#look my brain hasn't worked in years now but i have strong feelings on this and related topics

[writeouswriter]

People out here like oooh I shouldn't be relating to this villainous character, this character who does bad things, this character who has questionable morals; yes, you should be! You should be looking at the warped funhouse mirror and analyzing what you see there! That is not an accident! The world is not black and white, good and bad, us and them; if you start thinking there's a clear dividing line, that you could never possibly relate or end up like them or they could never have ended up like you, that's how they get you!

You and the rest of humanity are a swirling pool of grey and these characters are, in many instances, a way to reflect on yourself... because recognizing the self through the other not only gives valuable insight into you and those around you in general, but also lets you see how you can avoid making the same mistakes or how you could, given differing and worse circumstances, see exactly where they're coming from and become just like them if the tables were turned, making you more mindful, more empathetic, more open to questioning or accepting your own flaws, and just... so much more.

That's inevitably worded fuzzily, and I've said it before, but the point is, it's not a bad thing to relate to these characters, it's an (often) *intended* and invariably human thing because humans are messy and complex and shaped by all kinds of simultaneously unique and yet universal shared experiences, and in the end, people are people are people, bound by the laws of chaos.

And yes, there may be some exceptions in how you may approach this, but not without nuance.

[acheronist]

HI ISABEL i was thinking abt ur beechey boys + peglar/armitage extended cinematic universe while doing my laundry earlier (<- normal guy behaviour) and now i'm curious if u've thought of any actors/face claims for them – beechey boys especially bc we don't even have terror versions to use lol 👀🎤

HI GENEEEE 🖤 this is interesting.... honestly i've never been very good at fan casting shit because my default is always just going "x character should be played by riz ahmed" which ummmm would not work here i fear.

anyways everyone watch out there's gonna be mummy images below the cut

okay i really don't care about actors enough to do this well ummm LMAO johnny bertchtold YOU🫵🏻 are now john shaw torrington!! except johnny's way too tall and also ripped to be jorts.... i will say tho, as annoying as the john torrington/david young erasure is in the amc show, they did kind of nail it with alfie kingsnorth... now that's a skinny blonde bitch who looks half dead! he's got the right big round eyes + prominent cheekbones as jorts

if we could get some mutton chops and the uniform of a royal marine private onto ferdinand kingsley i think he'd be fantastic as william braine..... actually now that i'm looking at this i kind of feel like a genius for this one LMAO??

john hartnell is a little harder because i've already decided in my heart that this daguerreotype is 100% undeniably him even though the chances of it are actually probably very low. in actuality. but i have tried to match up the daguerreotype "hartnell" with the mummy hartnell and i do think it's a super close match.... i just wish mr. daguerreotype hadn't tucked his hair over his ear so i could compare the shape of john's ear.... but anyways there is actually one bg dude from terror amc who i have also kind of decided could be jarts!!! he was one of the dudes who voted to stay on terror and die there instead of out on the shale before everyone abandoned ship... he's got the right haircut for it <3 but also i think rob james-collier could be kind of a slay for jartnell if we can get him back to his downton abbey prime

and then thomas morgan hasn't really made his debut in the beechey boys cinematic universe (yet. chapter two still cooking......) and we also haven't exhumed HIM so this is really just like throwing a dart and calling it good. i did draw a little version of him here tho . so do with this as you will i guess. me when i'm just making up whatever the fuck. he should be kind of sickly looking as well though because my dude was going THROUGH it (+ he had one million pre existing conditions) before he died.

and for like... henry & thomas theyre much more nebulous in my brain..... maybe i'll try and draw them later!? i did do fanart here of henry tho but i fear it's got a heavy amc casting influence on what he looked like.

real life facts: thomas (5'9") is 2 inches taller than henry (5'7"), henry probably had broad/strong arms and shoulders due to climbing around in the rigging for his whole career, both of them had brown hair, and thomas was older than henry enough that he was probably starting to get salt-and-pepper grey during the miserable stressful parts of the expedition. henry's id papers describe his complexion as "sallow" and based on how many captains said he had a shitty/indifferent/bored attitude while working leads me to believe my king had chronic resting bitch face + looked vaguely exhausted and pale and unwell even when he was healthy.

also in my heart amc nailed it with giving thomas curly hair tho... charlie kelly is cute to meeeeee... unfortunately he isn't 40 years old enough. no source no facts anyways i just want to believe in curly girl armitage supremacy. ALSOOOO in my heart (again) henry has sailor tattoos-- HOLD FAST on his knuckles for good luck in the ropes + two swallows on his chest under each collarbone to mark his 10,000th mile at seas. i forgot what i was talking about. i think do think k*vin g*thrie's face was honestly too conventionally attractive for henry though. i just know my man was mid as fuck. frown lines from scowling, ink stains on his fingers at all times, never worn sunblock ever, thinks splashing water on his face counts as moisturizing etc.... MY henry peter peglar is pretty weather-beaten and looks like a mean cunt and sometimes he snarls at people like a badly trained dog. amen.

[gggoldfinch]

Hatchetknife

Richard B. Riddick x OFC (or reader)

(disclaimer: photo found on pinterest ^ )

A/N: I’ve been gripped by the most manic and inexplicable riddick brainrot ever and needed to get this out of my system or I’d deadass explode ‼️I usually don't write oneshots like this so it was a nice breath of fresh air actually. Hopefully now this sexy bald bitch will leave my poor brain alone so I can do something else other than binge watching vin diesel movies

warnings: original female character (descriptions vague enough to be reader insert), possibly a little ooc, very brief discussion of SA (in a non-threatening manner), minor violence & injury, explicit language, forced proximity, only one bed, explicit sexual content, smut, oral sex, praise kink, scent kink, size kink, light choking, biting, pet names. MINORS DNI

word count: 12,114

{AO3 Link}

summary: A low-profile merc masquerading as a man has her ship (and life) invaded by an unlikely guest. She gets found out, and things progress interestingly.

***

There's a ship that's been sitting idle in the upper-east Storage B-Port for weeks now; Riddick knows this. He also knows he hasn't been this incapacitated in a while. It's a hard thing to admit to himself, but he can feel the exhaustion creeping in. He hasn't slept in over 72 hours, and has been fighting and running for most of that time. He's out of his element— stuck in the heart of a congested city-planet rather than out in the wilderness of some uninhabited backwater planet. He's bleeding from somewhere— his side, maybe. His nose is broken, too, and there must be some sort of nerve damage too, because he can't scent who's coming after him anymore. He lost his goggles somewhere during this most recent scuffle, too, so all the neon signs are like miniature suns searing his retinas.

There's an idle ship gathering dust in Storage B-Port. He recalls it looking like a good model, some custom parts. It'll be easy to hijack. It'll be easy to leave this planet and his merc pursuers in the dust.

———————————————————————

Everyone has their own way of surviving in this nightmare of a universe. Some kill, some are killed. That's just something each and every person has to come to terms with while they draw breath. While not exactly thriving, this one particular individual has found their own way to survive. Some may call her a mercenary, and they wouldn't necessarily be wrong— but she prefers to call herself a mere gun for hire. It's easy to make a living when you have a thick head and nothing to lose, going from one job to another with little in the way of possessions and even less in the way of social relationships. She goes where the proverbial wind takes her, planet-hopping and working odd jobs. Sometimes the jobs entail hunting dangerous quarry, but more often than not she's hired for non-violent jobs running security for personnel protection or transport. Honestly, the only jobs she turns down outright are those having anything remotely to do with the Necromongers. Sure it isn't ideal, but it's better than living in the slums of the over-crowded metroplanet where she'd grown up.

It's a risky job, no doubt, made no less difficult by her deliberate choice to fly solo. Solo is safe. Solo, she don't have to worry about crewmates stealing or betraying her, or worse, taking advantage of her. Barely an adult when she'd begun her life hopping between merc crews, she'd learned early that being on her own is better, safer. No— she keeps to herself with nothing but the ship's computer system for company. And, when the occasion rises where she does have to venture out into civilization again—to find a job or stock up on supplies—she takes heavy precautions.

Strong from years of fighting and labor, her body can shoulder the burdensome weight of armor; broad shoulders and sturdy bones make her intimidating and capable. Years worth of mismatched armor plates make up her regular uniform, both metal alloys and plastic prints. Some pieces were taken off fallen quarry—or former crewmates—some purchased responsibly. Each plate has a little story she can recall, fondly or not. When worn all together, her form is virtually unrecognizable, and more importantly, masculine. The crown mantle is her helmet: sturdy, sleek, black, with a visor capable of internal screen display. The vocal distorter programmed into it deepens her voice to a disguised pitch. The suit of armor isn't entirely comfortable, but it's a requirement for her safety.

"Hatchet!"

She swivels her helmeted head, looking in the direction from which she hears her codename. She hadn't been calling herself anything when she'd assumed this masculine persona. Her various employers just began calling her a shortened version of her ship's name—the Hatchetknife—and it just ended up sticking within the merc circle she floats in. No one knows her true identity, as far as she's aware. If they do, no problems have arisen from it yet.

A man approaches her, stocky and shorter than her. He's been her employer for the past several weeks, paying her to be a glorified bodyguard for his uppity son, on probation for yatta yatta yatta. She'd tuned out the rest once she'd heard the price of the paycheck. 350 thousand units just to  babysit an alcoholic man-child for a month while he's on probation. She couldn't pass it up.

Her employer holds out a datapad, the blue screen alight with money transfer information. She's about to receive her payment and get the fuck off this stuffed metroplanet. Maybe she can finally replace some of the older parts on the Hatchetknife with this payment.

"Don't be a stranger, now," the man says amicably once the digital paperwork has been filled. She receives a notification ping on the screen of her visor, indicating the payment has gone through successfully.  

She inclines her concealed head, thanks him for the business, and turns tail to leg it back to the ship. The thing has been docked in storage for nearly a full month cycle now— long enough for the ticket expense to be a bit of a blow to her newly acquired units. It doesn't matter; this planet will be long behind her in only a matter of a few short hours. She's been idle, been on this polluted and overpopulated planet for too long.

And she'll be damned if a little blood on the exterior hatchpad of her ship is going to deter her from getting out of dodge in a timely manner. It's a handprint, maybe a couple, smeared all along the white panelling of the cargo bay door's control console. The cargo bay door is locked up tight though, so she's not particularly worried that any ne'er-do-wells have tried breaking into her sturdy old ship. It's a good model, she tells herself. It has a security system that would alert her of suspicious activity through the link between her helmet and the ship's mainframe. Sure, someone clearly tried to get in, but there's no sign the bay door had been opened recently.

