first out of their group, next was Alice, then Yeva and Nori was the last)

Toma was taken down the Cabin Fever Labs to be used in the "Solver" experiments.

When she was infected with the Solver Program, it took her over instantly. She was quickly given an early version of the patch (1.5.8) before causing too much damage.

The effect of the Solver's code on her body left her lethargic and forgetful. Since she was patched early, she cannot use the solver, but still suffers from it's effects; occasional possession, the need to consume oil, ect..

Not being able to provide much information for their research, the humans mostly kept her bound in her locker. Sometimes they even forgot she was in there.

Before the core collapse, she was able to escape her chains and wondered around the mines for a minute before the eventual implosion.

She was blown out the facility and somehow managed to survive, not only the blast, but even the crash back down to the planet. Though it knocked her offline for a time, causing anyone that found her to think she was dead.

RIP Toma lol

After she eventually woke up, she stayed put for a few months, hiding out in the outer buildings of the facility until she was found by another worker drone.

This drone invited Toma to join his colony, Outpost 9. She agreed and followed him to the base (wow Toma, ever heard of stranger danger gdamn..)

Toma was welcomed in this colony and she lived there for several years, learning how to live a life free from human-control. She was even able to pick up an old hobby she was never allowed to do back at the offices, drawing.

The nightmares gave her plenty to draw anyway.

Eventually, it all went to shit when the Murder Drones showed up, popped that base open like a soda can, and killed everyone inside.

Toma's solver kept her hidden long enough her to escape unnoticed. She needed somewhere to go and began to make her way toward the city she saw in the distance.

( oh hi, Y )

It took a while but she made it to the City only to find, you guessed it, more Murder Drones. She somehow managed to dodge them as well and found her way to some very large doors that resembled the ones back at her old colony. She frantically banged on the doors, shouting for help as she Murder Drones closed in on her.

The doors suddenly cracked open and a hand reached out, grabbing hold of Toma's coat and pulled her inside before slamming shut again.

She was met by a group of drones all sitting around a table, seemingly playing cards. The drone that pulled her in helped her up to her feet. After checking if she was alright, he introduced himself as "Khan" the apparent leader of this colony. Outpost 3.

She was welcomed in` just as warmly as she was in her last colony, and settled in easily, but soon found this colony was quite.. different from her old one. There were.. "kids" running around, and "babies" and... "teenagers".. Some drones were even married.

She also found out that every adult drones had to contribute to their society as well, unless they were raising children. Everyone had a job, and Toma was expected to have one as well.

She decided to join the Worker Defense Force, mostly as "watchman". She was tasked with doing patrols around the colony, looking out for any potential problems or weak points that could cause a breach.

She was pretty bad at it since she kept falling asleep while on patrol or forgetting where she was suppose to be.

The others were very forgiving toward her, though, but they figured she needed a different job.

After taking note of her interest in art, she was given the job as the new Art Teacher for the school.

Now if only she could stop falling asleep in class..

TL;DR/I only looked at the pretty pictures:

Toma was part of the Solver Experiments and now lives at Outpost 3 as the resident dumbass Art Teacher.

[bluetoes-andstuff]

A Hidden Desire

Chapter 1 - Curious Fascination

Summary: Caesar rarely has time to reflect, and when he does he always finds himself falling down this same path...

Rating: T (Eventual NSFW)

Word Count: 2.5k

Relationships: Eventual Caesar x Fem!Human Reader

Warnings: mentions animal mating, and sexual themes

Next Chapter

***If you are under 18 I would advise not reading, this is not an explicit chapter but this will be a story that explores nsfw themes later on. Best to just not go down the path to begin with. Be safe***

Caesar sat alone outside his nest, legs hanging over the edge of the porch wrapped around his home. The early morning sun filtered through the canopy of trees below, casting dappled shadows on the floor of the colony, a mosaic of light and dark as his people began to awake. It was in these quiet moments, away from the watchful eyes of his fellow apes, that Caesar allowed himself to ponder his life thus far. And despite his attempts to stray from the thoughts, more often than not lately, his mind was drawn towards the mystery of humanity.

Perhaps it was the absence of humans that had drawn this interest, or maybe it was a slow build of his pent-up, biological desires. Despite the scars of betrayal and the bitter memories of conflict, a stubborn fascination with humans lingered in Caesar's heart. It was a curiosity born not of naivety, but of a deep, unshakable connection to his past. Raised by a human father, Caesar had been nurtured with love and compassion, qualities he had come to cherish and emulate. It's what has contributed to his success as a leader and guide for ape kind.

Caesar knows who he is… he is an ape; he is not human. He is proud of where he is and how far he and his people have come. They’ve established their own community and developed a society. And he has the right to take full responsibility for all of it. Yet, there were still moments when Caesar found himself longing for the simple human experiences he once shared with his father. He missed the quiet evenings spent reading books together, the way his father’s voice would bring the stories to life. He missed the warmth of a home, the smell of fresh cooking, and the classical piano music that would echo through the halls during rainy days. These memories were bittersweet, a reminder of a time when the world, to him, seemed simpler, and the lines between ape and human were not so starkly drawn.

Despite these things he missed, he was still able to look back, smile, and move forward with his day, knowing that this was exactly where he was meant to be. There were other things though, about humanity, that had always drawn upon a certain kind of curiosity, even to this day. A curiosity and fascination that he was never quite able to quench even when he lived with his human family. He had been too young to fully grasp the concept at the time. He was just coming to the age where his body yearned for that understanding and developed interest when everything began to fall apart.

Humans had intriguing courting rituals. The displays of affection he saw between his father and mother were just commonplace when he was growing up with them. He assumed it was normal, but it most definitely was not. His years with his own kind have been enlightening for him. All those things he saw among humans, being through courting, affection, even mating… he assumed he would one day experience that as well, but these rituals were not normal amongst his kind.

He had held onto that desire to understand, know, and feel those same things he had witnessed among not just his parents, but the other humans he had seen on television, in books, and in the videos he had begun to stumble across in his curious search for answers. He’s come to realize that the only way to fully understand those feelings would be to experience it himself… but at this point it was simply out of the question. Humans have been gone for a long time, and he had his people to worry about, he couldn’t get distracted by some human-indoctrinated fantasy. He’s come to accept that.

During their first year in Muir Woods, he had done his fair share of “messing around” as humans would say, trying to find a proper mate to fulfill those human needs he was still clinging to, but there hadn’t been a single one that had been capable of satiating him. They didn’t make the noises like he was hoping, and out of all the ones he’d taken back to his nest, only Cornelia had agreed to lie on her back while he had his way with her, she did not question him like the others had with his odd request… The ordeal had been uncomfortable, and she had squirmed far too much for there to have been any enjoyment. And every time… It was short. By the time he was beginning to feel that urgency and burn in his gut, the females were no longer interested.  There was no intimacy or “foreplay” as humans say.

None of it was human like he craved.

It took him some time, but he had to accept that the desires held in his heart were not meant to be fulfilled. It was an unnatural feeling he craved as an ape and he could not jeopardize the apes’ future for his silly human-influenced lust.

So, Caesar married Cornelia more out of the convenience of friendship than love. They were well acquainted with each other, and as the leader, he was expected to take on a mate to produce an heir. Cornelia was strong and kind, qualities that made her a fitting partner in the eyes of the colony. Her frequent respect and loyalty without question to Caesar opened a door for him that brought enough satiation to distract him from his human feelings. She was always willing to appeal to his odd human fantasies even without knowledge of where he got such wild ideas. 

Their relationship had been one of mutual respect and understanding. Cornelia had always supported Caesar’s leadership, offering wise counsel and a steady presence. She understood the burdens he carried and stood by him through the many trials they faced. Though their bond was not one of passionate love, it was built on a foundation of trust and shared responsibility.

She bore him twin sons, Blue Eyes and Cornelius. The birth of his sons was a moment of joy, but it was also marked by profound sorrow, as Cornelia did not survive the ordeal. Twins amongst chimpanzees were extremely rare as well as extremely dangerous for the mother. It was a surprise marked with excitement and dread, both parents knowing the cost it may have.

Caesar mourned for her deeply, not just for the loss of a companion, but for the future they might have shared. Her death left a void in his heart, a reminder of the fragility of life and the sacrifices made in the name of survival. Now, with the weight of leadership pressing down on him, Caesar faced the expectation to find another mate. Yet, he had no desire to choose from among the apes in his colony. His heart was not ready to open again, and the memories of his human upbringing made the prospect even more complicated; those feelings and desires that have chased him his entire life resurfacing.

He twisted around to glance inside his hut to see both his sons still fast asleep. They were curled around each other, Cornelius’ head tucked up beneath Blue Eyes' chin. Caesar felt a pang of longing. He wanted to give them the same warmth and security he had known as a child. The legacy of his father, the human who had raised him, loomed large in his mind. A legacy of love and understanding, one that he hoped to pass on to Blue Eyes and Cornelius, even as he navigated the complexities of his own heart.

He doesn’t picture ever being able to bring another female into his life like he did their mother, there being no foundation of attraction or desire, nor a mutual respect like he and Cornelia did. Yet, he knew that for the sake of his sons and his people, he would need to find a way to reconcile his past with the future that lay ahead. Eventually, he will have to find another mate… a Queen like the colony deserves… and a mother like his sons deserve.

Caesar watched the sun continue to rise above the canopy of trees, lost in his never-ending thoughts. The gentle rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds provided a soothing backdrop to his reflections.

Suddenly, a familiar presence approached from behind, taking a seat beside him. Rocket looks sideways at him with a kind smile, and Caesar returns it, lifting his arm to place it around his friend’s shoulders.

“Thinking about the past again?” Rocket signs.

Caesar nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he turned away to look over the trees once more. Rocket had a way of lightening the mood, even in the heaviest of moments.

“You know, it’s been a couple of winters since Cornelia…” He hesitated, then continued with a teasing grin. “Maybe it’s time you found someone new?”

Caesar’s smile faded slightly. He appreciated Rocket’s concern, but the idea of going through the process of finding another mate felt distant and unappealing. He signed back, his movements deliberate and calm.

“I’m not interested, Rocket.”

Rocket raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. He signed back with exaggerated gestures, trying to coax a different response.

“Come on, there are plenty of females in the colony. Strong, kind, beautiful…” He paused, then added with a gleam in his eye, “And they all admire you.”

Caesar shook his head, his expression serious. He appreciated Rocket’s efforts, but his heart wasn’t in it. He signed slowly, choosing his words carefully. 

“I’m well over Cornelia. It’s not about her. I just… don’t feel that way about anyone here.”

Rocket’s playful demeanor shifted to one of concern. He signed back, his movements slower and more thoughtful.

“But why? What’s wrong?”

Caesar hesitated. He knew Rocket wouldn’t understand the full depth of his feelings, the complex mix of his human thoughts and desires, and the expectations of his role as leader. It is not something he thinks he can repress twice over. He signed back, his movements gentle but firm.

“It’s complicated. You wouldn’t understand.”

Rocket looked at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. He didn’t push further, sensing that this was a boundary Caesar wasn’t ready to cross. Instead, he offered a supportive smile and signed back.

“Alright, my friend. Just know that we’re here for you, no matter what… If you ever have certain needs…. Without wanting a mate, we can work something out.”

Caesar nodded, grateful for Rocket’s understanding, and amused at the irony of his suggestion. As his friend turned to leave, Caesar grunted. His time of reflection has ended, and the quest to begin the day's chores is soon to begin.

Caesar walked into the colony, where the other apes were busy with their daily tasks. The air was filled with the sounds of chatter and activity, indicative of the thriving community they had built. Caesar felt proud as he observed their bustling life. As he navigated through the colony, he received respect and admiration from those he passed. The apes looked up to him not just as their leader, but as a symbol of hope and promise for their future. He paused by the central fire, where Maurice was tending to the flames.

“Caesar, you seem troubled this morning.”

Caesar sighed, sitting down beside Maurice. He had never spoken outright about his ‘problem’, but he had a strong suspicion that Maurice already had a general idea.  He had seen the way Caesar had looked at human women, and he had been the one Caesar spoke to about his frustration with ape mating rituals. The orangutan was wise and perceptive, sometimes a bit more so than Caesar would like. But at a time like this, having a friend to speak with about his problem, however discreet it was the way they spoke, it brought on some relief. He signed slowly, his movements reflecting the weight of his thoughts.

“Rocket thinks I should find another mate. He doesn’t understand why I can’t.”

Maurice nodded, his eyes filled with an understanding deeper than another ape would reflect about this issue. He signed back, his gestures calm and reassuring, speaking prudently just as Caesar did.

“It’s not easy to move on from the past. But sometimes you must follow your heart, Caesar, despite how you may think it will look to others.”

Caesar felt a relief wash over him unlike any other he’d felt before. Hearing his dear friend’s indirect approval and understanding helped distinguish the guilt and disgust he’s felt towards himself since coming to the woods.

“Thank you, Maurice. I know I will never be able to act on my feelings, but hearing your words of acceptance brings me relief.”

Maurice smiled, placing a hand on Caesar’s shoulder. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over them. At that moment, Caesar felt a sense of peace. He knew that the journey ahead would be challenging, but he was not alone. This was something he could get past. He has matured very much through the years, he is capable of putting his desires behind him for the sake of his sons and his people.

The tranquility of the moment was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Koba’s scouting party. The group of apes, led by Koba’s most trusted scouts, moved swiftly through the colony. Caesar and Maurice exchanged a glance before rising to meet them.

The lead scout, a burly ape named Grey, signed quickly, his movements sharp and precise.

“Caesar, we found something. A small human camp, not far from here.”

Caesar’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. The presence of humans so close to their territory was a cause for concern.  They hadn’t seen humans nearby for several winters now, and who knew what they were up to… He turned to Rocket, who had just joined them, his expression a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

“Rocket, find Koba. We need to check this out. Gather a small group. We leave immediately.”

Rocket nodded, his playful demeanor replaced by his serious resolve. He signed back.

“Understood. I’ll get the others.”

As Rocket moved to assemble the team, Caesar turned back to Grey.