She pays her exorbitantly priced docking ticket and opens the bay door herself. She remains completely oblivious to the other trail of blood, smeared up the side of the ship and leading to the secondary hatch. She doesn't notice the cut wires either, spraying pathetic little sparks instead of warning signals to her security system. To be fair, she doesn't notice much of anything—doesn't even remove her armor or helmet—in her haste to take off. She just charges through the cargo bay, vaults the ladder to the upper deck, and wedges herself behind the control console.

It feels like home, being behind the console. More of a home than she's ever really had, at least. She exhales against the interior of her helmet. Her reflection gleams in the bare windshield, the sleek black glass and metal of her high-tech helmet staring back. Gloved fingers press buttons and flip switches, igniting holoscreens and a rainbow of lights. Meters and regulators all seem to be in check despite the ship's extended idleness, and the hyperdrive kickstarts with a comforting purr. She has to take the ship up and out of the atmosphere before kicking it into warp speed, lest the planet's nasty police force pick a fight with her. Fog and flames lick the nose of the Hatchetknife as it accelerates upward, breaking through the upper atmosphere at a smooth 15 kilometers per second, and an even 75 degree angle. Only then does she crank the hyperdrive and watch as the countless stars warp around the nose of the ship.

She plots an aimless course, avoiding setting a firm destination until she can get her hands on another potential job lead. Upon throwing it into autopilot, the ship's automated computer system welcomes her back on board. Hatchet, it calls her. Not even her own ship uses her true name anymore.

Her boots are heavy as they tramp out of the cockpit. Reinforced steel and acid-resistant soles, these boots are. They're her favorites. They make a robust thump thump as she walks into the narrow hallway of the Hatchetknife. Here resides her bunk, and across from that is the kitchenette and table where she eats and works and sometimes sleeps. It's barely wide enough to fit two people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. She's used to close-quarters; it's almost comforting, like a womb. The hatch and ladder down to the cargo bay gapes at the end of the hall, and this is what she beelines for once acclimating herself with the interior of her ship again. Her bunk looks awfully inviting, but first on the agenda is to shuck off all the armor.

Boots bracketed on either side of the ladder and gloved hands holding tight to the side-rails, she slides down until landing on the grate panels of the cargo bay floor. This area is vastly larger than her living quarters— it has to be, in the event she has to transport sizable goods or heavy machinery. A armory case for her weapons and uniform sits bolted against the side wall, its grate doors barely revealing the contents. She opens the thing up, removing the machine gun strapped to her back to place it on its rightful hooks.

She hooks her thumbs under the seal of her helmet and disables the suctioned airlock. Just as she's preparing to lift the burdensome thing from her head, something collides with her right side, knocking her clean off her feet. It takes only a few frantic moments to realize it's a human being— a male attacker. Her deactivated helmet collides with the metal flooring at an odd angle, instantly disabling the visor's screen as a result of some internal damage. The force of the tackle and impact against the floor has the breath drawn from her lungs in a violent, rattling wheeze. The muscles over her ribs convulse and tighten, sending a shock of panic and pain and adrenaline through her system. With little time to think, no weapon handy, and no opportunity to scan the stranger, she starts thrashing. Amidst the scuffle and blow to her head, she can't quite see clearly, only able to make out a blur of squirting blood. The blood isn't her own— she's sure she would feel it if she'd been shanked in any of her armor's vulnerable spots.

She thrusts a gauntleted arm upwards in the direction she thinks the intruder's head is. Her metal-sheathed wrist collides with something and the oppressive weight above her slumps over to the side.

Hatchet scrambles up to her knees and tears the nearest gun from off the rack. She spins, points the weapon at the stranger's head, and... doesn't shoot.

Sprawled on the cold metal floor is a man. A large man. Bald-headed and covered in blood she knows she hadn't drawn from him herself. It's old blood, old wounds— maybe hours, maybe days. Despite the vaguely stunned look about him from being hit in the head, he wears a wry little smile upon his full mouth, lips and nose bloody from what looks like a previous beating. His eyes glint in a peculiar fashion, almost like feline eyeshine, silvery and shifting.

He holds his hands out by his head placatingly, palms facing upward. Then, he grins. "Okay, okay. You got me." His voice is deep and smooth like rolling thunder. It's almost startlingly in its intensity.

"Who the fuck are you? What are you doing on my ship!? What do you want?" she barks into the voice modulator, keeping the hardy submachine gun trained on him.

"Got a pretty nice ship here, don't you think?" he rumbles out.

"Fuck you!"

He chuckles at that, although the action looks like it pains him. The blood, she realizes, is oozing from a substantial stab wound on his left flank, just below the contour of his shapely pectoral muscle. She swallows thickly, choking down the apprehensive lump in her throat. Still a little off-kilter from the blow to her helmet, she shakily rises to her feet, steady finger not leaving the trigger once. The man clenches his silvery eyes shut, sucking in a substantial breath only to groan it all out again. One broad, tan hand shifts to press against the wound on his side, the other remaining innocently idle.  

Without prompting, Hatchet's line of sight raises to the secondary hatch within the cargo hold. There it is: a smear of blood and sparking wires. That's where he'd gotten in. Must be a determined fella—let alone smart—to have hacked the ship's security system to override the locking mechanism and find which wires would send out a warning signal before they even had the chance to. She looks back to him, curiously tilting her head to the side in observation of him.

"What the fuck do you think is supposed to happen now?" she grits out. The voice modulator gives it an extra bit of bite.

The man laughs, blood staining his straight teeth. "I dunno. Thought you might hand over your ship."

"Hand over my— Do you have a fucking head injury?"

He laughs again and she kicks his calf roughly.

"What about this is funny? Please, illuminate it for me. Because all I see some fucking stowaway who has a gun to his head and a nasty stab in his side. You're not getting my ship, pal. You'll be lucky if I let you see tomorrow."

"Bad timing," he murmurs, voice thick with strain and sardonic amusement. His expression slackens, the crease between his thin brows flattening out gradually.

"What?"

She kicks his leg again; he's unresponsive. Unconscious, actually, judging by the sudden lack of tension in his face and limbs. She drops the gun-wielding hand to her side and lets out a high-pitched wail of frustration.

She's not a cold blooded murderer. Sure, she's had to take a life or two throughout her days, but then again, who hasn't in this line of work. Those times were different— kill or be killed. This is... this is an injured, apparently unarmed guy on her cargo bay floor. Yes, he'd broken in, but maybe he has a valid excuse. She's had to break into places to survive before, it's really not that unusual. And despite all the shit she's been through, deep down Hatchet has a bleeding heart. She'd be pressed to admit it, of course. The sight of the stranger, wounded and unconscious, male as he may be, pulls at her tender and guarded heartstrings.

Fucking hell. She can only hope that someday in the future, if she's ever in time of need, that some stranger will treat her with kindness.

The man is heavy. Not deceptively so, as his height and build imply a great amount of mass, but hell if she's not winded by the time she drags him over to the cargo lift. The small elevator is usually for objects and not people, but it's the only way she can get his dead-weight ass to the upper level where the only cot and good light source are. She hasn't taken her armor off, and at this point she doesn't think she's going to. Certainly not with a strange man aboard, unconscious or not.

Upon both arriving at the upper level, it takes a great amount of effort to haul the man over to the bunk. The space is barely big enough to comfortably hold Hatchet, and she's nowhere near the size of this beast of a man. The cot creaks as she lowers him onto it, his boots scraping the wall as she crams him into the broom closet sized space. Flicking on the overhead light, it illuminates him with white fluorescence. It's only then does she realize he's not entirely unconscious; somewhere in there, he's aware enough to wince at the light coming on. She squints at him for a long moment, scrutinizing the situation. He doesn't show any other sign of cognizance besides for that averse reaction to the bright light beating down on his eyelids. When she decides it had only been some sort of odd reflex, she goes to retrieve the medical supplies from an aptly labeled storage cabinet.

Modesty be damned, she has to remove his shirt. It's barely holding itself together, anyway, and she has replacements to dress him in after she's patched him up. She feels hot under all her armor and layers, nervous as she stares down at the stranger's bare chest. Christ, he's build like a tank. It's intimidating, actually, once she chokes down the insidious feeling of attraction that prickles her skin and bubbles in her abdomen. Anyway—  upon closer inspection, the wound on his side is largely superficial. The extensive bruising along his ribs, however, indicates some unknown level of internal damage. It may only be deep-tissue bruising, or his ribs could be broken. She can't be too sure either way, and makes sure to properly bandage up his torso regardless, though only after disinfecting and stitching up the gash.

His nose is broken, that much is obvious. However, it looks as though it's already been set, so all she has to do is clean the blood, disinfect the small cut on the bridge, and properly bandage it. He has a nice face, apart from the bandaged nose. She can't really describe his features. Harsh, but soft at the same time. She huffs against the interior of the helmet at the thought, crossing her arms and leaning back.

She has stationed herself at the table across from the bunk, cautiously watching over the stranger through the deactivated visor of her mask. Hot and stuffy and heavy as the armor may be, she won't risk taking it off just yet. She doesn't quite have a plan yet as to how this is going to unfold. She'd chosen to spare his life, yes, but that isn't to say she won't protect herself to the nth degree if the need arises going forward. She doesn't want him out of her sight—especially considering her unprofessional lack of manacles—which means she can't program a route into the ship right now. The task would've been made simple if he hadn't gone and broken the screen display mechanism in her helmet. She can't even scan him in this state, to gather his identity or vitals status. She hadn't realized how dependent she'd grown on the visor display until now, having worn the damn thing for weeks straight at this point.

It takes a couple of hours by her count for the stranger to rouse again. He's disoriented at first, but soon grows aware of her shielded gaze burning into him from the other side of the narrow living area. He shifts in the cot, turning onto his wounded side to better assess the situation. He doesn't seem threatened—or particularly threatening—at the moment.

"Rise and shine," Hatchet speaks into the voice modulator.

She kicks a boot up onto the edge of the cot from where she sits barely three feet away. She tells herself it's a show of dominance, to plant her boot right beside the stranger's head, but in reality she probably just looks stupid. The man just looks at her with those silvery eyes, squinting under the bright overhead light. She doesn't shut it off.

"Now here's the deal—"

"How many people you got on this ship?" He cuts her off, tone both aloof and detached despite the situation. He breaks into an odd little grin, then twists his head to scent the pillow. "You hiding a lady somewhere? Fella like you sure wouldn't smell this sweet."

Hatchet's face crumples under the cover of secrecy. She has to school her perturbed reaction for the sake of her anonymity. What the hell kind of guy is she dealing with here, exactly? Not only must she refrain from showing any physical reaction, she shouldn't verbally address it, either.

"Now here's the deal," she repeats. "I spared you once— even did you the favor of patching you up. But, it's not gonna happen again if you try something funny."

The man tucks his chin to his chest to look down at the bandaged wounds, holding a curious hand to his side. She can't quite interpret his expression perfectly, but she thinks he seems vaguely impressed by her medical treatment of him.