“Tell me more about this camp. How many humans? What are they doing?”

Grey signed back, his gestures deliberate.

“There are only a few men, one woman. They seem to be setting up a temporary shelter. We didn’t get too close, but it looks like they might be staying for a while.”

Caesar nodded. The presence of humans so close to their territory could mean many things, and he needed to understand their intentions. He turned to Maurice, who had been listening quietly.

“Maurice, keep an eye on the colony while we’re gone. Make sure everyone stays alert.”

Maurice nodded, his expression serious.

“Be careful, Caesar.”

With a final nod, Caesar turned to join Rocket and the others.

Thank you all so much for reading! I have much planned for this story and I hope to keep this inspiration train rolling! You all would be much help to get it to continue, by showing your support. If you would like me to make a tag list just let me know and I can definitely make that happen. I'm very excited to kick start this story!

[gayelderstourney]

OLD MAN YAOI BRACKET ROUND 1

Propaganda:

Gerald Robotnik/Black Doom:

Scientist who wants to blow up the world and his evil alien boyfriend

Dude they had a son together and his name is shadow the hedgehog

They created Shadow the hedgehog together. Yes Shadow the hedgehog. This is canon. Theyre also super divorced just trust me on this.their old man yaoi is real

we as a society would not have shadow the hedgehog without their old man yaoi

old man fucks alien so he can bring his daughter back from space safely, gives birth to sad gay hedgehog

you KNOW they fucked

they’re shadow the hedgehogs dads. Like canonically. black doom is an alien god guy and gerald is eggmans grandpa who didn’t love him enough and gave him daddy issues. he also went insane after the government killed his granddaughter (who he loved instead of eggman) and tried to kill humanity :3 these two are like bitter exes to me. they’re both dead. the devil from the bible fucked that old man

Black Doom and Gerald Robotnik are Shadow the Hedgehogs dads. Gerald is a (silly, slightly insane) old scientist and Black Doom is a two thousand year old alien who wants to destroy the Earth. Its not canon but Shadow's gay dads mean everything to me. They kiss and hold hands on the space colony.

IM DOING MY PART!!! GERALDOOM SWEEP BAYBEEEEEEE!!! GO SHADOW’S GAY DADS!

Sheo/The Nailsmith:

It's really nice because you unlock it after the nailsmith asks you to kill him with the pure nail and you refuse and walk away. He then says he was wandering hallownest without purpose until he found sheo who helped him discover that there was more to life than just one calling. These two are probably the only characters in the game to have a genuinely happy ending

The nailsmith loses his purpose in life after finishing his ultimate masterpiece, his lifelong goal, the pure nail. He requests the protagonist to try the nail on him, but If you refuse, he will find sheo who helps him to find new meaning in life and realise that there is more to life by teaching him different crafts. They can then be seen sculping figurines together, and sheo is also painting the nailsmith.They share a common love for art and crafts and inspire each other. Sheo's story is that he was a nailmaster, but got tired of it, and put down his nail to pick up a paintbrush. I think it's beautiful that he could help the nailsmith realise what he himself did. They both also used to live in solitude without even realising how lonely they were, and I think it's cute tuhat they can do art together now :]

They are two bugs retired from their career and making better lives for themselves and they’re gay about it. Nailsmith believes at first that he has nothing left after creating the perfect nail and asks the knight to strike him down, and if you don’t, he meets Sheo, a retired nailmaster finding a new calling in painting and sculpting. They find a shared love in creating things and Nailsmith finds a new calling in art as well. The achievement you get for uniting them is called “Happy Couple”

Gay bugs gay bugs gay bugs (Cw mention of suicide) They both used to pursue their one passion in life: forging the perfect nail (sword) for the Nailsmith and the art of combat for Sheo. Sheo realized he could just leave that life when he lost his passion for fighting, and he found himself a new purpose in life: art. However, he always seemed very lonely, completely isolated by all other bugs in his hidden house in the middle of a thorn jungle. When The Nailsmith achieved his goal and forged the perfect nail, he lost his purpose in life and his will to live. He asks the player to kill him. However, if the player refuses, he can later be found in Sheo's house, modelling for Sheo or sculpting figurines with him. He thanks the player for not fulfilling his request, because he has found a new calling in life here, making art together with Sheo. They both express how happy they are to no longer be alone. This also gives you the "Happy Couple" achievement, confirming that they are a couple.

THEY'RE CANON!!! They're fucking canon!!! You can talk to them at one point after doing a Bunch of Stuff to get them to meet each other and you get an achievement called "Happy Couple"!!! Gotta love old man yuri

[death---dealer]

Blue eyes sounds so much like his father when he speaks, kinda scary

You guys did this to me YOU GUYS---- You knew it was a bad idea to have your back to the mouth of the nest you shared with Blue Eyes. He had told you on more than one occasion, using rather tedious signs that you weren't sure their meaning until he explained in more detail. You need to keep awareness at all times, especially given the precarious nature of your... Well human-ness in the Colony. Not a threat to many, but to enough that Blue Eyes liked to keep his head on a swivel and urged you to do the same. "(Name)." You didn't bother turning around as you placed another animal pelt, neatly folded, one of those small Human things that Blue Eyes found remarkably endearing otherwise he was just rolling into an unmade bed at night, which it would often end up that way regardless, but he takes it upon himself as a challenge to see how messed up it can get by morning time. That voice, such a delectation to your ears had to be Blue Eyes himself. He didn't speak often, but he had spoken enough to you in the heat of moments, passing fleeting times where you two managed to get each other alone. It was hard around the edges but swept into mild tenderness the longer you thought about, the more you heard. The spark of electricity shot down your spine as you smiled at the sound of your name. "I was waiting for you to come back. Guess what I'm not wearing."

The flirtatious notions hidden in your tone was incredibly underlying but detectable as Blue Eyes drifted towards you. In many moments of obliviousness, he finally did catch on here and there, taking in stride when you were being suggestive, flirty or downright dirty at times ( the latter is reserved for those moments that Blue Eyes is so entangled in his own self that you say something just to get a shock from him ). Twisting your body around, you expected to see your mate but instead came face to face with well... His Father. Astute green eyes locked onto your own, dancing a bit with the implications of your previous words before he dropped his glance to your lips and then off to fixate on a point of interest on the wall to the left. The heat eradicated your insides first to the point where it felt like you were going to throw up before it took its time slowly dancing along the bridge of your cheeks, upwards to the very tip of your ears. You needed to say something before this situation got a lot worse, before you were unable to come back from it. "C-Caesar." You tried to laugh but it was nothing more than a straggled cry of sorts. "G-Geez, Blue Eyes sounds just..." Caesar's eyes narrowed at your words, silent and introspective as always, "Just like you." Managing to stumble that out, you shuffled your feet a bit and scooted backwards until the back of your knees hit the very edge of the nest. "Where is he?" Ah, that's why he was here. He was on the prowl for his Son. Made sense, you thought to yourself and placed a hand on your cheek experimentally. Yup, still hot under your touch, finger tips lining along your cheekbone before you dropped your hand slowly, "He uh... Went fishing with Ash. He was supposed to be back soon---" "I gathered than from your... Lack of wearing something." You blinked, mouth drawing open to say something but nothing came out other than a small puff of air. If you didn't know any better, and had you not been with Blue Eyes, you would almost presume Caesar just... flirted.

"I-I'll let him know you need him when he gets back." Giving one last glance at you, head to toe, slower than you would have liked as he lingered on a few fixed points along the way, Caesar only nodded and turned to walk away.

[teojira]

DO THE PEEL ORANGE WITH BLUE EYES 🗣️💯‼️‼️‼️ please :3 thank yu ily

[Peel this orange for me?][Blue eyes edition]

Summary: Blue eyes version of my peel orange hcs.

Warnings: Implied romance between Blue eyes and reader!

A/N: I am not confident in writing for Baby Blue to save my actual fucking life, I genuinely do not know if these will be good shawty I'll be honest. But I gave it a try!

Everyone in the colony knows of Blue eyes' soft spot for you, his parents know, Koba knows, it is not a well hidden fact, it's obvious.

Except to the chimp himself.

So when you come to him for easy tasks, he does it without thinking, palms a bit too sweaty if you looked closely, a small smile on his lips, his chest just a bit bigger.

He loves it when you come to him, to know he's your first choice when you need something, a good choice of mate.

Blue eyes is the one who sharpens your spears for you, taking it from your side whenever it splinters.

Who collects your favorite berry when you're having a bad day, sneaking by your nest to gently place it for you to find when you return from the river.

The one who will escort you anywhere you'd like, at your beck and call. Even when you give him a heart attack when you carelessly run into human ruins, ignoring his frantic signing.

This is nothing. It's secondary to breathing. Another day.

"Help me peel this?" You nudge the orange against his hands, doing your best puppy dog eyes, and he caves immediately.

It works like a charm every single time. He quickly turns his focus back to the fruit, making quick work of the peel.

Blue eyes is smart like his father, but hopeless when it comes to human flirtations.

It's almost painful that he doesn't realize you keep finding reasons to be around him.

He's hoping and praying that you can't tell how nervous you make him, his fur damn near standing on end at the close proximity.

After the last peel, he bunches up the remains in his hand, hooting at you to get your attention that he's done.

"Thank you!" You chirp, a smile stretching across your face, and wow, you look so pretty, and it drives him insane.

"Cmon," your smaller hand wraps around his, pulling Blue eyes with you. Does he know where? Not really, but he has no objections.

[mud-castle]

Nutmeg: Your help today was invaluable, Scourge. Thank you. Scourge: Uh- yeah...sure...whatever

The leader of Hope Colony and her emo, emotionally-constipated second taking a stroll after a mission.

More info under the cut:

It dawned on me that there would be a fairly large time gap between Scourge and Nutmeg's experiences with the clans. Now, I could make Scourge younger, but I think I can make it work

So, Tiny makes it out of his house, barely alive with some fresh wounds and his collar broken off, and runs into the city after a forest cat raid. While he never does the whole dog and Bloodclan thing, he does grow skilled in ways to survive in the city and builds his own reputation.

Four years afterwards, a new name is sweeping the city, Nutmeg. A kittypet who not only managed to save two of her kittens in a raid but killed a forest cat while she was at it...and lived. She rapidly gains followers and builds up a group she names the Hope Colony.

Their mission: Keep the forest cats out of their homes and away from their kits by any means necessary.

Scourge is down for getting some forest cat blood on his claws and breaks his four years of routine to join. Having lived most of his life by himself, he's difficult to work with initially, but they help each other and eventually get along. Eventually, he becomes her second.

Nutmeg has a very warm, friendly personality. She's very charismatic and people-oriented. She generally prefers to try diplomacy, even with forest cats. If that fails, she turns to the power of incredible violence.

Scourge is always down for the power of incredible violence. He's well known for doing the "dirty work" of the Hope Colony, mostly because that's what he's good at. On the inside, however, he's struggling to live in a group after spending most of his life watching out for only himself.

Bro barely remembers to eat most days yet now he's supposed to keep up with the dynamics of the different city groups as well as forest cat issues. ugh. Politics.

As seen in the photo, Nutmeg freely gives compliments and expresses gratitude. Scourge is unsure how to react to the feelings this brings up.

Designs:

Nutmeg is now buff because Nutmeg deserves to be buff. And Squilf gets her tail from her grandma. She has scars on her side and on the eye hidden by her bangs from Thunderclan's raid on her home. The other scars are from the many fights she's been in since then. She still lives with her humans, though she's gone much of the day to run the Colony.

Scourge now has his iconic red bangs because I can't give him his edgy personality and not have them there. The fur naturally grows like that because I said so. The scars on his leg is from the forest cat raid he escaped from. The ones on his face are from random fights. He's also underweight cause he forgets to eat when in a work mindset.

[yanphobia]

Athazagoraphobia - Chapter 6

Athazagoraphobia: The fear of forgetting, and being forgotten.

Pairing: Yandere Male Merman OC x Reader

Warnings (for the entire story): Yandere, Horror, Graphic Discriptions of Injury and Death, The Ocean, Body Horror, NonCon Touching, Dubcon, Female Reader, Extreme Dead Dove Do Not Eat

Chapter 5 Index Chapter 7

Author's Note: this muse is impossible, i've rewritten this way too many times 😭 @creepysweetie @my2phetaliaheadcanons @smolnuggie911.  @spicylove4ever @acaribeau @mel-vaz

For the next few days, the colony of merfolk consumed your every thought. You dedicated countless hours to studying them, clumsily maneuvering through the water to get as close as possible without being noticed. They spoke in a melodious language that echoed through the currents, a symphony of sounds that both intrigued and frustrated you. Several times, out of sheer curiosity, you approached Lotan, hoping he would teach you a few phrases. Each time, however, he deflected your request with a mixture of reluctance and dismissiveness.

"No, my love," Lotan would say, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "You're not ready for their language yet. I can translate for you, and show you how to hunt instead, what prey to pursue."

His insistence puzzled you. Why was he so unwilling to share this fundamental part of his world? Hadn't he eagerly guided you in every other aspect of mermaid life? You couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he wasn't telling you—a hidden truth beneath his placid surface… Your unease only deepened from there.

Despite Lotan's attempts to distract you, your fascination with the merfolk only grew stronger. They really were strange creatures - you’ll never be able to look at their more human halves without seeing waterlogged corpses - but the way they moved through the water was undeniably elegant. Beautiful, even.They moved through the water with effortless grace, their tails swaying in rhythm with the currents, a stark contrast to the clumsy, unwieldy form you now inhabited in comparison. 

Your observations were accompanied by a mounting sense of dread. The colony’s matriarchal society was evident—the larger, more powerful females presiding over the smaller males, commanding respect and taking their fill of food first. The dynamics you observed confirmed that the females held authority over the less dominant position of the males. But it was odd - Lotan, you had noticed, was much smaller than the other males. Scrawny, one could say. You hated to look at him, but the bone structure in his face was much less defined, his muscles much more subtle, his hair even was kept short in comparison to the others. These realizations only heightened your apprehension, as the societal structure seemed both alien and intimidating.

Lotan's discomfort with your burgeoning interest was palpable. Whenever you expressed curiosity about the colony, he would subtly redirect the conversation, his passive-aggressive remarks hinting at his disdain for their ways.

"You needn't concern yourself with them," Lotan insisted one evening, his tone edged with bitterness. "Once we reintroduce ourselves, they'll see our worth. Right now they're too traditional, stuck in their ways. They won’t know how to properly respect us."

His words struck a nerve. "But Lotan," you protested, bewildered by his sudden hostility, "aren't we learning their ways to join them? To be accepted among them?"

Lotan scoffed, a forced laugh escaping him. "Accept - no, we don’t want to be accepted by them! The mermaids, they're troublesome - all too high-strung, and too domineering. The mermen are worse… they’ll only ever mistreat you. They'll never accept us as equals. But the two of us… we’re going to show them the future of our kind!"

That… was incredibly strange to you. You couldn’t help but feel as though you had been dropped into a horrible situation - well, one that was worse from the one that you were currently in. But you had to remain optimistic - this was only strengthening your resolve to escape.

—

One mermaid in particular had caught your eye. She was a softer presence amidst the more imposing figures around her, interacting with her young in a manner that spoke of genuine care. Her gentleness stood out in a society where dominance was often displayed with harshness. Watching her, you felt a pang of longing, a deep-seated yearning for the familiar comforts of your past life.

As you observed her nurturing behavior, the memories of your own mother surfaced, vivid and poignant. You remembered the long nights spent huddled together in the small apartment you once called home. She was undeniably a flawed woman, but despite the frequent arguments and instability, there was a profound, undeniable love between you—a love that had been a source of both comfort and pain. The realization of how much you missed her, despite everything, hit you with an overwhelming force.

The contrast between your current life and those memories was jarring. Your new form, so different from the human body you had once inhabited, felt like a constant mockery of your past. Each glance at your reflection in the water brought a shudder of disgust. The once-familiar shape was now misshapen and alien, a grotesque reminder of the life you had lost. 

In the dim, cool light of the underwater world, the weight of your homesickness and the revulsion towards your current situation were almost unbearable. The simple act of remembering your mother, of longing for the warmth and security of your past, only intensified the bleakness of your situation. You felt trapped between two worlds, neither fully belonging to the one you had known nor fully integrated into the strange, cold reality you now faced.

As you prepared to leave the safety of the shadows and approach her, the uncertainty of your situation loomed large. The risk of drawing unwanted attention or provoking hostility from the other merfolk added a layer of tension to your already fraught emotions. Each movement, each breath, felt fraught with potential peril, and the fear of the unknown made your heart race with a mix of dread and hope.

But you had to try. You were never meant to be trapped down here, living like an animal at the mercy of some crazed beast who had kidnapped and distorted you. You knew it in your soul.

You knew that she knew it, too.

[charseraph]

The River Jordan and Sweetpea are electric engines on the first railway on Mars.

River Jordan was the first one built, being the product of a collaboration between the nations who established the colony.

Sweetpea was donated by a coronal aerospace guild and assembled onsite. Her parts were imported and her blueprints were crownmade, so her visage is coronal.

Visage and the nature of living transport

Engines take the image of their creators. Their faces are not organic, and are more like a vessel for helpful senses and communication tools.

They come alive soon after they are built, once out of eyeshot for any moment. Attempts to stare at a new engine to see it stir are foiled somehow (blinks, saccades, CCTV malfunction, momentary lapse in attention). Not all engines come alive, as their animacy is often (but not always) decided by the intent of the builder.

Living engines can assess their circumstances and make judgements based on them. They are useful in volatile situations as an expert second opinion on conduct and design, and are capable of sensing external and internal problems quickly.

In calmer periods, they may not get adequate stimulation, and their personalities may interfere with their efficiency. For this reason, railways have their preferences when they build and purchase engines.

The facial material ends at the surface of the machine and is inscrutable in composition—the material appears to be made of itself, and is unusable for any other purpose besides as an engine’s interface with the world. If damaged, the material heals. If removed, it disappears. The conceptual self-referentiality of engines’ faces, souls, and senses deter scrutiny.

Living machines exist as a fact of the universe. Their animacy is cloaked in an analysis-averting antimeme.

Human Engines

Engines designed and built by humans possess dual-pinhole pupils that dilate into an elliptical shape, granting them a broad field of view and tolerance of rapid changes in light levels (such as in going in and out of tunnels). Deep set zygomata allow them to look directly to their sides, and with the dual-pinhole setup, they maintain some depth perception in monocular sight. Their pupil shapes are hidden by their black irises, which absorb glare. They can see clearly to their front and sides, but can’t see up or down very well. A tapetum lucidum retroreflects incoming light back through their retinas, granting them vision in darkness. The nictitating membranes and long eyelashes protect the eyes from dust.

The chemicals engines are capable of detecting are relevant to their purpose, e.g. distinguishing coal, gasoline, diesel, and wood fires from their smoke but not being able to distinguish or detect food smells. Similar to how cats, obligate carnivores, have lost their ability to taste sugar due to its absence in their diet, but can taste ATP for its presence in meat—engines can parse environmental and industrial scents, but will have wildly varied responses to food and fragrant compounds, often being unable to notice them.

To investigate an aroma, they slightly lower their bottom lip to take air into their vomeronasal organ located behind the upper incisors.

Engines do not require oxygen, but if debris enters the nasal passage, human engines will sneeze to:

Ensure their voice resonates properly,

Keep their olfactory facilities clean, and

Indicate to engineers that particle buildup may have occurred in other places, such as the boiler tubes for steam engines.

Crown Engines

Just as the tongue is the only colored object on a human engine’s face for distinguishability, so are the teeth on coronal engines. The positions of the upper and lower jaw indicate tone, functioning in communication similarly to eyebrows.

Coronal engine eyes consist of an armored cornea surrounded by a cuticle and muscular eyelid. The cornea moves with the help of the embedded eyestalk supporting it. The cuticle is lubricated with an oil-based film and is less susceptible to irritation than the aqueous solution on human engine eyes. The undersides of the eyelids and surface of the cornea are covered in setae, preventing chafing and reducing airflow on the cornea. The hairs catch debris and are combed out by the lids with a puckering motion.

To make up for unenhanced vision by human engine standards, coronal engine hearing is advanced, allowing the listener to pinpoint sound sources through triangulation of the four inner ears. Coronal engines, too, channel sound through their incisors and into their internal ears via the acoustic windows at the hinge of each jaw.

Coronal engines achieve their sense of industrial smell through the gustatory papillae that line their choana and pharynx. They supplement their olfaction by introducing cool air behind the heat pits inside their nares.

Coronal engines’ thermoception is more efficient than living crowns, as coronal engines’ faces do not produce heat nearly proportional to their mass.

Conversely, the tines heat up significantly hotter than the crown average for unambiguity in temperature tones. The origin of the tine thermal energy appears to be redirected from excess produced by the machinery, or from the face’s temperature directly.

Extramodal senses

Engines are capable of listening from within their cabs with greater acuity than mere conduction of sound through the body would suggest. Other unsubstantiated sensory abilities include:

Discernment of water/fuel quality within the framework of taste though intake alone

Somatosensory awareness in the entire body, not just the face

[separatist-apologist]

I Knew You Were Trouble

Summary: After a disaster on Earth sends humans to live on colonies on different planets, Feyre Archeron's life has become impossibly difficult. The Federation meant to protect and provide for human refugees has abandoned them on a hostile planet that forbids them from hunting and has segregated them from the rest of the population.

When her older sister starts an accidental fire in an attempt to revitalize the barren land, Feyre comes face to face with one of the infamous, dreaded Horde Kings. They strike a bargain- her servitude for her sisters life. Now, trapped in his horde, Feyre has to acclimate to a new life and the demands of the man who took her- and hope she can survive him.

Based on the book Captive of the Horde King.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Read on AO3

The pikis returned that evening and though they tried, Feyre refused to speak to either of them. Why, when they’d turn around and tell the horde king everything she said should it benefit them. Perhaps they were angling for a chance in his bed? 

Unlikely.

Nuala, with cheeks flushed with what Feyre assumed was embarrassment, spoke to her anyway. She explained the roles of pikis in-depth, perhaps thinking it would engender Feyre to her. As she bathed Feyre, she said pikis served the wives of the horde warriors, which made no sense to Feyre. She wasn’t the horde king's wife—she was his whore. 

It was apparently a custom for unmarried women—females, as they called themselves—to do this in order to attract a mate of their own. The unclaimed males would see how well they did, that the horde king had hand chosen them for his plaything, and apparently it made the other warriors find them marriageable. Feyre couldn’t imagine how, and part of her wanted to explain how humans did it.

There had been true customs in the past—she knew her father had courted her mother with money and gifts before they’d dated for a period of time, and then they’d married. Now, though, it was simpler. For either love or security—sometimes both—partners were chosen. There was no grand ceremony, no one to perform the rites. It typically happened among families behind closed door. One day they lived separately, the next they were together. 

Had Elain already reached out to Graysen, she wondered? He had connections to the federation—perhaps he could get her off the planet. Maybe Nesta would go, too. The thought made Feyre’s chest ache. She didn’t want to be left here alone, used up and discarded before dumped back in the village she hated.

She’d never get off. 

Feyre kept her eyes down as the piki prepared her for the brute she was saddled with. This was the promise she’d made him—and it was too much to hope he’d honor his word and not touch her until she healed. She supposed the piki had also told him she refused the salve. Perhaps he’d only said it to lower her guard, knowing he’d go back on his word just as soon as it suited her. 

When a mirror was held before her painted face, Feyre hated what she saw looking back. She barely looked human, let alone alive. Once again, Feyre thought she looked like a heathen gods plaything in her sheer night dress that covered nothing. The piki had somehow managed to set soft waves into her hair and made her face seem brighter despite the hollow hunger she could see gazing from her eyes. 

She doubted the horde king cared much about her own desire or interests beyond getting what he wanted. Still. Once it was done a few times, he might tire of her entirely. She couldn’t imagine, with a horde of women his own species to choose from, he’d stay interested in her for long. 

The piki left just as the sun had fully set, leaving Feyre kneeling on the edge of the bed, eyes cast down. She had but minutes before he arrived, and she intended to take advantage of it. She didn’t trust him not to hurt her, to maybe even kill her in the pursuit of pleasure. The horde king was careless—there were several sharp, curved daggers half hidden around his tent. Feyre stole one, sliding it beneath her pillow.

Just in case, she told herself.

The flaps moved just as she’d righted the pillows. Kneeling on the furs, she hoped she looked demure and submissive and not guilty. She certainly felt it. He seemed wary looking at her—perhaps it was the uncharacteristic silence she greeted him with. 

“I’m tired,” he announced. Feyre felt her irritation rise, though she swallowed it. 

Grit your teeth and bear it. 

She knew what to expect, at least. Did the Drakkari use any kind of protection, she wondered? Feyre had wedged half a lemon into her body before letting Isaac have her. Something told her the horde king wasn’t going to allow that. What would he do if she ended up with a half Drakkari, half human child?

She shoved the thought from her mind. Feyre very much doubted they were compatible that way. Surely this man—male, whatever—wasn’t the first to take a human woman. If it was possible, Feyre would have heard by now.

He dropped his belt without ceremony, turning toward her as she raised her eyes to look at him. He was trying to get a rise out of her, to provoke a little temper. Did he want her to fight him?

She wouldn’t. Not unless she had to, anyway, just to ensure she remained unrestrained for as long as possible.

“This was not how I imagined this moment,” he murmured as he came to stand before her. “Will you speak to me, kalles?”

“What do you want me to say?” she replied, hating how her voice betrayed her. “Take me, horde king, my body is yours?”

He cocked his head. “Yes,” he admitted.

“You’ll never hear those words,” she scoffed, hands forming fists at her side.

“You are mine,” he snarled in return, clearly frustrated. It had been a day, she wanted to scream—a day in which he’d examined her naked body, pinned her against him and forced her to eat, and dressed her up like his personal pet. Did he genuinely expect her to fall to her knees in gratitude?

Looking up at him, it was clear he did. For a moment, it occurred to Feyre that he might think he’d rescued her from her previous circumstances. It was arrogant of him to assume he’d saved her at all—that she’d required his presence, that he’d fixed her life.

All he’d done was made her more miserable than she already was. Feyre loathed seeing how the Drakkari lived, with all their opulent excess. No one was hungry here. Everyone was absurdly clean, they were safe, they were happy. She seethed with her resentment that she wasn’t even allowed to participate in it—only ever witnessed as an outsider, forced to obey the whims of truly cruel man.

Feyre only shrugged her shoulders before laying flat on her back with exaggerated boredom. She’d hoped to get away with not undressing, but he’d caught her.

“Stand, Morakkari,” he murmured, a strange reverence seeping into his tone. Morakkari. What did that mean? Feyre sat up, trying to hide her frustration as she did what he wanted.

“You swore to serve me,” he murmured, standing before her utterly naked. Feyre was trying not to notice his erect cock but it was hard. Even with her eyes fully on his face, she could see it bobbing from the corner of her eye. Must everything about him be so excessive? So large? 

Feyre lifted her chin, the little defiance she could offer when the odds were so against her. The horde king reached for her shoulders, brushing his fingers over the sheer material of the gown.

“Do you like this?”

“It’s clothes,” Feyre replied with a shrug. In truth, it was likely the nicest thing

His mouth dropped immediately, his frown prominent. “What would please you?”

Feyre didn’t dare answer that question to the naked male standing in front of her. “Just tell me what you want.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “Take off your nightdress,” he ordered, removing his hands from her. His slow seduction had been ruined by her refusal to play along, but Feyre preferred it this way. The less touching, the better. Feyre dropped it, letting him once again look at her. There should have been lust—and perhaps there was—but it made her uncomfortable to see his concern.

“You didn’t eat today.” It was an accusation.

“And I never will,” she replied, heart pounding in her chest.