"I'm going to take you to the nearest inhabited planet and dump your freeloading ass off at the first dock I come across. You aren't going to resist or complain. I'm doing you this favor— clearly you were on the run from someone dangerous, and I got you out of dodge. I don't expect payment, but I'd be mighty grateful if you didn't do anything violent or stupid." Hatchet kicks the bunk when his eyes slip shut again. "Hey! Are you listening to me?"

He does appear to fall unconscious again, but she can't be totally sure he isn't just fucking with her. Irritated, she sucks her teeth and curses him out, kicking off the bunk to stomp off into the cockpit. Forget keeping him in sight, he can suffocate for all she cares. There's a shotgun under the control console, anyway.

She seals the cockpit door shut behind her. Only then does she feel safe to remove her helmet. Once again she's greeted by her reflection in the windshield, though this time it's her own face that stares back. It's a tired and sweaty face, with hair matted flat to the scalp from the tight interior of the helmet. She needs a nice long shower—that much is obvious—but now isn't the time. Finally breathing fresh, unfiltered air again, she gulps it down greedily and deposits herself in the pilot's seat. The autopilot had taken itself out of hyperdrive some time ago, and now the Hatchetknife careens at a steady pace through open space. The stars are magnificent, as always. The endless, unfathomable sight almost makes her forget her burdensome stowaway.

Hatchet pulls coordinates for the nearest inhabited planet. She expands the view on the holoscreen projected across the console. The information, illuminated in a fluorescent blue, scrawls across the screen just fast enough for her to barely be able to read it in time. Her eagerness to be rid of the stowaway slowly melts into a nauseating apprehension. Apparently, according to the data, the nearest planet for several lightyears just happens to be crawling with Necromongers. Fucking Necromongers. If there's anything Hatchet hates, it's violent religious cults that double as armies. She avoids well-paying jobs on the off-chance that those psychos might catch a whiff of her— she's sure as hell not landing her ship in a hive of those wasps.

"Fucking shit!" She kicks the console.

There goes the plan to drop this motherfucker off. It'll take days at the very least to make it to the next viable planet. She tosses her head back and groans loud, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes until they come away leaving splotches in her vision. Venting her frustration, she kicks her heel against the console twice more.

———————————————————————

If Hatchet learns anything during her time in close proximity with the man, it's that, 1. he's a shockingly fast healer; 2. he doesn't like bright lights; and 3. he's quite sharp-witted despite the meathead look about him. In the few days that follow the unexpected detour, she avoids him as best she can in such cramped quarters. They only interact on the occasions when she checks up on his wounds or gives him MRE meals throughout the day—  always outfitted in her armor, of course. He only takes power-naps, never a full sleep, and reacts tensely to loud and sudden noises. He's smug and facetious when he speaks, and brooding when he doesn't. He's like a storm in every aspect of the description: thunderous voice, eyes like lightning, and a stormy personality to match. Despite Hatchet's aloofness, the man has found a way to wheedle himself under her skin. Once he was stable enough to stand on his own, nothing could stop him from getting up and wandering around the ship, hiding in the shadowed areas like a predator stalking its prey, much to Hatchet's chagrin. He makes little quips and witty comments in that deep voice when she's least prepared for them, and he stares at her with those glimmering eyes like he can see right through her disguise. Sometimes, she worries he does. He's like a fucking ghost the way he soundlessly moves around the small ship. That's more unnerving than his appearance, she thinks.

It's all getting rather frustrating. At first she'd been pissed that a man had the audacity to impose himself upon her time, energy, and ship. Now, she can't help but feel a strange tug of loneliness when they aren't in the same room. It's upsetting how the mind perceives human connection. She doesn't even know his name, yet the thought of being on her own again seems... well, lonely.

It does help that he's easy on the eyes, too. She finds herself locked away in the cockpit more and more frequently, brooding long and hard over the increasingly frequent thoughts of how fucking fine the man is. That soft yet masculine face, those thick arms and sturdy torso. The deep, intense tenor of his voice alone is enough to make her weak in the knees. And those eerie, glowing eyes, which watch her every movement like a hawk. Oh, for fucksake...

Hell, in all honesty she might as well be swimming in her armor with the way she sweats when he stands close and talks real smooth. She's afraid she's making it a little too obvious, actually. That carefully crafted persona is slipping through her fingers and all because she's a little hot under the collar about this stowaway she'd sworn to dump like a box of rocks come first chance. It came to a point approximately three simulated days into their time together when she couldn't stand the sight of him shirtless anymore; she ended up handing over one of her spare XL tanks, which still managed to look small on his burly frame. There's a sort of undeniable animal magnetism about him which is almost a little distressing in its intensity. What a fickle thing her trust in others is— and how tragically simple it was for her to get comfortable with the situation.

She doesn't insist on taking her bunk back from the healing man. While he rests his battered body on the cot, she kicks back at the well-worn table every night cycle, sprawled across the bench seat with a flimsy pillow beneath her helmeted head. This way she can keep the stowaway within her line of sight. Once his intimidating nature is overlooked, he is surprisingly amicable and seems rather appreciative of all her efforts. He hasn't tried to attack her, or otherwise threaten her person, which she takes as a sign he'd heard and accepted her deal before passing out on that very first day. In fact, he only ever deliberately menaces her when standing over her shoulder, or appearing out of nowhere. Or when he belligerently thumps his fist over wall panels to deactivate overhead lights he finds irksome.

Hatchet, though she herself is nameless to an extent, finds his lack of proffered identity a little frazzling. Though she's come to accept his presence as a whole, it would make her a lot more comfortable if she had a name and background to put to the face. Which brings her to the locked cockpit, wherein she works tediously to repair the screen and scanning mechanism in her helmet. With her tongue poked out from between her lips and one boot up on the console, she takes the helm apart and repairs it with a notable proficiency, then puts it all back together again. The screen automatically powers on when she activates the airlock seal, illuminating her field of view with digital notifications and vital statuses.

She catches him unaware, aiming her visor at him for long enough to scan his facial features and biometrics. Identification data scrawls across the screen before her eyes, her blood pressure spikes. Under the guise of piloting the ship, she locks herself in the cockpit again and feverishly scrolls through mugshots and bounty reward data.

Holy shit. She's been harboring the infamous convict Richard B. Riddick.

Her jaw clenches, muscle twitching against the interior padding of the helmet as she absorbs the newfound information. She should've known. She should have known. Those eyes— she'd heard the merc legends about those eyes.

But fuck... for a guy who'd spent half his life in the slam, he's certainly been affable within these restrictive quarters, mingling with a complete stranger, no less. It's hard to reconcile what she reads on the screen with the man she's been interacting with for the past few artificial cycles. She yanks the helmet from over her head, roughly scrubbing her palms over her face.

When she returns from the cockpit, nerves gathered to the extent they can be, she finds the man halfway through shaving his tan scalp. She stands at the mouth of the living area, the girth of her armor nearly taking up the entire doorframe. Richard B. Riddick, her reserved and shockingly mannered stowaway, sits at the metal table with a compact mirror and razor— a feeble weapon which she now knows could be used against her in all sorts of ways if she were to get on his bad side. Does he even have a good side to be on? She hopes he does, and hopes she's on it. Largely without thinking, one of her hands flutters up to her touch throat as images of it being brutally slit flicker through her mind.

She sits down across from him, folding her hands on the tabletop. He doesn't pause his grooming, doesn't even glance up. His eyeshine remains trained on the little mirror as he meticulously scrapes the stubble from his head with help from what looks like motor gel, no doubt nicked from the cargo bay below. Hatchet purses her mouth into a nervous line beneath the safety of her helm. She can't help but silently observe the flex of his muscles as he moves, every innocuous gesture striking a flustered chord within her. She swallows against the tightness constricting her throat.

"How are you feeling?" She hopes the modulator eliminates the shakiness she feels in her voice.

Logically, she has nothing to be afraid of. Unless this guy is prone to switching demeanor on a dime—which she has no reason to believe he does, based on what she's seen so far—why wouldn't this passive companionship continue? If anything, Hatchet is more afraid of how he will react to knowing she knows his identity now. Either he's been assuming she has known this entire time and just doesn't care, or knows she's been blissfully ignorant and has taken advantage of the anonymity.

He finally spares a glance at her across the table. His jaw visibly twitches, then one corner of his mouth quirks upward. He returns to shaving his head.

"Better. Thanks." He sniffs, sounding indifferent.

"You... uh. Want anything to eat?"

"Naw."

Hatchet exhales, both relieved and oddly disappointed. The storage compartment for the MREs is right beside him, meaning she would've had to stand right over him to retrieve anything.

"You got any goggles laying around?" His deep voice brings her out of her mind. "Been looking but..." he sucks his teeth.

Her brows raise confoundedly. "Goggles?"

"Yeah, you know. Goggles."

Fuck, he must think she's an idiot. She fumbles for words. "Uh. I'm not sure, probably not. I usually just wear the helmet when I need to shield my eyes. Why do you need them?"

He snaps the compact mirror shut and sets down the razor, using the bloody tank he's arrived in to wipe the remaining gel from his scalp. It looks like he'd shaved his beard recently, too, if the dark shadow on his jaw has anything to say about it. Setting the tank down, no more than a scrap rag at this point, he inhales deeply and briefly sinks his teeth into his plump lower lip. Hatchet bites her cheek hard enough for it to hurt, deliberately keeping her gaze from his mouth.

"I wouldn't need them if you didn't keep turning on all the lights," he replies. A hint of dry amusement hides within his flat tone.

"I wouldn't have to turn on the lights if you didn't hide in the shadows all the time," she retaliates. Riddick chuckles like deep, rolling thunder. Hatchet's pulse jumps; fear, arousal. "I'll keep it in mind not to turn them all on. I know your eyes are sensitive to light," she continues.

He suddenly pins her with a suspicious, scrupulous glare. She realizes her mistake and backtracks, sweating bullets beneath her armor.

"I mean, you squint a lot. And you make your way around in the dark better than in the light. I shouldn't have assumed." She's babbling. She can't keep a lid on it.

If he suspects what she knows, he doesn't let on. He cocks his head to the side, eyes glimmering as they trace the contours of her hefty armor. His gaze stops on her visor, right where her eyes should be. Somehow, she feels like they're making direct eye contact.

A questioning smile graces his handsome face. "Do you ever take that damn helmet off? Or do you live in the thing."

Hatchet's face falls beneath the shield of the visor. Her pulse thumps in her throat; a part of her thinks he can sense it. Her demeanor becomes prickly, unchecked. "Why do you care? You're a stowaway on my ship— what is it your business how I eat, sleep, shit—"

"Fuck?" He raises a thin brow, tickled by his own addendum. Meanwhile, Hatchet flushes a fiery shade of red beneath the helm in question. Then, he huffs a short little laugh— more a harsh exhale than anything. "I have to say, your little getup had me convinced at first. But, I know you ain't a man."