“I’ll give you something, if you do,” he said, catching her off guard. 

“What could you possibly give me?” she demanded, certain what he was offering hung between his legs. 

He seemed guarded—almost wary, as he said, “What do you want?”

Feyre considered this for a moment. “Anything?”

His brows furrowed, creating two creases between his eyes. “Do not order me to kill myself, kalles.”

Feyre hadn’t even considered that. Indignant, she said, “I wasn’t going to! I was going to ask…”

Feyre bit her inner cheek as he dared a step toward her, seemingly forgetting they were both naked. The Drakkari seemed more casual when it came to nudity—perhaps this was simply familiar to him. It seemed strange to Feyre, though. Intimate in a vulnerable way, even. Resisting the urge to cover her chest, Feyre said, “I want to know your name.”

He cocked his head, considering this. “Names have power, kalles. Are you asking to have power over me?”

“I just want to know what to call you.”

“No one can ever know,” he replied, perhaps assuming she was going to announce it to everyone she met. Maybe she would, if she felt so inclined, though some small sliver of guilt wormed its way into her stomach. 

“Who would I tell?” Feyre heard herself say, voice small and sad. “I only know you.”

There was a pause. “If I tell you my name, you’ll eat?”

“Broth only,” Feyre informed him, thinking he’d lay out a massive spread she’d never be able to finish without vomiting. Besides, she still felt guilty when she looked around at how nice everything was here, even if he was about to push her to the bed and have his way with her. 

“You’ll eat the portion I serve you?” he demanded. There was a trick to it, though Feyre was too tired to figure it out.

She nodded. “Fine.”

He swallowed, as if it pained him to say this. Perhaps it was just unusual given no one shared names, except for herself. Or maybe this was some kind of violation, telling his stolen whore his name only to have it used against him.

“My name is Rhysand,” he finally said, the words coming so softly that they felt like a dream. “But you, Morakkari, should call me Rhys.”

“Rhys,” she whispered, catching how his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “What happens now?”

“Exactly what I promised,” he said, though he hesitated as he looked down at her. “I’m…”

“Yes, horde king?” she pressed, certain he wasn’t going to now. He should, though. This was too intimate, too soft. Push her to the bed—force himself on her. At least she could go back to thoroughly hating him then. It would be so easy. 

He sighed, crouching for her nightdress. Feyre didn’t dare move as he fixed the fabric before sliding it over her head. Like a child, she held her arms up to get them into the sleeves. “Sleep with me tonight,” he murmured, climbing into the bed utterly naked. Feyre stood there dumbfounded.

“What about—”

“Veekor, kallas,” he murmured, reaching for her. “Sleep.”

He was warm, his hold strong. Feyre let him pull her against his chest, a million questions running through her mind. “Can I ask you other things?”

He groaned. “In the morning.”

Feyre felt him angle his pelvis away from her, well aware his cock was still rigid. It was a small gesture he didn’t need to make and it bothered her. “I have questions.”

“Yes, your questions are endless, I imagine,” he replied, his mouth in her hair. “I want to hear them. In the morning.”

“What did you do that made you so exhausted?” she demanded.

“I spoke with you. That’s enough.”

She twisted to find his unserious face smiling down at her. “You’re rude.”

“So you say, kalles.”

“Would you call me Feyre?” she asked him after a moment. “Where I’m from…female is an insult.”

He paused. “But you are a female.”

“No, I’m a woman,” she protested as he snorted.

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. When…when human men want to put women back in their place and remind us we’re lesser, they call us females. It’s how you’d describe an animal. They’re more…elevated, I guess? But we’re little more than cattle.”

Rhys blinked. “Why would they want you to believe you’re lesser?”

“The same reason you took me to be your whore, I guess? Power?”

Rhys sat up quickly, the fur covering his body sliding to his waist. “My what?” he demanded, tone thundering. 

“Your whore,” Feyre repeated, careful to keep her tone even. “Remember when you exchanged my sisters life in favor of servitude—”

“I never said whore,” he replied, those violet eyes flashing. He was so strange to her right then with his tail, tattooed gold right before the little tuft at the end. Those dark, nearly colorless eyes were staring so intently that Feyre thought he could see right down to her bones if he wanted to.

“You said kasikkari,” she reminded him. “Whore.”

He spluttered then, murmuring what sounded like both curse and prayer to his goddess “It does not mean whore.”

Feyre stilled, suddenly wishing she hadn’t brought this up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, desperately wanting to avoid whatever came next. “We should—”

“It means mate,” he continued, determined she would hear him. “Blessed by Kakkari herself.”

“Rhys—”

“Not my whore. My mate, my wife, my Morakkari—my queen.”

Feyre was going to be sick. In a way, that was the best she could have hoped for, and yet…Feyre’s mind turned immediately to a man Nesta had a brief flirtation with—Tomas Sr. and his wife. He’d beaten her behind closed doors, taking his every little frustration out on his wife and no one had ever said a word because wives were the property of their husbands.

And she was the property of the horde king. Tomas had no power at all and still was allowed to do whatever he liked. The people here couldn’t even look at Rhys. If he wanted to harm her, who was going to help her? Her own piki told him everything she said. She had no friends, no allies.

Feyre felt her chest rising and falling, her breath coming in short, panicked pants. He was going to kill her, she realized. There was no escape, no way she’d convince him to let her go back home once he tired of her. All her plans were crumbling around her because wives couldn’t leave. 

She felt his hand on her back, rubbing a line down her spine as he murmured something she couldn’t hear. Blood roared in her ears and right then, Feyre was determined to escape, no matter the cost. She had the weapon under her pillow. She could wait until he was asleep and kill him before escaping on foot. She’d lay low for a while—maybe in the mountains? 

“Don’t touch me,” she managed, pulling further away from him. “Don’t ever touch me.” His jaw clenched, eyes going dark, but Rhys said nothing. Feyre gripped her knees, chin tucked against her chest as she worked to settle her racing heart. 

You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re okay. You’re safe.

It was an old mantra she’d repeated from the time she was young. It didn’t need to be true to settle her down, it just needed to be repeated. Feyre had never been safe a day in her life, and she certainly wasn’t here. But she had herself, and Feyre had never let herself down. Not when it mattered.

Rhys settled back to the bed, covering himself while he waited for her to make a decision. Every inch of him was taut, coiled like a waiting spring. He expected her to try and run and was prepared to grab her. Feyre wasn’t stupid. She knew better. It was pure hell to force herself to lay beside him, rolling to her side so her back faced him.

She heard him huff out a breath, like he wanted to say something before thinking better of it. Smart. Feyre knew if he tried to talk to her, her temper would get the better of her and she’d give away the only card in her hand. 

Just breathe.

“Feyre—”

“Not tonight,” she snapped, silencing him entirely. “Sleep, remember?”

He huffed again, clearly not used to being told what to do. He was silent, his breath steadying as Feyre laid beside him, counting slowly in her head in an attempt to make it seem like she was sleeping. Once, she’d started to move to her back and he’d made a soft noise, reaching for her before Feyre slapped his hand away.

If he felt it, he gave no indication. His breathing was even and slow and didn’t budge even when, this time, Feyre did move. She tested how deep he slept by sitting up and swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. His eyes remained closed, his face soft. She almost didn’t believe this man—male—slept at all.

Pulling her legs back to the bed, Feyre reached beneath her pillow for the Drakkari blade. The metal sang softly against the scabbard it was sheathed in, causing her to suck in a breath as her heart pounded. Had he heard? 

Rhys didn’t move. 

Feyre crept closer, thinking of the people she’d killed in her village. She knew how to end a life, now. One decisive slide against his throat would keep him from screaming, and a second to his chest—piercing the hard breastplate—would stop his heart. He’d be dead before he knew what was happening, and she’d have the necessary head start to avoid his warriors. 

Still, her hand trembled as she brought that curved blade to his throat. Unlike the dagger that had been taken from her, this one was sharp—capable. Feyre took a breath, willing herself to move, but her vision was flooded with the sight of red blood as the echoes of the gasping filled her senses.

Fingers curled around her wrist. “Have I displeased you, kasikkari?”

His grip was iron-clad, keeping her from cutting him open but also preventing her from moving away. She’d been so lost in her memories that Ferye hadn’t noticed his eyes had opened and he was watching her. 

“I’m not your wife. Not yet,” Feyre hissed, trying to jerk back. The blade made contact with his throat, causing a thin line of flood to slide over his golden brown skin. The horde king didn’t react. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed, but Feyre did. 

“Where have you gone, kasikkari?” he whispered, his gaze burning against her skin. “I know that look.”

Feyre hated him for noticing. No one else ever had. Feyre tried to pull back but he was stronger, yanking her forward until he had her on top of him, straddling his waist. His free hand held her in place, and fuck him, he was erect and pressed against her body. The only thing between them was her night dress, so thin there might as well be nothing at all.

Feyre’s body responded against her will and she knew he felt the rush of heat that flooded between her legs.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” she snarled in response. 

“You swore to serve me in all things,” he reminded her, darkness creeping into his tone. “Answer me.”

Feyre managed to break free from his hold, falling off the bed as she did so. The knife slid from her hand and she could have impaled herself on the sharp blade had Rhys not caught it easily, flinging it across the room. The blade hit one of the golden chests at the far end of the tent, clattering loudly. 

“I didn’t swear to tell you all my thoughts!” Feyre replied, her voice rising in anger.

“You will do whatever I ask you to!” he growled, rising from the bed like a terrifying, dark king. Feyre was almost afraid of him at that moment, even when she reached for her sandal lined on the floor nearby. His eyes flashed. “Do not do whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“I hate you,” she whispered, launching the sandal at his face. Rhys caught it easily, tossing it to the side as he advanced toward her. Feyre threw her other shoe, which he batted away from his face without blinking. “I’ll always hate you.”

“You will be my wife,” he breathed, reaching for her. Feyre stumbled back, nearly at the flap of the tent. “My queen! I will fill you with my heirs and you will bear warriors for the horde, and you will like it!”

“I agreed to be your whore!” she shot back, screaming her words loud enough that anyone near them could easily hear. “I never agreed to be your wife or your queen! You may have my body, but you can have nothing else!”

“Know this, kasikkari,” he breathed, reaching for his discarded trousers instead of her. “When the Black Moon rises, you will be my wife and I will have you in all ways—your body and your mind.”

He stormed from the tent, unconcerned with his nakedness. Feyre didn’t bother chasing after him to tell him he was wrong. Maybe he would get her body, but he’d never have her mind. Feyre would fight him until she died. 

Rhys didn’t return that evening and Feyre didn’t sleep, waiting for a continuation of their argument. Instead, the piki were back, regarding her with wary eyes as they coaxed her into the bath. Remind her of her promise to the Vorakkar, they brought a massive bowl of broth for her to consume. It was nearly too much and yet a welcome reprieve from nothing at all. 

She barely finished it, protesting when she had a third left. The piki merely regarded her without sympathy, informing her the Vorakkar would be displeased if she didn’t. He’d given her his name—this was the bargain between them. Feyre did, strangely satisfied by the end of it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been full. 

“I’m not wearing that,” Feyre informed them when the small skirt was brought out. “I’d rather walk around naked.”

That was a lie, but the piki weren’t Rhys. They weren’t about to call her bluff, either. After they realized she would not put the clothes on, even with cajoling and several threats to get the Vorakkar, the two left, she assumed to bring him back so he and Feyre could have another go at each other. 

Instead, a different woman stepped into the tent. She had similar features to Rhys—and was easily just as beautiful. Feyre had never seen hair so blonde on Drakkari before, but this woman’s cornflower hair fell in glossy waves down her back. Her eyes were closer to the Drakkari gold so many others had, though a shade darker—almost brown. They reminded her of her sister Elain, if she was honest. 

“Hello,” she said in a sunny voice. 

Feyre was immediately suspicious. “Who are you?”

“Morrigan,” she said without an ounce of concern she’d shared her name with Feyre. “Do not tell me yours.”

“Because names have power?” Feyre asked in a huff. Morrigan smiled, a pretty thing even in the gloom of the tent.

“Exactly. You’re learning. I heard you refuse to wear the clothes I provided for you?”

Oh, was that what this was about? She’d offended the seamstress? “You made the clothes?” 

Tail swishing behind her, Morrigan looked around the tent. “And lent you some, yes. I saw the rags you came in with—I burned them, by the way.”

“Of course you did,” Feyre replied through gritted teeth. “And my dagger?”

“Some of the young are playing with it,” she said dismissively, eyes flicking toward the flap of the tent. “It’s not dangerous.”

“It was all I had.”

“That’s sad,” Morrigan replied, back to examining Feyre. “I would be surprised if the blade could slice through butter.”

“Did you come to insult me?”

“Why not?” Morrigan replied with a shrug, her gaze flicking toward the golden chests before turning back to look at Feyre fully. “You insult the horde so well. My cousin is unwilling to give you any back, but I am not so kind.”

“How have I insulted the horde?” Feyre demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

Morrigan’s clawed, six-fingered hand unfurled so she could tick off the insults. “I hear you will not eat. You do not wear our clothing, you shout at our Vorakkar, you hide in this tent all day and night making your demands, you have—”

“He kidnapped me!” Feyre nearly exploded.

Morrigan wasn’t impressed. “You disrespect our goddess Kakkari, burn the land and then lie when our warrior come to repay the goddess. Lie, even. And then, I hear, you swear to serve only to turn around and act ungrateful for the mercy of my horde. Or do I misunderstand? I speak the universal tongue best of us all…but sometimes I do not get it right.”

“I agreed to be his whore—”

“Ah, yes, we all heard that,” Morrigan replied, tail swishing angrily behind her. “You are content to be a whore but not a queen. Humans are so curious—I should think being a respected member of our horde would be better than…that. But enlighten me, kallas. What is so offensive about becoming Morakkari?”

“I don’t want to be his wife,” Feyre retorted stubbornly, feeling a little shamed by Rhys’s apparent cousin. She saw it, then—the similar features, the near-otherworldly beauty. Even the way she conducted herself screamed royalty. Though if she was or not, Feyre wasn’t sure. She didn’t understand how someone became a horde king to begin with.