Hatchet's heart skips a beat. She disguises her anxiety with derision. "Disappointed?"

"Not in the slightest, sweetheart." A white canine glints when he flashes that oddly charming smile.

That combination—a quaint pet name and that devastating smile—has her feeling lightheaded and confined within her suit. Her hands slip from the tabletop to clench into fists in her lap. He appears upsettingly smug about his little revelation.

"How'd you figure it out?"

His nostrils flare; he takes a deep breath. "Thought I smelled a woman my first night in the bunk. My nose was all fucked up, but... eventually I figured out that sweet smell was coming from you and not some phantom scent hanging around. I give you credit, you had me going for a little while."

Her brow twinges. What a strange man.

She's faced with an internal conflict. She could deny the accusation, but something tells her that won't work in the slightest. She could keep the helmet  and armor on until they part ways, but really what's the point, seeing as he already knows she's a woman; he looks strong enough to pry the armor right off her body anyway. The most logical choice she can make is to take the discovery in stride and go back to living comfortably, with the addition of a slightly threatening guest who does one-armed push-ups in the hallway and lurks around dark corners. The jig is up. He's just that good. Her choice is practically made up for her.

Hatchet's hands raise, slow and tentative, and she maintains what feels a lot like eye contact with Riddick. Her gloved thumbs hook up under the seal, disabling the airlock and visor screen. Air hisses out from the seam at her throat, loosening the helmet's grip on her head. Somewhat dubiously, she lifts the burdensome metal and glass dome from over her head. It comes to rest in her lap as she shakes out her sweat-dampened hair and takes a deep breath of fresh air.

They look at each other's faces for the first time, unencumbered. The visor distorts perception a tiny bit, so it's almost like seeing him for the first time. A permeable scent of sweat and metal lingers between the both of them, despite both having showered recently in the ship's minuscule wash room. She can also smell the motor gel he'd used to shave his head (so strange— must be a leftover trick from the slam, she thinks). The woman is overcome with a bout of anxiety and shyness upon revealing her true face, and flushes under his heavy gaze. She resists the submissive urge to tuck her chin to her chest and avert real eye contact.

"Well... I guess you know who I am, now." She clears her throat; she hasn't heard her unfiltered voice in ages. Her jig may be up— but she still has something of a trump card on him, too. Sure, he might kill her for it, but this entire conversation is toeing the line of life-threatening risk to begin with. She musters courage to utter her next words; "Just like... how I know who you are now, Richard B. Riddick. Thought I wouldn't do a facial recognition scan?"

Hatchet squares her shoulders and raises her chin by a fraction, feigning confidence. He can probably smell her fear. The man inclines his head, brows raised as a chuckle rolls in like a storm. He almost looks impressed with her mediocre detective work.

He smiles that wolfish smile, showing teeth and smile lines. "So, you think you know who I am now, huh? You afraid of the big bad monster now?"

One corner of Hatchet's mouth quirks downward. "Should I be?"

"If you're smart you would be." He levels her stare with that inhuman eyeshine.

"I only fear true monsters. Men who kill for pleasure and nothing more. I read the files on you. You don't kill unarmed women— children. You don't rape them."

It isn't phrased as a question, but he replies regardless; "Naw."

It's actually kind of relieving that he looks a bit offended by the idea. "Then you aren't a true monster. You do what you have to to survive. We all do out here. I can't fault you for killing people trying to kill you. I won't fault you for anything you had to do in the slam."

There's more she would like to say—to tell him he'd been dealt a really shitty hand—but that feels too intrusive for the context of their relationship. She doesn't want to risk angering him by coming off as pitying.

Riddick narrows his naturally suspicious gaze at the woman. He doesn't touch her previous soapbox comment. "So... that mean you're gonna try to turn me in for a payday?"

"Fucking— Jesus, dude," she guffaws incredulously. "Why the fuck would I turn you in after I did so much to save your ass? You're worth more dead than alive, you know. If I wanted to, I could've."

The big man shrugs. "Who knows. Every other merc would."

"Well I'm not every other merc, am I?" She leans back, crossing her arms over her chestplate.

"Naw, definitely not."

If she'd been any less observant, she may have missed the glimmer of flirtation in his tone and demeanor— in his eyeshine. Stifling heat rises like a kettle boiling, tinting her face a noticeable hue. She can only hope she looks disheveled and sweaty enough for it to pass as an exacerbated flush. Abruptly, she stands from the table, wringing her hands in an uncontrollable combination of nerves and bashfulness. The helmet is dumped onto the tabletop, rolling towards the seated man.

"I'll uh—" Her voice cracks; she clears her throat. "I'll look for those goggles for you."

"Good talk," he calls after her as she hastily turns on her heel.

She pauses her stride, mind running a mile a minute to find a way to gain some sort of traction and authority amidst this interaction. She shifts halfway to turn back and face him.

"Hm. Yes, good talk... Richard."

His uproarious laughter follows her down into the cargo bay where she quickly disappears.

———————————————————————

Riddick is both a complicated human and a very simple man. On one hand, a selfish part of him wants nothing more than to take control of this cramped little vessel and fly it fuck-knows where. It's clear to him that this ship and its pilot are a package deal, which brings him to a sort of moral crossroads. On the other hand, this woman—this merc—has been undeservingly kind to him, more so than anyone he can remember. She has a point, too. He'd been dangerously incapacitated for a short while, in which time she could have easily gone and ghosted him or handed him over to some other scummy mercs. But she hadn't. This lone woman, mistrustful enough of others to go so far as to masquerade as a man, had saved his hide and given him shelter and transport, all out of the kindness of her heart. She isn't threatening or outwardly malicious; he doesn't know how the hell she's survived this long out here. Perhaps her assumed persona has gotten her this far after all, amongst the masses less perceptive than himself.

Fuck. Merc or not, he can't just ghost her now.

And besides— he's a man, and she's a woman. Simple as that.

Even suited up to the jaw in armor and reeking of sweat, her newly revealed face stirs something all-too familiar within him. Hell, her scent alone is enough to get him off. Riddick doesn't even have to know what the rest of her looks like to know he wants to fuck her. And she doesn't seem all too averse to the idea of him, either, based on the subtle changes observable in her posture and scent. His senses are too keen to miss the physical and vocal cues she tries so hard to hide with that modulator and beneath the suit of armor. He knows hot and bothered when he sees it; and it's a fucking ego-boost.

After their little conversation, she'd grown more comfortable— if that's the appropriate word for the scenario. He'd revealed her identity and she responded by completely forgoing the suit of armor. Not that he's curious or anything, but he finds himself asking more about her. She shares that she is called "Hatchet," which he thinks is a little entertaining given her rather docile nature. He also learns that she's been in the mercenary business since her early teenage years, which almost always spells trouble for young women— hence why she'd taken up the persona of a more masculine, faceless merc, rather than be perceived as lesser-than by her professional peers. She's funny too, he pleasantly discovers, when not restrained by that helmet.

He's surprised when she comes up to him a few cycles following their conversation. She's dressed in a tank like his (which he realizes is hers) and a mechanic's jumpsuit, the top of which rests tied around her supple hips. He eyes up her body with a brashness that usually intimidates even the most battle hardened of men. She doesn't even flinch— she grows shy, instead. He stands by his previous statement in which he'd wanted to fuck her without knowing what her body looked like, but he's certainly not complaining now in getting to see her without the bully armor to conceal her curves and soft shape. Even the light musculature of her arms and width of her shoulders is hot.

She holds something as she approaches from the cargo bay ladder, and he quickly deduces it is non-threatening. She sidles up to the table where he has been parking himself at more frequently lately. She wears a sweet expression halfway between anticipatory and nervous— not much different than usual.

"Hey, dollface," Riddick greets.

He cocks his head to the side as he looks up at her, observing her through the purplish hue of his shine-job eyes. He quickly discovered that playfully teasing the young woman almost always earns a flurry of entertaining responses; namely flustered yammering and a red flush which trails all the way down to her full breasts. The pet names come easily, oddly enough. She blushes as expected and leans a hip against the table edge. While toying with the object in her hands, she glances between it and him.

"I uh. I found a pair of goggles, since you'd been asking."

She holds her flat palm out towards him, displaying a set of simple black welding goggles. They're essentially like the pairs he usually sports: midsized circular lenses, held in place by a thick plastic compound. Riddick takes the proffered eyewear and tests the weight in his own palm. The strap is a fabric material rather than a continuation of the flexible plastic, but still appears sturdy. He pulls them over his head, lowering the lenses over his eyes. They block out the Iight sufficiently, subduing the vibrant hue of his altered vision.

He scans the woman through the shades, smiling appreciatively. "Thanks, sweetheart. You're a real peach."

Hatchet releases a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, sure. No problem... Richard."

She doesn't use fluffy little names on him like he's begun doing for her. When she does refer to him, she only calls him by his first name. Which, given the fact virtually no one else does, feels like a more powerful naming. It's humanization in its rawest form. She shifts to sit down across from him. Neither of them can ignore the way their ankles tangle together beneath the table, hefty boots knocking into one another. Riddick watches her throat bob as she swallows. He raises the goggles and leaves them perched on his knit brow.

"Okay, so, I've been thinking," she begins, somewhat hesitantly. "Here's the deal— I'll take you wherever you want to go, so long as you don't, you know, kill me in my sleep and steal my ride or something. I think that's only fair since I didn't do the same to you when you were incapacitated. Also, I guess it goes without saying that I'm not gonna tell anyone about this encounter or your whereabouts. If you don't trust my good will, just think how negatively it would affect my life if it got out among the wrong crowd that I've been in cahoots with an escaped convict."

Riddick barks out an abrupt laugh. "In cahoots, huh?"

Hatchet blanches, her jaw opening and shutting several times before she gathers her words. "W-Well, I'm willingly harboring a fugitive, aren't I? I haven't booted you out the airlock yet— so yes, we're in cahoots."

The man's laughter tapers into a light chuckle. He perches his chin on his fist in a way that makes Hatchet tense with bashfulness. A muscle in his thick forearm flexes, drawing her curious eye. Lately, she's been daydreaming about those strapping arms. She's been catching herself daydreaming about the rest of him, as well.

Her eyes dart back to his silvery ones, clearing her throat. "Well, what do you think of my deal?"

Riddick tilts his head, unable to resist smiling. "Sounds good."

The woman blinks at him, big doe eyes wide as she picks apart his reaction. "Ah... uh. Okay, cool." She drums the tabletop with both hands, fidgeting under his heavy stare.

She pushes to her feet suddenly, and Riddick launches up after her. Instantly he crowds her in the tight space, his large frame taking up a majority of her vision. She startles, automatically pressing her hands flat to his built chest. This draws a rumbling chuckle from him as he gazes down at the flustered woman.

Hatchet's heart rate quickens, the muscle thumping wildly in her chest. That pulse begins its mortifying throb between her thighs, too— a desperate, hot desire which boils up without her expressed permission. It's not an entirely unwelcome feeling, but it's certainly indicative of her poor self-control given the situation. She has no clue if this dangerous convict is about to crush her head like a clump of dirt, or if he's going to make a move on her. Those are the only two explanations for his startling proximity to her.

Nervously, her eyes raise to meet his. She finds his head bowed towards her.

"Uh."

"Why don't you ever sleep in your bunk?" he asks, derailing her frazzled train of thought. "Don't you need your beauty rest, sweetheart?"

"O-Oh? Where are you supposed to go if I take back my bunk?"

He hums and sways his shaven head. "We can share."

Brain unable to catch up with what he's offering, she defaults to thinking in a blunt, literal sense. "W-We can't both fit. It's too narrow."

He steps forward and she steps back, only to realize he's effectively backed her against a wall. One of his beefy arms rises, forearm and fist resting on the wall beside her head. He leans further into her space, smiling as he takes a deep breath of her scent. Fuzzy butterflies explode in her abdomen; she goes weak in the knees.

"Oh really? 'Cuz I got a few positions in mind that we can fit into," he purrs. Hatchet lets out a surprised little noise and he ducks closer. "Aw, don't get all shy on me now, babygirl."

"I'm— I—" she stammers.

Her eyes flick between his own and his lips. That now-familiar eyeshine glimmers with heated desire as he carefully observes her. He leans in real slow— torturously slow. The tip of his nose brushes against hers and she shudders. Riddick's breath is hot as is fans across her face. She finds herself panting heavy through parted lips, her chest rising and falling rapidly against his steady one. Her chin ducks low, shyly averting his advance to where he has to chase her lips.

His full lips are shockingly soft when they do finally graze hers— his mouth gentle and curious at first while he tentatively pecks her. The few kisses he lavishes upon her lips are short and teasing, serving only to rile her up further. The heartbeat at her core prompts her thighs to clench; the action doesn't go unnoticed. One of his broad hands clamps over her upper arm, effectively pinning her in place against the wall. The shared kiss grows more frenetic with each passing second. His other hand slides rather possessively up the length of her back, coming to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull. He uses it as leverage to tilt her head back— a move which earns a quiet gasp and unintentional whimper through her parted lips. With a small self-satisfied grin, Riddick takes the invitation to claim her open mouth, exploring teeth and tongue with his own.  

Hatchet can barely catch her breath— especially not when Riddick slips his tongue past her lips. The pulse between her thighs grows increasingly unbearable and she squirms desperately in his tight hold. That hand holding her arm in a vise grip shifts instead to press against her shoulder blade, pinning her to his broad chest. Her own hands find the courage to come up, fingers taking liberty to slip beneath the hem of his borrowed shirt. His tanned skin is warm and pulled taut over an ample amount of muscle. Her hands are cold—they always are while in space—which results in a string of tangible shivers as she drags her fingers up his sides. The thin fabric of the grey tank bunches up around her wrists as her hands continue their exploration upward. Her right hand is careful to avoid irritating the stitched wound over his left-side ribs. Instead it glides to his smooth chest, squeezing a generous handful of his pec.

He chuckles into her mouth and she swallows the deep noise with fervor. Without warning, he crouches and drops his large hands to her ass, hoisting her up with ease. Her legs clamp around his waist on instinct, canting her hips to shamelessly grind her throbbing core against his hard stomach. Her hands continue to grope his muscled chest and arms, appreciative of his powerful physique. All the while, mouths slot together in feverish kisses.

Riddick pivots on his heel and effortlessly pitches forward at the waist, dropping the woman clinging to him down onto the cot. There's little give to the canvas fabric bunk, but it's certainly more comfortable than a metal tabletop. Not that Riddick particularly cares; he's already swimming in visions of bending her over the table, anyway. Only when he deposits her on the bunk and crouches over her does Hatchet release him from her clinging grasp. Her hands barely leave his chest long enough to yank the tank up over his head, relying on his aptitude to fully rid himself of the thing while she continues her impromptu anatomy lesson. While she latches her mouth onto the pulse point of his throat, he plucks the goggles from his brow and flings them aside. They clatter down somewhere unimportant.

Wordlessly, there lingers between them a mutual agreement that this is consensual. This is needed. This has been building up for a while now.

Riddick's broad hands engulf Hatchet's soft waist, squeezing her affectionately. His fingers push upward, skirting along the hem of her own shirt. She parts her mouth from his neck only long enough to allow him to tug the garment up over her head, hastily followed by the discarding of her sports bra, too. His palms are rough with calluses against her sensitive flesh, and unrelenting when they come up to squeeze her bared breasts. The topless woman licks up the column of his throat to just below his right ear, tasting sweat and skin as she suckles the sweet spot. Her fingers dig into his biceps, keeping him in place as she straddles him. She smiles against his hot skin when he groans. His weathered hands explore her torso, sliding from her chest to her back, then down to grasp her waist tightly.

"Fuck, come on," Riddick grunts into her hair. His hands slip lower to her ass, yanking impatiently at the fabric of her jumpsuit bottoms. "Pants."

It takes no effort for him to lift and flip her onto her back again, taking pride in the surprised expression she wears. Her limbs and eyelids feel heavy as she undoes the tied sleeves around her hips, helping him shuffle off her slate grey jumpsuit. She doesn't even realize he's also slipped off her underwear until she feels the cool air of the ship against her bare core. Fuck, all her constant worrying over her appearance, and in the moment she isn't even concerned. She just needs to feel good with him.

Despite this minor revelation, Hatchet briefly feels a tad in over her head as the burly man holds her down by the hips and leans over her. He eclipses the dim overhead light, his eyes shining magnificently. Those nocturnal eyes are growing on her at a frightening rate.

"Richard," she whispers. One hand reaches up to touch his face, petting his cheek before skating over the stubbly crown of his head. "Fuck, Rich."

He drops his head and growls against her hot, bare skin. The sound rumbles beneath her palm where it presses over his heart. That's a new one— Rich. He's never been called that before. He doesn’t dislike it, mainly because it comes from her.

Riddick leaves a trail of hot, wet kisses down her neck and across her chest. His fingers press into her supple flesh of her hips hard enough for it to dimple under the force. He continues downward, laving his hot tongue over her pebbled nipples, teasing his teeth against her delicate skin. With her head thrown back and eyes squeezed shut, she remains ignorant to the garland of lovebites he leaves across her skin, decorating her chest with the constellations of the open universe. His lips follow the line of fine hair down the middle of her stomach, until finally stopping just above the curly thatch at her mons. He shifts his attention, choosing to nip at the skin of her inner thighs. He kneels on the floor and roughly yanks her to the end of the cot for better leverage, earning a surprised yelp from the woman. In the same moment, he tucks his thumbs around the underside of her knees and hoists her legs over his broad shoulders. Her ankles automatically lock overtop his shoulder blades.

Hatchet shudders with delicious anticipation. Her big eyes shoot open and head cranes, meeting his silver gaze from where he has positioned himself between her thick thighs. Without much civility or warning, the man stuffs his shaven head into the tight crevice of her thighs. She is suddenly relieved that he'd taken the bandage off his nose almost immediately after gathering his bearings all those days ago, because now he puts the prominent feature to good use against her swollen clit.

A wanton moan claws out from Hatchet's throat as she throws her head back against the rigid cot. Riddick's breath is hot against her cunt, tongue skilled as he works it into her most sensitive area. Two fingers pry her labia apart to get at a more effective angle. Her hands dart to clamp down on either side of his head, her nails digging crescents into his nude scalp. Panting and squirming, she uses her iron grip on his head to grind up against his big nose. He groans low against her core, the vibrations on his tongue adding to her pleasure. Her thighs squeeze against his flushed ears, and for a moment the thought she may suffocate him flashes through her mind. That worry is ejected out into space when his tanned hands come around to grip her where her thighs meet her hips, dragging her even more securely against him.

Her eyes roll back, body wracked with uncontrollable spasms as Riddick brings her increasingly closer to her peak. His nose is replaced by a skillful thumb, rubbing firm circles around her clit. He continues lapping at her cunt, groaning and taking intermittent gasps for air. Just as she feels that hot coil tightening in her lower abdomen, sees white light flickering beneath her lids, he does the unthinkable. He pulls away. Hatchet whines at the sudden neglect and desperately claws at his head in an attempt for him to continue, leaving red stripes on his stubbly scalp.

"I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?" he asks lowly, smugness dripping from his tongue. That isn't the only thing dripping from his tongue; his nose, mouth, and chin are coated in her arousal.

Hatchet laughs breathlessly. "Fuck off."

She welcomes him with open arms when he crawls up over her again, accepting his lips as he presses down to kiss her. She can taste her own wetness on his mouth, but is largely distracted by his hips slotting between hers and grinding down.

He pulls back for a moment, leveling her with an entertained but mildly miffed eyebrow raise. "You got protection?"

Hatchet has to take a moment to catch her breath in order to answer. "Don't worry, I got that fancy implant. Unless you're riddled with some horrible penitentiary disease?" She smiles brightly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with playfulness.

Her hands cup his face when he returns a dazzling smile. "Me? Who do you take me for? A convict?"

She curls against him when he ducks his face to the crook of her neck, warm and blushing as they both laugh. Unabashed, laughing together. It feels bizarrely intimate, and so completely foreign to the both of them. When the brief chuckles taper off and the weight of the scenario sinks back in, Hatchet wriggles her hips against his, attempting to stimulate some friction. The rough fabric of his cargo pants sparks a little something, but nothing spectacular. Catching on to her renewed desperation, Riddick presses weight against her hips, teasing her with his clothed erection. She mewls softly, grinding up against him.

A calloused hand slides up the length of her body to her neck, first two fingers and thumb pressing lightly against either pulse-point. He squeezes just hard enough for her to squirm with an intoxicating faintness, but light enough for it not to harm her. She swallows hard, feeling the pressure of his palm against her larynx. It would be child's play for him to fully wrap his hand around her throat and squeeze the life out of her. This flirtation with death is not only exhilarating, but it's something she'd never considered as enjoyable before now.

She's too busy with panting against the hand around her throat to realize he'd slipped his other one down towards the apex of her thighs. That is, not until there comes a delicious and unexpected pressure against her swollen clit. She jolts from the sudden stimulation. The moan that slips unbidden from her lips is loud and breathy, and she arches up into his devilish touch. His thumb rubs concentrated circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, the middle finger sliding lower to tease her slit. Meanwhile, he drops his head to press against her temple, lips leaving sloppy kisses on her cheek.