“Have a lot of suitors back in your human village?” Morrigan asked, her voice deceptively sweet. “Perhaps someone who puts our Vorakkar to shame? I would be careful if I were you—he’s likely to end them if he learns your feelings lay elsewhere.”

Feyre wanted to sink into the ground. “There’s no one else.”

“Then explain it all to me,” Morrigan replied, plopping down on one of the large cushions beside the table. “Perhaps I can ease some of your worries.”

Feyre stayed standing just long enough for Morrigan to huff out an impatient sigh. “Sit,” she ordered, and something in her voice compelled Feyre to comply. She left space between them, just in case Morrigan decided to attack her. Those claws, painted gold, seemed deadly enough. 

“I came to save my sisters. I thought…” Eyes cast downward, Feyre didn’t dare admit what the female beside her was piecing together.

“You thought you’d let him bed you a few times, he’d grow tired, and let you go?” she guessed. 

“Yes,” Feyre whispered, embarrassed by the whole thing. “Men have never been interested in me. I thought he simply wanted to punish me.”

“Males have never liked you?” Morrigan asked with slight disbelief. “Human males are blind, I suppose? You have been all the horde warriors have spoken of since we arrived—the human kalles and her great beauty. Well…and how you looked the Vorakkar in the eyes.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Feyre demanded.

“It isn’t done,” Morrigan replied casually, reaching across her chest into the satchel she’d brought. She pulled out a long strip of folded leather and laid it out in front of her. “I suppose the Morakkari is allowed. But the rest of us would be showing great disrespect to look him in the eyes.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me,” she said with a playful smile. “Though, he tolerates it on occasion. When we were children, I used to do it simply to remind him he wasn’t that special.” Feyre tried—and failed—to hide her smile. She didn’t want to like Morrigan.

“Is that why no one will look at me?”

“It is,” Morrigan agreed. “It would be disrespectful to you and our Vorakkar. I hope you don’t mind—”

“Please,” Feyre said, a little embarrassed by how badly she wanted to talk to someone who wasn’t so deferential. “At least…in private, it would be nice. Humans look each other in the eye to convey respect.”

“Interesting,” Morrigan replied, eyes shining. “And they take whores before they take wives?”

“Noooo…” Feyre dragged out the syllables, because she didn’t know how to explain that marriages as they’d once been simply didn’t exist here. “It’s complicated.”

“So you say,” Morrigan replied, sliding a razor between her teeth as she drew across the leather with a piece of white chalk. “Most things aren’t that complicated.”

“Oh yeah? Like the Vorakkar taking a human for a wife?”

“Exactly,” Morrigan said, words muffled. She pulled it out, urging Feyre to stand so she could measure her hips, waist, and legs. “He decided he would take a wife and that wife is you. Simple.”

“And everyone agrees with his decision?”

Morrigan grimaced. “Nik, they do not. But he is the Vorakkar, so he will do as he wishes.”

“And if people decide to leave?”

“They’re free to return to Dothik if they wish. No one here is a hostage…except, perhaps, you in your mind. They won’t, though. Everyone here would gladly follow the Vorakkar anywhere, even if he has a human Morakkari. They might even like you if you stopped screaming at him and left the tent.”

“Or they’d hate me more,” Feyre said glumly, not bothering to add that nearly everyone else in her life did. Even her sisters didn’t truly like her—seeing Nesta speak out in her defense had been shocking and unexpected. If she’d been Elain, perhaps it would have been different, but Feyre and Nesta had always been at odds.

“I like you,” Morrigan informed her cheerfully, jotting some things down on the leather with the white chalk. “And I came prepared to hate you.”

Feyre sat back down gingerly, her body measured for whatever Morrigan was putting together for her. “What am I supposed to do?”

“What do you know of our goddess? Kakkari?”

“Very little,” Feyre admitted, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. Morrigan pulled out heavy thread from her bag and a curved needle, threading it with deft fingers.

“Kakkari is all life,” she began in that soft, lilting voice of hers. “Think of her as the earth—all life comes from her. She is steady and solid. Her counterpart is Drukkar, who is her foundation. If she is steady and forgiving, he is the opposite. Violent storms, punishing droughts, unrelenting heat—all is Drukkars wrath. And still, Kakkari always opens for him and accepts him, and in return he loves her, protects her, and punishes all that would harm her.”

Feyre only blinked. Humans had once had gods, too, though she figured they’d been destroyed along with her planet. She didn’t know the stories anymore. Nesta did, and sometimes clung to them when they were younger, praying to this god or that, for all the good it did any of them. It all felt like stories meant to explain a confusing and harsh world.” It was clear that the Drakkari believed in their gods, though. Feyre kept her mouth shut.

“The Vorakkar is much like Drukkar,” Morrigan said when it was clearly Feyre had missed the subtleties. “He is still a male.”

Again, the whole conversation was lost on Feyre. “Oh. Okay.”

“If you want things from him, open up for him,” Morrigan explained, all but spelling it out for Feyre. She laughed to herself, shaking that head of golden hair “Drakkari males worship their females.”

“Rh—the, uh, Vorakkar doesn’t…”

Morrigan glanced over, pressing her lips into a line as Feyre’s mind betrayed her. She’d held a knife to his throat and he’d simply tossed it to the side. He’d threatened to have his way with her twice and stopped, both times because she was hurt and frightened. Even last night after their fight, he’d left rather than push her further.

“Where is he?”

“Gone,” Morrigan replied with a shrug of delicate shoulders. 

“Gone?” Feyre demanded. 

“Yes, gone. Out with some warriors. And do not ask me when he will return because that is something you should know. I am certain he will return—the Black Moon is nearly upon us. He won’t want to miss it.”

“Yeah, he mentioned that,” she said glumly.

“He’s ordered a tassimara,” Morrigan said, before quickly explaining it was something equivalent to a marriage. It seemed to be more of a festival than anything, but he’d make his intentions known then and there would be no argument or debate from anyone. The emphasis Morrigan put on that word implied that Feyre, too, would keep her mouth shut as well. 

Morrigan left not too long after that, promising to have a decent compromise for Feyre in the form of a pair of pants. Maybe she’d feel better if it was only her breasts that were exposed rather than all of her. Feyre turned over Morrigan's words—who later insisted she call her Mor—for the two nights Rhys wasn’t home. Heart pounding, she’d begun to think he wasn’t coming at all.

That something might have happened to him and she’d be trapped here in a hostile place, with no friends or allies save for his cousin.

But the night before the infamous Black Moon, she heard the ground thunder beneath the feet of the pyroki. Feyre stepped into the cold evening air, ignoring the chill to watch the eight of them ride in.

There he was.

The man who would be her husband. Their eyes locked for only a moment before he trotted on. He’d be in to see her soon.

And she’d be ready. 

[leohtttbriar]

this entire episode was incredibly fraught and it's conclusion was almost willfully blind and offensive but also it definitely reveals a lot about the paradigm of thought in which the voyager writers were operating. like, i kept wondering since i started watching voyager why they felt the need to make up a tribe instead of grounding chakotay in the many real people of indigenous american communities. and i guess this episode, "tattoo," offered their reasoning for that choice. as baffling and ill-conceived and un-creative as that reasoning is.

see. there was one moment in this episode where i thought the story they were telling wasn't about to be the most frustrating thing ever. this moment was when young-chakotay references how other tribes are not living in the past, but his and his father's is. the simple idea that not all people are one and the same, that indigenous communities can be and are distinct and not a single amalgamation easily filed under one label, as well as the idea that tribes yet exist--that they are not and have not been vanishing. i thought, after this conversation, that the story was going to go on like a wakanda-type route, where the "fantasy" and "myth" chakotay is criticizing above is actually just a specific sort of highly-developed and protected tech and the people of his tribe were isolationists. i thought when we first saw that peaceful symbol on the alien planet that we were about to be treated to an alternate yet hidden history of a tribe from earth having achieved space-travel far before anyone else from earth did and kept it secret. i thought that might justify, a little bit, making up a tribe instead of picking one and hiring several consultants/writers for the writing room.

obviously, i thought wrong. more fool me--like this episode came out the same decade as dances with wolves. i genuinely should've known better.

i think one of the main mistakes (informed by the umbrella ""mistake"" (i.e. profound and deliberate crimes again humanity) of violent and merciless colonialism, which continues to inform how people interact with the world and will continue to do so for as long as we can imagine) is the treatment of the "myth" and "fantasy." like, another made-up indigenous people in star trek is the bajoran people in ds9, which i think exposes a lot of the writers' perspectives about chakotay. i don't think it's a coincidence that they made the leader of the maquis cell that had to be absorbed into the voyager crew explicitly indigenous. or that said leader had a whole situationship with a bajoran character who thinks very, very little of starfleet and janeway. these are all part of the same creative impulse. and it's a rich idea, started in ds9 and continued into voyager--the maquis, their relationship to bajor and cardassia and the federation, and what their principles are. and through that idea, you can see that the 90s star trek writers were trying to draw from real-world indigenous resistance to shape these freedom-fighters as well as from real-world indigenous insight to shape the bajoran (and chakotay's) spirituality. in that: they made the spirituality "real."

the bajoran deities are real beings. thus the bajoran people have a super special relationship to the land. and the deities are material and there. chakotay's spirituality also is "real", in that it has a direct effect on the material happenings in an episode. this sort of thing can either be: spirituality is drawn from the material world/material insights and human consciousness is a very powerful thing OR these particular people have a "magical" connection to nature. based on everything to do with these spiritualities i've seen in these two shows, it definitely feels like they were going more for the latter.

and then in this episode (!) they make the writing decision to explicitly say that all indigenous people in the americas were inspired by and directly gained wisdom from a bunch of special aliens who wanted to make sure the land of earth was protected and so appointed all the american indigenous people as guardians. like they were One people who both had a super special connection to the land and had to be given that special connection and didn't, like, historically shape and influence and change the ecosystems and flora and fauna in permanent and far-reaching ways, over many tens of thousands of years and many types of tech and city-building and migration patterns and cultural practices, all as or more diverse than the land they were living on.

the reluctance to attribute cerebrality and deliberately produced technology to anyone not of western european descent is just so so present in this episode and in the character of chakotay. him and the bajorans--their gods are real and their myths are real and not the product of richly-thought traditions and reasoning practices. no, their religion is thus far un-evolved. they're not like the white american characters who aren't praying to jesus bc christ is a made-up god and those white people have moved on (""evolved"" maybe, ughhh) and separated themselves from nature and their base instincts about religiosity. no they still pray to their gods who can absolutely answer their prayers if they wanted to.

the thing is. it's just oppression 101 to construct a binary and make one half of that binary Human Beings with Great Minds and the other half Adjacent Human Beings Who Are Close to Nature. like all the oppressions work through that basic framework.

the impulse to use indigeneity as an entry point into environmentalism isn't ridiculous. but people (i mean, white european "philosophy") miss the whole step where the reason you often see tribes making such headway with environmental activism is because they are being politically astute and they recognize that "land" being abstracted in the way it has been since Locke (and obviously before that but Locke is the most relevant thinker in terms of like land policy?) is actually irrational. you can't just build a tube of poison over a water-source. that is Idiotic. that is a thing that Unthinking beings do. iron eyes cody crying over pollution on a highway is not an accurate representation of the land-rights justice that tribes all over the americas have been fighting for.

the thing about "myth" and "fantasy" is that they are philosophies. they inform and represent great abstract and fully-reasoned ideas. and this episode so easily could've been about that. when we start with the flashback of young chakotay noticing the symbol on the rock and his dad praising him and chakotay saying "i only saw it because of a lizard," i thought that could be a way to show how lived experiences allow different people to notice different things about the world. it's not magic, it's practice and thought. but the episode just goes on and on, getting further and further into the racist ideas of the innocent and close-to-nature natives, the "noble savage", and the idea that any great insight originating in a non-white people came from aliens.

(and somehow these biases get transported to the bajoran characters, all of whom are actually played by white characters, which shows how these biases are an actual paradigm and not some sort of 'instinctual prejudice' like racists like to claim their racism is--i.e., not their fault and can't be unlearned.)

this got me thinking about "far beyond the stars." how it works as a futurism and as a comment on racism now. how the futurism is in fact an argument: that the future belongs to everyone; that exploration and great thoughts and great adventures belong to everyone; how this can be framed as inevitable because it is right; how imagining it so is the first step towards actualization; how people are thinkers and they will make a world that is so expansive and so egalitarian that a black man will captain and discover and exist in the stars and among wonder and different people and so much life. and this works as a speculative piece because there is present in its foundation the idea is justice is not retrospective. as going back is impossible, people build forward. sisko imagines forward, and even as he's imagining backward to being a scifi writer in the 20th century, he's still imagining forward.

this episode, "tattoo," completely misses how "far beyond the stars" functioned. how speculation and futurism work as commentaries on the past and the now. it's particular and personal and doesn't imply that an alien species is the reason for any future liberation. or that innocence is a virtue. or that such innocence is due to "protecting the land" (which means one thing and one thing only) and thus gives one magical powers over the weather.

personally, i think chakotay should've found descendants of his tribe from earth on that alien planet--not aliens. i think the episode should've been about how that symbol for peace or something was a symbol for some sort of logical proof of sorts and these descendants should've used it as a technology that could affect the weather through some sci-fi star-treky technobabble that enables telepathy. i think this advancement should've been fundamentally rooted in what the descendants learned long ago on earth by studying the stars and birds and building cities and pyramids. philosophies that are entrenched and informed by a deep understanding of the natural world, expressed not just through tech but through spiritual practice, while not being relegated to """"primitivity.""""

but also i'm definitely not the best person to ask. and the main problem here is that they made up a tribe and put themselves in a position of not really being able to ask anyone.

like i loved chakotay being able to reexamine his past and his relationship to his father and his connection to the galaxy at large. i loved that he found a semi-home so so far away from his own planet. i love that they wrote a character doing that, finding a place of true belonging seventy-thousand light years away. i think that's an interesting as well as important story to tell. but the framing and argument provided in the episode undercut that story so much.

anyway as i am not the person to ask, i'll just leave this excerpt from a paper written by a much much smarter person than me about a sci-fi movie made by navajo filmmaker nanobah becker about the project of cultivating mars:

"Science Fiction, Westerns, and the Vital Cosmo-ethics of The 6th World," Salma Monani

[munchkin1156]

Shattered Code- Pt.1

. . .

Soooo, this is my take on.... Well, this is my idea of a universe with borrowers in it! It's a bit short, but I hope you like it. First fic since I came back from hiatus, which was.... Several hours ago. I've had this ready for a while now. Thanks to @i-am-beckyu for beta reading it! Story under the cut...

. . .

"As the leader of the Sageleaf Colony, I declare, you, Snapdragon, an Exile.” Spoke Rainburn, coldly looking down on the Borrower in front of her. “We will take back your Borrower name. You will follow the rules of the Exiled Code, with a burned Soul marking on your neck so you don’t break it. No Water, Nature, Sky, Colony or House Borrower will accept you.”

She sighed, before continuing. “You will be given no supplies. When you leave, the choice is yours to either accept Fate and die honourably for your crimes, or try to survive in a world where everything is against you. Should you return here, the Watch has the right to kill you. Farewell.”

The Exile was then pushed out of the borders, and, knowing that staying here and pleading would only result in a faster death, she ran. She no longer had a name. Snapdragon had been taken back, though, the reason why, in the name of the gods, wasn’t her fault.

Rules one, two and three were the same for each version of the Code.

Rule number one: Never be seen and/or caught by a Bean.

Rule number two: If you do, pretend to be dead, and if you can’t, pretend to be injured. Never let them know you can talk.

Rule number three: Never give a Bean any information over what you are, or how to find other Borrowers, like Colonies, House Borrowers, etc.

What to do now, though? She slowed down once she was certain she was outside of the Colony grounds, wincing at the permanent burn of her new Soul mark against her skin. It made sure that she, and anyone else she would meet, would know what she was. A forever reminding scar that cannot be covered up or undone. After all, Soul magic was sharp, and it didn’t go away.

Rule number four: Do not take back your old name.

As she walked, she looked down at a piece of shattered glass. It was darkish green, and must’ve once been a part of a bottle some Bean had dropped. Shatter… Shatter would do as a name for herself. It was a new name for a new world, and she had given it to herself, so only she could take it back. The Code couldn’t argue with that.

Rule number five: Do not trick non-Exiled Borrowers into helping you.

There was no use in trying to convince Cloven to help her. Shatter knew the moment he saw her Soul marking, even if he wanted to, there was no way he could help her without breaking his own Code. Rule four of the Borrower Code (the Colony version) stated that you never helped Exiled Borrowers. It said you could see it through the marking on their neck.

Rule number six: You may communicate with other Exiled Borrowers, but may not scheme with them to harm or hurt a non-Exiled Borrower(s) nor communicate with those not exiled.

Could she find another one like herself? One thing was certain, She needed supplies. In any case, Exiled Borrowers remained hidden, from both the humans and their own. Any Borrower, whether they be from a Colony, or a House, or a Wind, Water, Forest, or other area traits, would have their own way to try and be rid of her. Nowhere was safe, and everything wants you dead.

Rule number seven: Do not go near non-Exiled Borrowers.

Shatter picked up a pine needle on the ground. There were many of them, as well as pinecones, covering much of the ground. Pine needles wouldn’t work as weapons, and the pinecones, or at least their seeds, weren’t edible for her. Borrower allergies or something. She kept walking, unsure of her destination. 

The silence was awful because she couldn’t hear anything. She could still hear the sound of the birds, or the wind rustling the trees, but it missed the quiet, (near impossible to hear if you weren’t listening for it,) sound of Borrowers talking in Listhen. Outside the Colony was no one. It was a strange name for the language, come to think of it. Tarryl always said it was from Before. When they weren’t called Borrowers and were true brethren of the Faes. Then Tayrn would hit him in the head with the back of her hand and would tell him to stop making up stories. She missed those two.

Rule number eight: Do not enter a non-Exiled Borrower's territory.

She turned a sharp left, reminding herself that she couldn’t go to the trading market. She’d just get chased out. Across the sky, she could see clouds become darker. It was going to rain. She had to find shelter soon, but she wasn’t sure where she should go. Then she heard voices. Non-Borrower voices. Bean voices that were coming closer by the second. “Medo.” She muttered under her breath. It meant danger. Shatter crouched down, hoping the grass would be enough cover for her. It probably was. Beans were incredibly unobservant.

Rule number nine: Stay away.

“-and if you had just listened to me the first time we could’ve fooled them all!” One of the Beans complained loudly as they walked past. The other one sighed. “I don’t want to show them what I found! And it’s none of your concern how it will end..” Once the two had walked off, still bickering, Shatter emerged from her hiding spot. Human Beans were strange, curious creatures.

Rule number ten: Good luck.

Shatter reached a decision. As the sky grew darker, and stars flickered into view, she began to follow the path those humans had taken. Humans meant danger, but they also meant food and warmth. These humans didn’t seem to have any Borrowers living with them, since no remnants of Soul magic were felt around them. If there was a Borrower there, then they were incredibly incompetent for not using any Soul magic. Most likely, it would do as a temporary place to stay.

She couldn’t go back, so she would go forward. She would survive.

. . .

Oh yeah, I have a taglist!!!! I forgot about that!!!! If you want to be added, just comment/dm/ask me!

@i-am-beckyu, @da3dm, @brick-a-doodle-do, @faeiyn-cant-write.... I think that's everyone. Gosh it's been a while, can't remember stuff anymore :D

[bluetoes-andstuff]

A Hidden Desire

Chapter 3 - New Roots

Summary: It’s time for the trek back to the colony… but don’t worry, Caesar has a good hold on you.

Word Count: 5.5k

Ratings: T (Eventual NSFW)

Relationships: Caesar x Fem!Human Reader

Warnings: dirty thoughts, touching (not inappropriate… yet), flirty undertone

Previous Chapter

***If you are under 18 I would advise not reading, this is not an explicit chapter but this will be a story that explores nsfw themes later on. Best to just not go down the path to begin with. Be safe***

You feel the gentle sway of the horse beneath you, its steady rhythm almost successful in calming the emotional rollercoaster going on inside your head. The path back to wherever it was the apes were taking you is surrounded by dense forest. The path is well traversed, with crude, archaic decorations littering the trees that follow it. The sparse torch placements along the patch guide the way, the gentle crackling flames accompanying the sounds of nature, blending with the soft chit-chat of the apes around you.

The camaraderie among the apes is palpable. They move with an ease and familiarity that speaks of years of deep bonds and shared experiences. You catch snippets of their conversations, their sign language quick and fluid, and their expressions so emotive and almost human-like. Some of them notice you watching and give you curious but friendly looks. It was pretty easy to read their expressions, considering this is the first time you’ve ever been around an “oh-so terrifying” ape before. One young chimp approaches, signing something with an enthusiastic grin, soft pants and gentle hoots accompanying his signed words. You don’t understand him, really, despite your best efforts, but the warmth in his eyes and excitement in his expression is enough for you to know you like him pretty well. You smile back, waving your fingers shyly at him to return the greeting. Your body goes a bit stiff with your giddiness and restrained excitement at the friendliness extended towards you.

The large chimp that had rescued you rides with you, which is both comforting and a bit nerve-wracking. It’s a weird mix of feelings you’ve never had before.

His presence and warmth is reassuring, a solid anchor in this new and overwhelming environment. Yet, it’s hard to ignore the placement of his hands on your stomach. He had it splayed out at the center of your malnourished belly, his long fingers gently tapping or stroking along the fabric covering your skin. Every so often, his grip will adjust, or he will trade hands with the reins when the ride gets rough or changes terrain. His fingers or palm brushing against your hips, or squeezing your side, and you swore every now and then his fingers brush against the tops of your rib cage as if in search of something more.

He is an ape, so you know better than to read into the touches. He is not a perverted human man like you are familiar with… although you couldn’t exactly help the unease you feel. In your experience, these touches spoke of an intent, and more often than not, it does not end well for you.

But there again, despite that unease, the touches bring you a weird sense of comfort, like a reminder of his presence. Even though usually these touches bring on unwanted attention, this ape’s actions held an undertone of admiration and care. You were not sure why or how you knew, considering there was not much difference from your previous experiences… but it was there.

Over the period of your journey, you notice a consistent response whenever another ape gets too close. His grip travels in some way or another, to your side, your thigh, or his entire arm wraps across your abdomen to pull you closer. It’s borderline possessive. Yet another red flag…

What have you gotten yourself into? His hold is firm—almost too firm—and you can’t help but wonder what his deal is, because how can you not? Is he just being protective, are you reading this totally wrong? Or are you reading it totally right? It’s hard! You’ve got no prior experience with ape men to draw off of.

But then, as if sensing your unease, Caesar’s grip softens. His hand moves in slow, soothing circles against your side, slipping forward to do the same to your stomach. It’s not a sexy move—more like an affectionate “chill out” gesture. The warmth of his touch seeps through your clothes, radiating a kindness that immediately quells your doubts and you melt into him. How he was capable of transforming your mood so quickly you did not know, but he somehow did it.

You’re definitely going to get emotional whiplash from all this back and forth!

The rhythmic motion of the horse and the gentle sway of the forest around you start to lull you into a sleepy state. You can’t remember the last time you had a good night’s sleep, always on guard for your safety. Despite your best efforts to stay awake, your eyelids grow heavy. The warmth of your ape companion’s body against your back, his steady breathing, and the secure hold of his arm around your waist create a cozy cocoon you can’t resist. Slowly, you begin to drift off.

Before you succumb to sleep entirely, a young bonobo approaches. They sign something with an unwavering exuberance, their eyes bright with untamed curiosity as they stare at you expectantly. You crane your neck to look to the ape behind you for help, feeling a bit lost at what they were trying to say.

“She wants… your name,” he translates. His voice a gentle rumble you can feel reverberate through his chest.

You reply with your name to the female, offering a small smile. In turn she gestures to herself carefully with a soft sign to follow, face lit up with excitement. And then she signs something else, her gestures quick and enthusiastic, immediately reverting back to the hurried hyper-ness from before.

“She is… Tika. She says… you have a beautiful… name,” the ape translates again, his voice carrying a warmth that makes you blush.

Tika reaches out, her small hand brushing against yours quickly in a gesture of friendship. The simple act fills you with a sense of belonging, a spark of hope that maybe you can find a place here. You squeeze her hand gently, feeling a connection despite the language barrier. She gives you one last smile before steering her horse back to her group of friendly apes. You can’t help the giddiness that wells up in your heart; maybe you could make some real friends wherever you’re headed.

Then the hand wrapped softly around your waist travels to your side and gives a gentle squeeze. You didn’t think much of it until you could feel his soft breath brushing against the side of your neck when he leaned in close.

“Very beautiful,” he hums softly before leaning back and returning to his original position.

You feel your entire body go hot with the blush that courses through you. Did apes flirt? Because that sure as hell felt like flirting!

You get kind of stiff for a little while and you can almost swear you can feel that damn ape chuckling behind you. You had a feeling he knew exactly what he was doing…

It takes some time for your heart to stop racing and calm yourself down once more. Soon your body's fight for sleep wins over and you can feel that pull once more. You give in and lean back against his chest and you turn to hide your face into him, feeling his rough yet oddly soft fur press against your cheek. The welling of all the different emotions is enough to make you tear up… and you don’t want him to see you cry over things so profoundly silly.

His scent surrounds you, earthy and musky with a hint of something wild and untamed. It’s comforting, grounding you in the present moment with him. The steady rhythm of his breathing inflating the chest you rested against, the warmth of his body against your back, all combine to create a nice, warm, little cocoon. For the first time in a long while, you feel a semblance of comfort, a fragile sense of peace. The last thing you remember is the sound of his voice, low and soothing, as he communicates with the other apes either through words or other soft hoots and chirps apes are prone to. It lulls you into a fitful sleep.

***

Caesar’s mind is a mess. Your body pressed up against his in this way is a terrible distraction, and it takes most all of his willpower to keep his hands in a respectful place. All he wants to do is explore— feel the softness of your human skin. He wants to bury his muzzle in your neck, inhale and savor your undiluted scent. He knows these urges were unnatural, and he knows it will take time and a lot of convincing to not only get you on board, but the other apes as well. It’s something so taboo— almost shameful, and he spent so long tamping down this desire… but now here you are, pressed up against his body; enticing him in a way he’s never experienced before. He doesn’t think he’ll be successful resisting this desire much longer.

Though what’s odd is what accompanies this tension in his body—a mix of protectiveness, innocent curiosity, and a quickly developing attachment. Beyond that primal need, is tenderness and care. He doesn’t want to scare you or hurt you, he wants you to feel safe and be happy. And that right there is what fuels his restraint… for now.

In fact, he becomes so in tune with your body and your actions he can physically feel your tension and stiffness when the other apes approach. Not that he liked it much either when male apes would approach to sniff at you curiously.

So he makes sure his actions are read clearly by everyone involved. To you, a simple tighten around your waist or squeeze on your side is a promise of safety; a reassurance of his protection. But to the males, the action is possessive, and it’s only accentuated by the glower and silent snarl that would curl up his lips when they came too close. Any male in his group knew what that meant, and they would quickly back away, which not only gave him what he wanted— sole possession of you— but it also seemed to bring you a level of comfort. He could feel the relief that sweeps through your body. The way you practically slump back into him every time just brings him even more enjoyment.

When Tika approaches, Caesar doesn’t have his guard up. She was one of the only females in the scouting party and he quite liked her young and rambunctious attitude. He watches her interaction with you closely, keeping in mind he might have to chase her off as well if you showed any discomfort. Instead, he finds himself smiling at the way you seem to light up at the young chimp’s friendliness. He translates Tika’s signs for you, his voice low and husky from so little use.