Riddick groans, rutting against her soft thigh. He drags his lips against her cheek, bottom teeth scraping her skin. A tingly shudder ripples through her body.

"You want it, babygirl?" he growls in her ear. "Tell me you want it."

Hatchet whines when his thick finger breaches her entrance, sliding in easily with the wetness of her arousal. Her toes curl and back arches when that searching finger strokes that hidden sweet spot, her entire body overcome with a delicious shudder.

"Fuck," she pants, "Please. I want it."

The hand at her throat inches upward to clasp her jaw, angling her head for him to effectively whisper in her ear. "Want what, sweetheart? Use your words."

Another finger is stuffed into her pussy; she pants and squeezes around them. An embarrassed flush heats her chest and face at being made to speak her desire aloud. In some little act of defiance, she merely continues huffing and rutting against his hand. Punishment for her disobedience comes swift however, arriving in the form of the ceased stimulation. Riddick sucks his teeth and shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"So stubborn," he tsks.

Fuck— that rich, buttery voice sends a desperate throb straight to her neglected clit. She sobs out a pathetic whine, making a futile attempt to force his hand to continue its work.

"Please. Okay, okay. Please, please. I want you, I need you. Fuck me, please, Richard," she begs, voice coming out ragged.

He brings his lips to the corner of her mouth and smiles into the kiss he places there. "Good girl," he purrs.

Hatchet squirms under him, clit pulsing with an immediate flush of blood at the praise. "Say that again," she pants, sliding her hand over the back of his thick neck. "Please, please, Rich. Say that again. I'm— Hah."

She can feel the fond chuckle under her palm as it rumbles in his chest. He wrestles with the button and zipper of his cargo pants while keeping himself aloft with one arm. "My girl. Good girl."

Each kiss steals her breath away, dizzying her with butterflies and anticipation. It takes a hurried moment of effort, but Riddick manages to shuck his trousers and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor with the rest of their discarded clothes. Perched on his knees between the woman's spread thighs, he greedily admires the sight of her laid out before him. There's something particularly special about this woman. She's managed to weasel her way into his frigid heart, and he can't find it in himself to complain. She's sweet, and kind, and sure fucking hot. She too watches him greedily as muscles flex in his arms. He plants his hands on her bent knees, dragging them down the length of her soft thighs. Fingers sink into the fat of her hips, dragging her closer.

One glance at his proud erection is enough to draw a flustered whimper from Hatchet's lips; his dick is thick, befitting of the rest of him. She thrusts an arm up over her face, if only to hide the embarrassed blush which splotches her skin. The big man lowers himself over her once more and gently pushes her arm away, murmuring about her shyness. The weight of his cock resting on her belly makes her squirm, which he seems to enjoy greatly, much to her impatient desperation. He slots his plush lips with hers while his left hand slips around her right thigh, encouraging it up. Her knee brushes the bruised wound over his ribs, but he doesn't seem to care all that much as he pins the long limb tightly against him.

In the space between them, he fists his dick and pumps once, twice. He holds Hatchet's lidded gaze with those intense eyes of his, drinking in the dazed sight of her. He drags the cockhead through the wetness of her arousal, teasing her swollen clit before aligning himself properly. His throaty groan mingles with her gasped noises as he slowly presses into her, sheathing himself within her hot cunt. It's a snug fit, lax as she may be. He bottoms out painfully slow, taking his sweet time in stuffing her full of himself. That hand returns to her throat and gently squeezes while he holds himself aloft with the other arm.

Hatchet sucks her teeth against the slight sting of his size. The discomfort quickly fades into a satisfyingly tense pressure once Riddick gets a steady rhythm going. With her leg hiked up over his side, he continually pulls out almost all the way before plunging back into her, driving her down into the stiff cot with each powerful thrust. She shudders with each drag of his thick cock against her inner walls— with every gentle squeeze of his broad hand around her throat.

"Fuck, babygirl. You feel good," he grunts out. "Such a good girl for me. Real pretty." Riddick groans through clenched teeth when her cunt spasms particularly hard around him. His words are like a match to her gasoline.

The hand at her throat shifts away in an attempt to touch as much of her skin as possible— caressing her breast, tangling in her hair, touching her lips, squeezing her waist and hip. It's almost like a compulsion to feel every part of her warm body, to get lost in her skin and pretty noises. Hatchet's hands perform their own exploration; she can't get enough of wrapping her fingers around his biceps and broad shoulders, her breath panting hard against his collarbones as she clings to him. The middle two fingers of his wandering hand come down on her clit again, sparking electric spasms throughout her writhing body. Those fingers rub circles against her sensitive bud, and every so often slip lower to stroke around the spot where they join together.

An especially rough drag and thrust has the tip of cock kissing that sweet spot within her. She cries out and he repeats the motion with an exact precision. He continues hammering into her at that perfect angle, grunting and shuddering with each of her clenches and moans. Light blooms beneath Hatchet's eyelids, that hot pressure coiling up in her belly once more. The combination of internal and external stimulation is enough for her to see stars and arch into the man like her life depends on it.

Nearly animalistic in his frenzy, Riddick can't control himself when his teeth sink into the woman's shoulder. It feels right.

Hatchet cries out at the sharp feeling of his bite, shock mixing with odd delight. He doesn't use enough force to break the skin, but his teeth leave a sting nonetheless. In retaliation, her nails sink into his muscular back and drag downward to his sides, leaving crisscrossing stripes across his tan skin. Somewhere in the back of her mind she recognizes that she may have torn one of his stitches, but he doesn't make any indication of it bothering him. That delicious tension deep in her belly increases almost unbearably; she bucks up into his fingers on her clit, grinding against the hilt of his cock stuffed in her. His mouth latches onto the slope of her neck and bites again, licking the minimal damage each time he retracts his pearly teeth.

Her orgasm comes suddenly, like fireworks. She spasms around him as she comes, back arching up against his hard front as she cries out. Riddick continues pounding into her— continues rubbing her clit through her shuddering orgasm. The sounds of their sex seem awfully loud in the quiet confines of her small ship.

"There we go. Good girl," he murmurs into her throat.

He pushes up on his supporting arm, putting a bit of space between himself and the spent woman. She twitches and pants beneath him, cunt contracting around his continued thrusts. Her nails haven't yet retracted from his sides, clinging as though grasping for purchase. Riddick sits upright with her legs slung around his hips. One hand wipes over his head to clear away beads of sweat, before both come down to clutch her hips.

"Fuck... Where do you want it, sweetheart?" He punctuates with a harsh snap of his hips, plunging deep into her.

Hatchet's wrists demurely cross above her head. Her breaths come in short, exhausted puffs as she wriggles against him. Overstimulation is beginning to fray at her edges, but the feeling of being so full of him overrides the discomfort. She can barely think straight enough to give him a proper response— fucked thoroughly out of her mind.

"Richard—" She groans low in her throat. He's practically rearranging her guts. Tears prick at her eyes. "Fuck. Inside. Please, just— ugh, inside."

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. "Sounds good to me, baby." She doesn't have to open her eyes to know the smug, cocky, sexy bastard is grinning. "Nngh, fuck."

Riddick's head tilts back, shuddering violently. He groans loud and holds her steady with his fingers dug into her hips. She feels his hot release spill into her, coating her insides as he ceases his relentless pounding. She's overly sensitive from the intensity of her own orgasm, so his sudden stillness comes as a relief for her tender parts. His chest heaves, fingers twitching.

After an extended moment of basking in the bliss of his finish, Riddick slumps forward. While he's careful not to crush the woman, he does rest a bit of his weight atop her. Sweat-slicked skin meets sweat-slicked skin as they recover together, lounging in the afterglow. He remains partially sheathed within her, allowing a minimal amount of his seed to trickle out around his length.

Amidst tenderly petting Riddick's back, Hatchet nearly gets lost to the grips of sleep. That is, at least until his rumbling voice stirs her again.

"I think you needed that." He noses her throat, inhaling deeply. She cants her hips without thinking, then grunts softly at the feeling of him still buried within her.

"Oh?" she chuckles quietly, "Is that right?"

She smoothes her palm over the back of his head, then traces her fingertips up and down his neck and shoulders. He hums against her clammy, flushed skin. Sentimentally isn't even remotely his forte, but this intimacy feels surprisingly good. Odd and unfamiliar, but pleasant. He feels safe to relax in her hold, resting a little bit more of his weight against her capable form.

"Yep. You're a little uptight."

Briefly pressing his lips to the bite-shaped bruises on her shoulder, he lifts his head. She cracks an eye open to peer at him, then sighs wistfully. He really does have a beautiful face. She caresses his cheek.

"And hey, would you look at that. We fit." He grins wide and smug and raises a brow, referring back to the conversation which started this whole affair.

Hatchet drops her head to the cot and closes her eyes again, laughing heartily. "Fuck you, Richard."

[noirapocalypto]

ᴛʜᴇɴ & ɴᴏᴡ - ꜱᴠʟᴇᴍ

I saw the trend floating around, and I wanted to participate. I want to talk a little bit more on just how important Salem has become to me. 🖤

The picture on the left is one of the very first portraits of Salem I had taken. I think I had made him a bit earlier, but I officially introduced him to Tumblr on January 24th, 2022 (four days before his canon birthday, which funny enough, wasn't assigned until way after). And the portrait on the right is one of my more recent ones, that I've taken last month (June 19, 2023).

When I made him, he was just a side character. A little project that sparked when I discovered the genre of music I would eventually associate him and his character with. I wanted to create something that I thought was unique at the time. I wanted to do something different from the usual character tropes that I usually do. I didn't expect to fall deeply in love with his entire concept.

(Left picture: taken September 9, 2022 - Right picture: taken June 22, 2023)

I've always defaulted to female characters in any type of game where I could create and customize my character. I just never questioned it and felt it was what I should do, but I never really connected with them. I'd play around for a while, then get bored and move onto the next OC. And so on.

Salem wasn't my first male character, he was actually the last of my main six. But for some reason, the moment I started writing through his eyes, it just felt right. That's when the questioning started. What did that mean for me? Why am I suddenly far more comfortable writing through the perspective of a male than any of my hundreds of female characters I've been writing for all these years? Why am I now suddenly wanting to default to playing male OC's? I began to explore things through him, things that I've come to find out I really enjoy and connect with. Things that make me happy and feel right. It was through Salem that I figured myself out a bit more, that I wasn't what I was told I was my whole life by people around me. I think that's one of the reason he's so special to me. I found myself through my character.

But not just that, I also found people that mean the world to me through Salem. My social circle expanded--I now had people that shared the same interests as me, that liked what I had to create, that encourage me and support me. People that I could be myself around. I met my best friend (hi, bestie 🖤) because of Salem, who at the same time, met his best friend in their OC, whom Salem loves as much as I love mine. I met friends from all over that I care for deeply and love very much--people I would have never met otherwise. That's one of the reasons this fandom is important to me and why I stick around, no matter how hard things get.

(Left picture: taken September 9, 2022 - Right picture: taken July 11, 2023)

I know VP was never really my strong suit. A lot of my shots are very plain and simple, most of them are just portraits. In fact, I feel my style hasn't really changed much since my beginnings in this fandom. I'm never really going to be able to make all these elaborate set ups or be able to tell his story through virtual photography. My brain just doesn't work that way. I struggle a lot trying to improve and "catch up" with everyone else. And I'm growing to accept that. I think it's okay, that my talents and skills are stronger elsewhere. I just want to be able to capture him and share him with the rest of the world--to participate in the joy and camaraderie of loving the things we create so dearly.

While Salem isn't a self-insert, he does have a lot of me in him. Which I think is why I latched on so hard. He's all of my interests and beliefs personified. He's what I would like to be, how I would like to look. And he'll always be with me. Salem will forever be my main OC. Doesn't matter the fandom, if this one is still alive and kicking years from now--or if I've moved on to different media--Salem will always be my muse and he will always live on through my stories.

[sprinklethetangerine]

Talking about random ass shit cause I have NOTHING TO DO.

Poptropica. Let me tell you, I grew up on poptropica, it was like my LIFE FORCE, I injected that shit into MY BLOOD. So naturally, I have some strong feelings about the... recent developments.

It all started BEFORE FLASH EVEN SHUT DOWN SO I CANT EVEN BLAME FLASH FOR THIS ONE SADLY. Anyway, it all started when suddenly a bunch of islands mysteriously disappeared off poptropica. When asked, they said it was to make way for some new ones!

But you'll never find this no matter how hard you search, cause the death of flash forced poptropica to kill off more islands so everything you try to find about any of it will only tell you it's flash's fault. But it isn't! I was there! I saw the islands disappear! WHEN FLASH WAS STILL INTACT!

Anyway, these islands disappeared, and though I was sad not to be able to play them anymore, I was excited to see the BRAND NEW ISLANDS, like everyone else. I mean, poptropica hasn't had a new island in years, and now we have NEW ISLANDS.

So in came Reality TV: Wild Safari. This game... didn't suck. It really didn't. But it did mark the start of a NEW style of Poptropica games. The style I like to call... "Baby Games"

Compared to the original islands, these "baby games" are a lot more dumbed down. Now, easy islands aren't uncommon. You have islands like time tangled, early poptropica, and of course you can't forget 24 carrot, but, dear reader, by "dumbed down" I do not mean easy, I mean I feel myself physically losing braincells just looking at it.

Poptropica islands generally rely on you using your own big, smart brain thoughts to figure out what to do next. The entire reason I liked poptropica in the first place is because it requires you to think, use your big brain muscles, and understand what's happening. It required problem solving skills. It believed kids had the capacity to think for themselves and be smart. They don't need instructions or being told what to do to figure something out.

The "baby games", however, work on the principle "kids dumb," and so they tell you what to do. You have little to no capacity to think for yourself and figure out "oh that's what I need"

They're so babied down that you can barely do anything for yourself. Poptropica has turned itself into just another dumb kids' game when it used to be so much more than that. The adventures, the slightly questionable lore that you probably shouldn't think too much on, and the humor. Also, the fact that it didn't hesitate to tackle dark topics. But now, it just feels so... baby. I feel like I'm being treated like an idiot. When you're treated like you're dumb it just makes you feel dumb. Kids aren't idiots. Don't treat them like idiots.

Also, the extent of the humor of these games is either unfunny play on words or "haha, old poptropica dumb haha"

Don't get me wrong, I love when things don't take themselves seriously, but it's not funny when it's something that doesn't really make sense to be making fun of. Like in Jade Scarab, we're asked why we walk everywhere when we have a giant golden blimp to get around... uh, maybe because everywhere is within walking distance, you fucking imbecile. Oh, and we don't even walk everywhere. There have been multiple times when we use vehicles in the islands. Shrink Ray, Cryptids, Game Show, I mean, bffr.

Tell me you're dumb without telling me you're dumb. Tell me you don't understand the original poptropica without telling me you don't understand the original poptropica.

Sure, poptropica was always far from perfect, but at least it wasn't whatever the fuck goofball island is. They took my childhood and ripped it apart and called it "improved."

At least we'll always have the old islands as they're slowly but surely re-released. It's fine. Just ignore the new islands, they don't exist.

I have so much to say on this topic. You don't know the half of it. That was just unorganized word vomit cause I had nothing better to do. If you really want an argument that isn't just me being angry, I'll give you an argument. Just not right now. I've tired myself out.

[venacesaur]

I've been struggling to journal lately for some reason so I'm going to try writing some daily entries about my life on here. No one cares but idc. Unfollow if you don't want to read it lmao Yesterday I went to a museum with a friend I haven't seen in a long time, which was nice. But we spent almost the entire day together which made me feel very socially hungover today. She texted me something about how she hasn't been that happy in a long time, and although I like her and we've been friends for years now, it made me feel a little put off. Nothing to do with her, but this sort of situation really confirms for me that I still have avoidant attachment issues, not just anxious attachment (hooray for having a disorganized attachment style!). It's frustrating to be, on the one hand, constantly yearning for connection and affection, but then simultaneously wanting to throw up and run away when I actually get it. Like I'm literally just frustrated with myself for feeling this way but I'm not sure what to do about it. For now I'm just being aware of it I guess. I wrote something a few months ago about how it's just like being super hungry but then suddenly losing your appetite when you finally get food. And the only solution, really, is that you have to kind of force yourself to eat, even if it's only a few bites and you feel nauseous. I know I've also been feeling down in general these past few days which is likely a combo of hormonal issues (my body has been weird this month) and the weather being unusually dismal for this time of year. And then I've been realizing that I've had a lot of nightmares lately, especially since losing my job last month. I noticed that I've had a recurring nightmare scenario about a specific chemical I worked with in my last job, which wasn't even the most hazardous chemical I handled, so I don't know why this one has been sticking in my brain. It's a blue stain for staining cells, which means that it is both toxic and it's an INCREDIBLY strong dye. In these dreams, I take off my gloves and see that some of the stain still got on my hands, and I keep washing my hands, but it doesn't come off. In this latest dream, it actually got worse the more I scrubbed my hands, and there ended up being so much blue all over my hands and the sink water started turning black.

Sometimes my nightmares also have unsettling music or sounds that continue replaying in my head when I wake up (just like listening to a song too many times). In this dream, I started getting more and more frantic trying to wash my hands, and I heard this resonant ticking sound in my head like a grandfather clock striking. It seemed to be counting the seconds but got faster and faster. When I woke up, I had to go to the bathroom and look at my hands in the mirror just to see that they were clean. It's a strange dream theme for me, since my nightmares usually tend to involve supernatural creatures, evil presences, and darkness. I'm not exactly sure what this new hand washing theme means, but I think it might have something to do with my anxiety.

On the bright side, I opened this can of red bean paste that I got from a local Japanese store, and I spread some on toast which was pretty good. But now I'm all out of bread and need to get groceries soon. Sigh...

[theoldaeroplane]

Man; this last year has been so strange for me in terms of my perception of myself.

It has been not quite a year since I said to my [redacted] that my fussiness over people at my work not following any sensible structure in their code was so strong that you would almost think I'm autistic. I'm not sure why it was that idle thought, specifically, that made me start researching what having autism actually looks like. It was such a tremendous breakthrough for me once I started reading, in a way it hasn't been for some friends that have offhandedly mentioned they thought they might be autistic. (It's possible they're having their own breakthroughs in private, but I don't think so.)

Suddenly I had Explanations for why I am the way I am. I had the language. I didn't have to constantly fall back on "I guess I'm just overly sensitive" or "I'm weird like that" with no obvious cause.

On the heels of this, and I mean like three weeks after I started reading, I began to suspect I might have ADHD as well. I've suspected this in the past, I even took a test, but I was told I didn't have it. And they were the professional, and I paid hundreds of dollars for that test, so surely it meant I didn't have it, right? My problems with time and attention and memory must just be quirks. I must just not care enough.

Buddy.

Earlier this year I finally got an appointment with a psychiatrist, who asked me some questions and gave me a prescription. It had to change a few times before we found one that balanced side effects and symptom relief.

I can't tell you how strange it's been to watch my perception of myself change. For most of my life, I was told I was weird, lazy, that I didn't care enough, that I was too sensitive, that I needed to try harder, that I had so much potential I wasn't living up to, that I was acting different on purpose, that I thought I was so special. I internalized all of it. I believed all of it. What else could I do? I was a kid. Something was wrong and the adults in my life decided it was those things.

No one ever thought I might be autistic. No one ever suggested I might have ADHD. Not even my dad, who also has ADHD, who is probably autistic himself.

I do my best not to be bitter. The world was different when I was a kid. Information was hard to come by and we were poor. For all that I've come to hate my mother I understand that she herself was struggling heavily with her own mental health. I'm angry I slipped under the radar, but I don't know if anyone can really be blamed. And being angry can't change the past. All I can do now is move forward.

I have to remind myself, often, that I am a good person. (The fact I was raised to believe that all people are inherently wicked is another post.) That I am trying my best, and operating under a fundamentally broken system that is intolerant to people who don't fit its borders. That if the screaming and shaming and self-flagellating were going to work they would have done so by now. That my brain is built in such a way that causes it to constantly feel both over- and under-stimulated. That I'm not broken.

I was, as the story goes, a cygnet being raised by ducks, who simply got more and more frustrated when their strange duckling did not act the way a duckling should.

Well. I guess I'm a swan now. A swan with baggage, which is a funny image. I can't quack, but I can trumpet. And I have wings so powerful that they can break bones. (Just go with the metaphor.) More importantly, I know I'm not a duck, and I'm learning I don't have to keep trying to be one.

[bardicbeetle]

hello fellow vampire-oc-named-alex-haver! I love your alex, can I hear about your alex? whatever fun or not-so-fun facts you'd like to share :D

Hi Monday!

You can absolutely hear about my Alex, I will gladly ramble about them for almost certainly too long.

Alex Blackwood is more or less, the protagonist of Safe in the Dark, in so much as they were the original protagonist and are going to maintain that status despite the fact that there are now... five POV characters. They've come a hell of a long way since I first started writing them at the bright young age of 14, and are... somehow both more and less traumatized at the same time.