Caesar’s touches are deliberate, perhaps reading differently to you than the statement he’s making towards others and towards himself. It’s the only craving he grants himself. He keeps his wandering hands above your baggy shirt, knowing it might read as a bit too intimate for you otherwise, tracing what he imagines to be your soft skin beneath. He restrains himself from venturing too far, despite what his dying curiosity is begging of him. Human women can be sensitive, and from what he’s learned, they’re not always accepting of such forward touches. He would have to earn your approval.

He tries to distract himself from you by averting his attention to the others around him, discussing the future plans for re-securing their perimeter and new designated hunting grounds.

When you start to drift off to sleep, Caesar feels a surge of tenderness when you slump into him. Then your face turns into his neck, and he suddenly bristles. He adjusts his hold immediately, hand splayed firmly along your rib cage to pull you in even closer, his breaths suddenly turning hot and heavy. The up and down motion of the horse and your willing proximity against him stirs up that feeling in his gut and he grits his teeth together.

Your body slots perfectly against his groin, and he thrust his hips into you without thought. The rocking of the horse is creating such a specific friction against him he almost can’t contain himself. His hand migrates to squeeze the meat of your side, the heat coming off your body nearly burning his palm.

You make the sweetest noises when nuzzled up against him, and your hot breaths against his neck are almost impossible to ignore. Caesar is acutely aware of your presence in every way possible.

He’s even captivated by your scent… a mix of the forest and something uniquely human—soft and slightly sweet, with hints of earth and the faintest trace of something floral. Yet there’s an underlying trace of human musk that coats it all, and he can only wonder what you might smell like with a bath… Despite that, it’s still a comforting scent, one that stirs memories of his own past with humans, yet it’s distinctly yours.

You breathe heavily against him, and he knows you're asleep. So easily he could go about his exploration… but he will not. Instead, he forces himself to angle his hips away from you and continue his conversation with the other apes, hoping his voice does not shake and remains a steady presence to soothe you even in sleep.

He catches Rocket’s eye and signs a quick message, his movements fluid and careful. “She is tired.”

Rocket nods, though there is a slight hint of suspicion in his expression. He signs back, his gestures slower and more deliberate than his usual energetic nature. “The others are curious. They have questions, as do I.”

Caesar glances at you, ensuring you’re still asleep before responding.

“She will answer when she’s ready.”

“It is not her we have questions for,” Rocket counters with a serious look.

Koba approaches too, his eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and concern. He signs to Caesar, his movements sharp and precise.

“You show her favor,” Koba starts. “Because she has suffered, like us. I saw.”

Caesar nods, a sudden appreciation and relief flooding through him. To have Koba’s understanding means more than he would know, considering his harsh past with humans.

“She has endured much. She only craves kindness.”

Koba’s gaze shifts to you, then back to Caesar. His next signs are slower, more thoughtful.

“I can understand, but that does not mean I will show favor too.”

Caesar feels a surge of gratitude towards Koba. Despite their past differences, Koba’s willingness to support his decision means a lot.

“I understand. Thank you Koba.”

Koba’s eyes, usually sharp and intense, soften slightly when he looks at you asleep against Caesar. The lines on his face, etched by years of suffering and struggle, seem to relax just a bit, showing a rare moment of empathy and maybe even a hint of vulnerability.

When he signs to Caesar, his movements are deliberate and thoughtful, indicating his genuine concern. There’s a flicker of recognition in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the shared pain he can see in you and himself. It’s a small but significant gesture, revealing a side of Koba that few get to see—a side that understands and values compassion. A side that Caesar never expected to see Koba extend towards a human.

The conversation ends as the colony comes into view. Caesar adjusts his hold on you once more as he slows the horse to a gentle walk, but even despite his effort to keep from waking you, you begin to stir.

***

When you wake, the colony is in sight, the path ahead is framed by towering trees, torches lining the widening path. The entrance itself is a natural archway constructed with intertwined branches and vines. Homes sit among the branches, using a combination of wood and foliage to build their intricate structures. You're struck by the beauty and sophistication of it all. You had not expected the apes to be so advanced, to have created something so intricate and harmonious. The structures, woven from natural materials, blend seamlessly with the environment, showcasing a level of craftsmanship and community spirit that leaves you awestruck. It was nothing like what humans would construct… humans tear down nature to erect their monuments of progress, built to stand starkly against the natural world. But the apes build with a profound respect, seamlessly blending their creations into the very fabric of the forest.

This realization stirs a mix of emotions within you—admiration for the apes’ respect for nature, and a tinge of sadness for humanity’s often destructive path.

You feel a pang of guilt, reflecting on how humans, including yourself, have been conditioned to see progress as something that must stand apart from nature, rather than coexist with it. The apes’ ability to build and thrive without disrupting the natural world fills you with a profound respect and a desire to learn from them.

The sounds of the forest are only amplified now as your attention heightens— every rustle of leaves, every distant call of a bird, seems to reverberate through you. The fear and excitement from earlier have been replaced by a sense of calm. You feel more at ease, bolstered by the admiration of both the apes’ tenderness and compassion. You’ve seen it from both sides now. The ape you rode with has shown you nothing but respect and care, and now, as reflected by your surroundings, the apes held a level of care that fell to the most basic parts of nature.

The fear of the unknown mingles with a spark of hope. This place, with its towering trees and bustling community, could be a new beginning. But the uncertainty is still daunting. Now that you see it, and see the potential life you might be able to have, you want nothing more than to stay and become an accepted part of this society.

The apes around you continue their chatter, some casting curious glances your way as you continue on horseback with your ape companion, riding in beneath the large archway to enter into the heart of the colony. You catch snippets of their conversations, the occasional word or gesture making sense. It’s a strange, exhilarating feeling, being on the cusp of understanding a new language.

The colony is bustling with activity—apes of all sizes and types moving about, engaged in various tasks. Some lounge near their homes grooming each other, while others are tending to small fires or carrying supplies.

A fleeting memory of the human camp flashes through your mind—the harsh voices, the constant unease. Just a general undertone of fear and hostility. Instead this colony of apes exudes a sense of community and connection. The contrast is stark, and your heart races with excitement and hope. You feel a slight tremor in your hands as you grip the reins, your knuckles white. The warmth of the large ape’s body behind you is a comforting presence, one of his large hands resting firmly on your waist. Each time he tightens his grip, a shiver runs through you, a blend of reassurance and something more complex. You find yourself leaning into his touch, seeking the comfort and stability it offers. Unconsciously, your fingers grasp at his forearm, clinging to the feeling.

But then that ugly doubt starts gnawing at you. What if you can’t adapt? What if the apes’ initial curiosity turns to resentment? The thought of being an outsider once more, always on the outskirts of the community, is a heavy weight on your heart. Yet, there’s also a stubborn spark of determination. You’ve survived so much already. Maybe, just maybe, you can carve out a place for yourself here.

As you approach the heart of the colony, the reality of your situation settles in. This is your new home, for better or worse. And honestly, anything that came out of this would be better than the place you came from.

All around you, heads begin to turn. The curious stares, the skeptical frowns, and the cautious approaches all contribute to the slowly developing tension in the air. Yet, despite the nervousness, you don’t feel threatened. Compared to where you’ve come from, this is almost nothing.

The sounds within the colony envelop you. The apes’ vocalizations—chirps, grunts, hoots, and soft murmurs—create a symphony of life and activity. You notice how the vocalizations complement their sign language, giving more meaning and emotion to their conversation. So many examples surround you, and it baffles you how easy you find it to read their expressions and the tone of their conversations.

Their eyes convey a spectrum of emotions with a mere glance. A soft grunt of greeting, a gentle touch of reassurance, the subtle shift of a brow—all speak volumes in their unspoken language. Their faces, so human-like in their expressiveness, mirror the emotions you have often seen in your own kind—joy, sorrow, love, and empathy.

You see a reflection of humanity, not in the structures or tools, but in the raw, unfiltered emotion that binds these apes together. It’s truly beautiful.

The abundant variety of tones and noises brings you to notice your own ape companion’s baritone. His voice, deep and rumbling, stands out among the others. Though he could speak English, you notice he often reverted to ape sounds and gestures, seamlessly blending into his surroundings. Yet, there was something distinct about him. His movements were more deliberate, his vocalizations more commanding. Even in a crowd, you felt you could pick him out just by the unique cadence of his sounds.

Then you take notice of a group of young apes playing a game, their laughter-like hoots accompanied by a varied series of joyful chirps and whistles.

They seem to finally take notice of the entrance of you and the other apes. Their high-pitched squeals and joyful chatter burst through the soft, peaceful murmur throughout the colony, replaced by a symphony of youthful exuberance. You watch in bewilderment as the youngsters rush forward and begin to clamber up the horses around you with practiced ease.

The young apes’ faces are alight with joy, their eyes sparkling with delighted anticipation. They reach out with eager hands, their voices a cacophony of greetings and laughter. The riders, too, respond with a level of enthusiasm you were surprised by, their expressions softening with affection as they embrace the children.

Your confusion begins to melt away as you observe the interactions more closely. The way the young apes cling to the riders, the tender touches and warm smiles exchanged—it’s all so familiar. The realization dawns on you slowly: these children had come to greet their fathers, welcoming them home.

Your heart warms and beats erratically as you watch the heartwarming chaos. A few of the males dismount, a gentle urgency in their movements as their young squawked and bounced around their shoulders with determined insistence.

You never knew ape fathers were so involved in the raising of their young. It was endearing, and spoke volumes to the sentience you’ve already observed among them.

Just then, your horse is boarded by two particularly energetic young ones. One of them, with a gleam of excitement, grapples onto the ape behind you, wrapping his small arms around him in a tight hug with an exuberance unlike any other you’d seen before. The other, however, pauses to look at you with curious eyes.

Before you can react, the little guy reaches forward and tugs at your clothes, a playful grin spreading across his face.

Caesar, noticing the mischief, grabs onto the youngsters hand and gives a gruff hoot to reprimand, his tone a mix of authority and affection.

“Gentle Cornelius.”

‘Cornelius’ you note with warm excitement. What an adorable name for an adorably mischievous chimp.

Cornelius squawks at his father with playful challenge then scampers off with, who you assume to be his brother, in tow. The entire group of interactions leave you with a mix of amusement and newfound insight into the close-knit community you were hoping to become a part of.

The young apes soon scamper off, stealing off some of the members of your party in the process, and who remain continue forward towards a large communal fire.

The remaining ones around you begin to dismount their horses, pulling them away by their reins. As your own horse comes to a halt, you feel that familiar strong arm encircle your waist from behind… and then keep moving?!

Wait!

Before you can so much as react, the ape has your entire thigh grasped in the large hand belonging to the arm around your waist.

You’re embarrassed to admit you squeak a little as he begins to slide off the horse. He pulls your thigh to hike your leg over the animal. You feel like a small child the way he moves you so effortlessly, lifting you as he dismounts in one fluid motion with you tucked securely beneath his arm as you're dragged off the horse with him.

As soon as he hits the ground, his grasp on your leg releases, but his arm remains strong as you gather your balance. Although it being extremely forward and an incredibly aggressive way to go about the whole procedure, there’s a surprising gentleness you notice in the way he holds you, ensuring you remain steady. If nothing else, it only brings to mind the raw power and strength he holds. Sometimes you forget how strong apes are in comparison to a normal human… how dangerous they can be. It’s terrifying in a way, but then in another way it’s not at all.

You finally steady yourself and turn to look up at him. He didn’t look at you and meet your gaze, instead he’s already distracted by the apes that had begun to gather around, speaking to them in gestures and gentle hoots. He releases you completely, unwinding his arm from around your back after unconsciously feeling you steady on your feet, and continues his conversations.

Once you overcome your initial shock from that whole interaction, you begin to clue in onto what’s going on. These apes were not exactly here to greet you with open arms. They surround you with skeptical expressions, some voicing their opinions outright. Even though they weren’t speaking your language, it wasn’t hard for you to distinguish the reason for their uproar.

You can feel their eyes on you, judging, questioning. The tension in the air is palpable, and you instinctively move closer to your ape beside you, seeking his protection.

Amidst the strong reactions, a large orangutan moves towards you with a calm, deliberate grace. He stops in front of you, his gaze softening as he looks at you with a tilted head.

“Welcome,” he signed, his movements slow and deliberate, ensuring you could follow the basic sign. His deep, rumbling vocalizations accompanied the signs, adding a layer of warmth to his welcome.

Your chimp extends a hand towards the orangutan in gesture, looking directly at you as he speaks slowly. “Maurice.”

“Maurice,” you repeat, a gentle smile gracing your lips. Maurice chirps approvingly at you, reaching his hand out to grasp yours in a comforting gesture.

The touch brings a wave of relief. Maurice’s calm, deliberate movements and wise eyes offer a silent promise of support.

Maurice turns to meet the gaze of your chimp beside you, signing with deliberate, thoughtful gestures. His vocalizations are soft, a series of low hoots and murmurs that you can’t understand. Your ape responds in kind, his signs quick and assertive, his voice a deep rumble that you feel through his chest.

Maurice’s concern is evident in his expression, matching those around him. He signs slowly, his eyes flicking to you and then back to the ape beside you. But his response is firm, his gestures sharp and decisive. You begin to sense the tension building.

A few other apes step in, their signs and vocalizations adding to the conversation. The atmosphere grows heated, the apes’ voices rising in a mix of grunts, hoots, and screeches. You can’t understand their words, but the hostility is clear. The noise and intensity of their gestures overwhelm you, and you instinctively reach out, grabbing at your ape friend’s arm like you're scared he’ll leave you to the mercy of the others.

His reaction to your fear is almost immediate. His eyes flash with anger, and he takes a large step towards the crowd, his body language assertive and commanding. He signs rapidly, his gestures sharp and forceful, his voice a deep, authoritative roar that silences the other apes immediately. The sudden shift in his demeanor is startling, and the other apes quickly back down, their hostility dissipating under his fierce gaze.

“Enough,” He says aloud in English, his voice echoing through the clearing. “She is staying with me. That’s final.”

The firmness in his voice sends a shiver through your body, a mix of surprise and a strange, unexpected attraction. He had to be a leader of sorts—there was no other explanation for the way they responded to him.

With the situation momentarily defused, he turns to you, his expression softening from his hard scowl. He gently takes your hand, his touch reassuring. “Come,” he says softly, his voice a soothing rumble. “I’ll take you to my home.”

He leads you away from the crowd, guiding you through the colony with a protective arm around your shoulders. The tension in your chest eases slightly as you follow him, focusing on him and his warmth rather than the varied looks you receive from the apes you see in passing.

His home is a marvel of natural architecture, built high among the trees with a view of the entire colony. The walls are woven from sturdy branches, and the floor is covered with soft leaves and moss, creating a cozy, inviting space.

Caesar’s home is simple but welcoming, yet another testament to the apes’ ingenuity. As you settle in, the day’s events begin to catch up with you, and you feel a wave of exhaustion. A soft fire burns further into the home, coating the air with a wonderful heat that makes you want to melt into the floor. The familiar earthy scent of the forest mingles with the warmth of the space.

As you step inside, you notice a series of fast little footsteps running up behind you, and you turn around just in time to see two young chimps barrel up the ramp and into the home.

They both turn to face you and their father and your face lights up with recognition.

“Cornelius?” you ask softly, a worried sort of giddiness overflowing at the sight of the familiar face. The young chimp’s eyes widen with excitement, and he bounces in circles on his feet, thrilled that you remember him. He begins to sign rapidly, his hands moving with eager energy, but you can’t understand a word. His father chuckles softly at the exchange, finding amusement in the situation.

He moves too quickly for you to grab him and hug him like you desperately want to. He’s one of the cutest little creatures you’ve ever seen, him and his brother both.

Speaking of.. you turn your attention to the other young ape, looking at you shyly, fingers twisting through the fur of his own chest as he studies you. His big blue eyes only accentuates the pitiful look on his cute face and your chest spasms tightly with the urge to squeeze him.

You refrain, sadly. You feel it wouldn’t go over too well to let out your cuteness aggression in front of their father. So instead you reach out and gently cup his little face in your hands, running your thumbs along the soft part of his cheeks. The little one stares at you with wide, curious eyes, his small hands lifting to wrap his fists around your thumbs. “I’m sorry I don’t know your name sweetheart… but I will say that you have the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Has anyone ever told you that before?” you say with genuine admiration.

At your words, his face lights up in pure joy. He starts bouncing around, hooting in celebration, his excitement infectious. You watch in astonishment as he continues his little celebration, clearly overjoyed. Cornelius, not wanting to be left out, joins in the exuberant display, their laughter and hoots filling the space with a symphony of happiness as they wrestle each other, rolling across the floor.

“What-what’s going on?” You stutter in the midst of a small giggle, glancing towards the large ape standing beside you. He watches them with amusement as well, glancing towards you when you speak.

Unable to contain his amusement, he laughs. “He’s excited… you guessed his name,” he explains, his eyes twinkling with mirth. The thought makes you grin like a fool and you can’t help but laugh along with them. Blue was a perfect name for him. Blue and Cornelius.

As the excitement dies down, you look up at the large ape, a realization dawning on you. “I don’t even know your name,” you admit softly, feeling a bit embarrassed. His expression softens, and he steps closer, his presence commanding yet gentle. He reaches for your hand and smiles as if trying to formally introduce himself.

“Caesar,” he says simply, his voice carrying a weight of authority the name reflects. It takes a moment for the name to sink in, and then it finally dawns on you. This is the Caesar you had heard about, the legendary leader of the apes. The one that had led them across the bridge all those years ago. Suddenly you feel shy and somewhat nervous as you blink up at him in surprise.

“We’ll, it-it’s nice to meet you Caesar.”

Taglist: @night-shadowblood-writes2 @edynmeyer1 @chermg @httpvomitello @hrlzy

**Im still trying to get a feel for my reader character… but things are pretty complex considering her personality has been suppressed by her abuse for so long, so that’s excusable. Anywho thanks for reading! We’ll start getting to the smut soon hopefully, but in the meantime, welcome to the slow burn!***

[mistress-of-malevolence]

For this year's Mer-may (which I definitely didn't almost forget about) I present Angler Fish N & Octopus Uzi~ just the sketches though.

◀◁Possible AU details below? ▷▶ Warning: Long.

Ok, so I've never really made an AU before. Still, While I was designing these I was trying to figure out how the sea/ocean creatures would work good not just with their respective species (worker, disassembly) and abilities but also how I could integrate their pre-existing designs so that they would look nice and make sense.

First, I decided I didn't want them to be robotic for this since I like working with organic creatures a bit more. Having flesh eliminates most movement restrictions when posing since the body material is malleable. while the idea of robot mermaids is cool, I didn't feel like drawing a bunch of joints and stuff like that. Second, If they were organic then I needed to figure out why they were fighting if it wasn't for a huge human plot to destroy rouge AI. And finally, how was I going to incorporate their powers like absolute solver and other such stuff without necessarily using technology. Having all these things in the back of my head while I was drawing led to the following, so without further ado, here's that ↓. This gonna be long, I can already feel it...

_______

◇Story stuff.

A long time ago, merpeople ruled the water in peace. Humans kept to the land and the only thing they had to worry about were the sirens: Natural predators to the merpeople.

In the eyes of the merfolk, sirens were dangerous. Mindless, bloodthirsty monsters that couldn't be reasoned with. fortunately, their naturally heightened senses left them sensitive to sunlight. This kept them mostly contained to deeper, darker waters than the merpeople usually inhabited.

During the day it was safe to hunt, play and generally flourish as a species and at night they would hide in sea caves and other small spaces that a siren would have trouble fitting into.

That's how it was for many peaceful years. Occasionally one or two would die a victim to the monsters of the deep, but that was just nature.

But slowly as time moved forward and Humanity continued to develop, the merpeople were driven to deeper waters to escape pollution and being hunted.

Uzi's mother, Nori began having visions of a terrible fate that awaited her kind if things continued as they were and after weeks of pleading with her people and her husband to heed the warnings, she went to the sirens alone. for what reason? No one really knows. It's a mystery that only she knew the answer to.

After getting stung by the sirens paralyzing venom, her husband Khan made the heartbreaking decision to put Nori out of her misery before the sirens could do any worse, leaving him to raise their infant daughter Uzi by himself.

The incident resulted in a lot of deaths and many of the families of those that had passed blamed Nori. Saying that she was a mad woman and rumouring that she was a witch who had been meddling in dark magic that caused her to lose her mind and wander towards her death.

Seventeen years later, Uzi had grown up to be an unstable and particularly angsty teenager with a strained relationship with her colony and her father. Uzi believed that the ever-looming threat of the sirens was not something to hide from, but to confront head-on. Such notions labelled her as her mother's daughter in the worst ways possible: Crazy, an incident waiting to happen, most likely going to get eaten by a siren for reasons they will never understand.

Khan had kept the colony safe since Nori's death by having everyone hide away in a cavern big enough to house them but with an entrance so well hidden that everyone believed that the sirens would never find a way in.

Inevitably, Uzi grew tired of cowering and after fashioning the first semi-modern weapon her people had seen out of sea trash and other things humans had chosen to toss into their waters, she snuck out to confront the enemy.

The siren's lair was decorated rather grimly, with the nest seemingly fashioned out of the bones of long-dead mermaids, skulls stacked up together to make the walls of the lair. Inside the dimly lit den was a single male siren who was in the middle of feasting on a mummified corpse which looked to have been drained of all its blood.

As soon as he noticed her, he rushed toward her with killing intent. Uzi's fight or flight kicked in as she brandished her weapon, but it failed to deter the monster in his bloodthirsty craze. He grabbed her by the shoulders, stinging her with the paralyzing toxin in his Claws. Uzi barely managed to break free from his grip by slashing his face with her weapon, sending him reeling back from shock.

Uzi immediately felt her limbs growing heavier but ignored it in favour of taking the opportunity to take the Siren by surprise. While he was distracted she threw her weapon to the ceiling causing an avalanche of skulls to come crashing down on top of him. Uzi had only a moment to breathe, thinking her enemy was buried and dead before a clawed hand burst through the top of the pile like a zombie about to dig itself out of the grave.

Panic surged through her and with as much strength she could muster she pushed away the darkening of her vision and forced the few tentacles that didn't refuse to move to propel her forward with enough force to hopefully finish the job.

The siren's head burst through the pile of death with a groan of pain, but before he could do anything else, he was knocked unconscious as rock made contact with his already aching head.

All was silent for a moment, Uzi fighting for consciousness as her vision continued to darken, whether she was just crashing from the adrenaline or if the toxin was shutting her brain down she wasn't sure. but then the monster woke up, a confused look on his face as he pulled himself out of the skeletons. he blinked and turned his attention to the little creature before him.

"Did you just hit me with that rock?"

"Holy crap it talks."

_______

◈Extra details.

-The sirens and Humans have a deal with each other that if the humans drive the Mer-people deeper into siren territory the sirens will kill the species off in exchange for making them more powerful.

-Apparently, the humans want them dead because they are considered a threat, and can't be reasoned with.

-this is a giant lie on the human part, as they have made no attempt to talk with the merpeople and plan to kill all the sirens after the mermaids are dead.

-Rather than absolute solver being a program I'm changing it to being some form of magic that the humans discovered mermaids had after analyzing corpses that had washed ashore.

-In order to gain this power plan on reverse engineering it from the merpeople's remains while eliminating the prospective threat to humanity at the same time.

-The humans claim that they will make the sirens more powerful by implementing them with tech that will supposedly allow them to live and hunt during the day.

-This tech would actually be something of a remote detonator that once activated would be used to kill all the sirens off at once.

-I haven't decided if all sirens are angler fish, but probably not because that would be boring for me to design.

-Not all merpeople are Octopi though, that's for sure.

-I'd say that since merpeople can be the same species without necessarily being based around the same sea creature, the babies would simply take after one parent entirely.

-This would make sense in this as to why Uzi looks like the spitting image of her mom.

-While trying to figure out Absolute Solver I was really channelling Ursula for Uzi with the skull and the octopus stuff and it all just kinda resulted in sea-witch.

-Both mermaids and Sirens got bioluminescence as a default so that we don't gotta stifle that glow they got in canon.

-Since it wouldn't make sense for fish to have screens and stuff of their faces and bodies, those dark areas where the face-screen would be are just body markings now.

-Uzi's hat is now a sea anemone that just kinda chills on top of her head, kinda like how they do with crabs in real life.

________

I know this was really fucking long but if you made it to the end, thank you very much for reading❤️

Im still workshopping this and I don't even know if anyone has already done something like this. I wouldn't be too surprised if they had since it's May and Mermaids are pretty popular... idk, if I make a fic I'll let you know.

[jellybeanium124]

Chidi Anagonye was raised in Senegal

As Kamilah tells us in season 3, "Chidi" is an Igbo word meaning "God exists" (double checked with Behind the Name)

Chidi's father, Emeka, also has an Igbo Name

The Igbo people are from Nigeria

Nigeria is not close to Senegal. They are about 2,500km/1,550mi apart.

According to Wikipedia, there is not a significant Igbo population in Senegal

Chidi's mother, Ndeye, does have a Senegalese name. (x) (x) (x) (it's not on Behind the Name but several other websites agree that is from the Wolof language in Senegal, so... here's hoping they're right)

Ok so now I have SO many questions about Chidi's family. Did Emeka immigrate to Senegal? Why Senegal? Chidi's birth year is set to about 1982/1983, and the Nigerian government was having crisis after crisis at the time. Colonialism looms large over this entire story for obvious reasons. Nigeria gained independence in 1954, and Senegal in 1959. Nigeria had two coups in 1966, followed by civil war from 1967-1970. There was an oil boom in the 1970s, but obviously the people did not see much of the profits from that as the military government had no interest in raising the standard of living. There was another coup in 1975, and then another in 1976. From the early 80s to 1999, the Nigerian government was a corrupt military dictatorship before democracy was reinstated (x).

In comparison, Senegal had a much more consistent government committed to democracy, diplomacy, and human rights. There was violent conflict and border tensions, but broadly things were more stable, and Wikipedia claims Senegal had "one of the more successful post-colonial democratic transitions in Africa" (x).

All this stuff could never be explored in the show for obvious reasons: it's a comedy (showrun by a white man and made almost entirely by Americans), but I'm still left wondering about it. What was it like for Emeka to move so far away from home? What was it like for Chidi to grow up both Wolof and Igbo, with an Igbo name? How did Emeka keep him in touch with his roots that were thousands and thousands of miles away, or did he encourage assimilation instead? Was this challenging at all for Chidi, growing up?

Also, and I'm going to preface this by saying I am in no position to write this arc/plotline, but I think there's something to be said here, and it could've fit really well into the story if there were west African writers in the writers room who wanted to explore this. Chidi's whole thing is about choice, and he is someone from two different cultures. They could've written a story about Chidi learning not to see himself as two separate halves, but one whole person. But tbh? I don't think they cared to. I'm not sure how much of this is intentional, how much of this implied story of an immigrant leaving his home for greener pastures, falling in love with a woman, and having a baby who then finds making a choice between two things the biggest challenge in the world was intentional, versus how much they just googled "African names." I know Chidi's name is somewhat intentional, given how they explicitly bring up its etymology in season 3, but do they care that the Igbo people are not from or in Senegal? They did seem to forget that Chidi says his native language is French in season 1. Plus they are sorta forced to gloss over the fact that Chidi's actor is American and has an American accent. Or maybe this was 100% intentional and hidden in there for people who either know all of this already or bother to google stuff. I don't know. I just remembered that the Igbo people are from Nigeria and Chidi has an Igbo name, and was pretty sure Chidi didn't say he was Nigerian, so I googled him and went to his fandom wiki page and fell down the rabbit hole from there.

(I am not west African nor do I know much about the histories and cultures of west Africa, so all my sources have been linked in this post, which were Wikipedia and name websites, my apologies if there are any errors in this post, and if there are, please feel free to correct me.)