Quick little overview: mid twenties, asexual, agender, dark curly hair that is long not so much in an On Purpose Way but in an "I haven't had a haircut in Many Years" kind of way, one of the few characters whose eye color hasn't changed over the years--they're still a dark stormcloudy grey. Facial features tended to get described as birdlike when they were younger, sharp lines, prominent nose. Has a little mole on the right side of their neck and another one on the underside of their chin on that side.

Some Fun Facts:

Alex has no idea how cooking works, cannot produce more than a piece of butter toast reliably, will somehow burn things even if heat is not involved. (tbh probably a good thing they end up having to live on blood)

Has lost the majority of their southern accent as a result of being so much of the everywhere but it creeps back out the SECOND someone else near them has one. To such a strong degree that even people who know them well go ??????? what was that??????

They are indecisive to a fault, mainly because they are very afraid of making the wrong choice (whether this is the wrong choice for themself, or in relation to someone else, they spend a lot of time planning out the hypothetical consequences of things they will never actually do).

Is probably the most physically active member of the vamp!house by sheer virtue of needing the feeling of Body Moving to make their brain go quiet sometimes. Likes to run, loves sparring with Isaac and the chaos trio once that starts up. Likes the physical outlet to all the thoughts in their head.

Some Not Fun Facts:

Grew up in an extremely fundamentalist household.

Ran away at age 15 and never went back.

Suffers from sleep paralysis and really intense nightmares.

Has a lot of trouble staying present when something brings them into a memory. A smell, a sound, the look some someone's hair, they're prone to spiral into the things connected to it until their surroundings kind of, melt and they're just listening to the sound of something else, someone else, somewhen else. (oh hey the one part of my own trauma brain I gave them)

Witnessed the massacre of three dozen college students and to this day thinks it's their fault purely because their indecision meant they were still a half vampire when Eric came back, prompting him to try and force them to kill.

ANyways.

I love Alex so very very much.

They've been with me for... well over a decade now in some form or another which feels frankly ridiculous but it's so so amazing having gotten to evolve and learn more about them as time has gone by.

@albatris

[veebs-hates-video-games]

Ok so what if I made a list of things I started at some point in the past like five years or so and haven't finished but am still pretending I'll get back to them eventually? Maybe that would be interesting to literally no one but me, which is good enough.

The Witcher 3 is one of my favorite games ever. I'm like 90 hours into it, have at least twice that left to go, and I haven't touched it in like three years. Like most of the rest of this first section the main problem is that it's on my computer, and being able to sit comfortably in a way that doesn't injure myself while also being able to see the screen isn't going well these days.

Tales of Berseria is also a lot of fun, but it has the computer problem. I need more Magilou because she's such a gremlin.

Final Fantasy 13-2 is definitely my favorite post-12 FF game and might even be the one I've had the most fun with since 6, 7, and 8. Alas, computer.

BlazBlue Cross Tag Battle is a very silly crossover that feels like it shouldn't exist. I keep saying I'll go back and finish the rest of the storylines, but computer and also I just haven't had a strong desire to yet. I did figure out that I can win fights using an old Guitar Hero guitar though, so that was fun.

Berserk and the Band of the Hawk is something I started after finally getting caught up on the manga after years and years, because I tend to like Warriors/Musou games when I'm in the right mood. It's decent but not amazing, which hasn't motivated me to get past the computer issue.

Xenoblade Chronicles X is technically also a computer thing because I was playing it in Cemu. It gets extra bonus points for being hard to see because the text and UI are so small, but also I managed to break my save file like 70 hours in and haven't gotten around to figuring out what's wrong with it yet. Everything seems fine except my character and the camera get loaded in different locations, and I could probably use the memory editor to reset my location and fix it, but it's not worth the trouble until I can see.

Boyfriend Dungeon is great and I already finished the base game right when it came out, and I've been meaning to go back and do the post-launch stuff they added later and still haven't.

Atelier Ryza finally got good like half a dozen hours in after one of the worst-paced intros I've ever seen, and I haven't worked up the fortitude to try playing more past there so far.

A Slug's Dream has some decent puzzles and I was enjoying it enough, but I totally forgot it even existed. Maybe some day.

Xenogears I also keep forgetting because it's in an emulator on my computer and not somewhere I remember to look to see what game I should play. It sort of bypasses the usual computer problem by being ancient and designed for 480i screens so everything is huge. I'll finish it one of these days.

Ok I think that's all the stuff on the computer. There are a couple others that I'm not including because I only made it like an hour into them before getting sidetracked, so I'll just start them over if I ever go back to them.

3DS next? 3DS next.

Fire Emblem Fates is what's currently in there I think. It's taken multiple years, but I've finished Birthright and most of Conquest. Some day I'll finish that one and then maybe do Revelation. Any year now...

Shadows of Valentia might come back around too. I've had enough of a break to at least partly get over how mediocre a lot of the maps are and how annoying certain enemy types are, and I do want to at least try to finish it for the sake of the story, just not while I'm in the middle of pretending to play Fates too.

Shadow Dragon deserves another chance too when I'm in a better frame of mind for it, I just don't know when that'll be.

Radiant Historia is amazing and I really need to get back to it and finish it, and I don't know why my brain keeps not letting me for the past couple years. One of these days it will though, and it'll be great.

Kid Icarus: Uprising is also pretty great, but it's physically painful for me to play. I keep saying I want to try to figure out some way to work around that, but it's been multiple years and I still haven't.

Shovel Knight is one I completely forgot I even have, but it was way better than I expected and I should give it another chance.

Project X Zone is another ridiculous crossover that feels like it shouldn't exist, and it's pretty fun sometimes too, but wow does it really drag sometimes with how long each level is and how many of them there are. I might be able to manage it in smaller chunks though.

Ok Switch gets to be in a separate post or I'm going to run out of tags.

[krankittoeleven]

WIP Wednesday

It's been kind of quiet on the fic front for me lately, unfortunately several life altering things have happened for me since the beginning of the year and lately its all just piled up on me and my brain hasn't been great. But things are in the works.

Water of Life CH 10 is coming along, and features Vili and Ivarr being allowed to play with exploding jars of oil, which is why these two should never be out of Ubba's line of sight for even a moment, but he is, unfortunately, busy.

I've been thinking REALLY hard about Between the Real and the Unknown lately. Like really really hard. The plot is complex and layered and I'm worried about mistakes messing it up so I haven't posted anything lately because I don't want there to be things I need to fix later. I am usually not worried about this, but because its spoopy/mysterious i feel like it could really foul things up. Maybe that's just a me concern, I don't know. LOL

The stupid Ubba/Vili post game "one-shot" I mentioned a couple weeks back is now at 15k words. I'd cry but its too fluffy even for that (well, too fluffy by my standards LOL it's probably, like, normal for everyone else's fluff meters.)

Small snippet below the cut. This is less a fluffy part and more a spicy part, though its nothing explicit.

Vili is wearing a thick, brown coat that had been made from the fur of a large bear that had strayed too close to Hemthorpe one too many times and the way it is flopped open to show his bare chest underneath it does nothing to undermine whatever look he is going for.  The only other clothing he is wearing is a pair of leather breeches, even his feet are bare.

For a moment Ubba allows himself a rare bit of indulgence as he stands there, imagining what it would be like to be on his knees between Vili's legs; one leg draped over his shoulder as he kisses and bites the inside of Vili’s thigh—

"Ubba?"

Ubba blinks away his imaginary scene, and hmms gently, having missed whatever Vili had been saying.

"Are you hungry?  Do you want to eat?"

"Yes,” Ubba says quietly, “food would be welcome."

He was, in fact, suddenly quite hungry, but he was not certain that food would satisfy what he was now aching for.

Without much thought about it, Ubba extends his hand out towards Vili, as if he might have trouble getting to his feet after his ordeal, but he is pleasantly surprised by how warm and strong Vili’s grip is. 

Neither of them break eye contact when Vili steps in close.  Their fingers entwine and their grips tighten on each other’s hands as they breathe each other’s air, and Ubba is so very close to pushing Vili back down to his throne to fulfill his earlier imaginings.

“Come,” Vili says, their lips nearly brushing.

They are so close, Ubba just wants to devour his mouth, his breath, all of him.

“Let’s get you some food,” Vili finishes as he steps away, his grip still strong, as he pulls Ubba towards the sitting room.

Ever the gracious host, Ubba thinks more than a little ruefully as he follows helplessly behind.

[hua-fei-hua]

alright whenever you have time (and also the energy) I would love to hear your thoughts on the lantern rite epilogue! Have a good day <3

we're going to pretend that people following me will care abt genshin 3.4 lantern rite spoilers so we're gonna put my entire deranged mess under a cut hahaha

*gently holds* MY XVS......

truly this lantern rite had EVERYTHING although truth be told, like, the way venti was kind of shoehorned in was a little disappointing. i felt a little bit baited by the way the 3.4 TRAILER HAD THAT ONE CUT RIGHT where it goes from VENTI PLAYING THE LYRE in the harbor to XIAO LOOKING UP AT THE FIREWORKS outside of wangshu inn, and then we see the xiao bit in the actual cutscene on day 2, but absolutely none of venti until the epilogue. and also we never see venti playing the lyre during the event story so it's like. whoever edited that pv absolutely had xv on the brain. like. what the hell was that it was magical i feel higher than a boat right now

BUT ANYWAY like i don't even care how obviously shoehorned in venti felt bc the interactions were all SO PERFECT i love love loved them. i loved the way hu tao just RAN INTO WANGSHU INN and started shouting for xiao, and then talked death to him until he was like "yeah sure i'll go to your dinner". they are so besties i love them their friendship is everything to me.

THE WAY. XV INTERACTED. IN FRONT OF US. xiao just like "well. um. there's this. um. um." TOTAL PANIC MODE n venti had to SAVE HIM with like "huuuh? did you forget already? i'm a bard!" like HELLO why do they need a COVER STORY why are they making up COVER STORIES TOGETHER WHAT WERE THEY DOING TOGETHER IN THE MARSH EARLIER like what kind of GAY SHIT--

also i'm pretty sure when xiao started explaining his relationship to venti, venti fluttered his lashes at him. like, i recorded the whole quest (bc i didn't last year with the final part n i REALLY WISH I HAD bc i STILL remember the dRAMATIC GASP i had when we had that one beiguang moment in the cutscene), and when i rewatched it earlier i was like. "HANG ON. DID HE JUST FLUTTER HIS LASHES" n rewatched it like three times. maybe my game was just stuttering BUT IT DEFINITELY LOOKED LIKE IT and maybe i'll gif it when i get home from work tonight

BUT ANYWAY (2) point is that the expression work this time was ON POINT like whoever's doing all that over at mhy hq needs to get a raise pronto. venti going (¬‿¬) at all the other immortals was so immaculate. you aren't subtle little man!!!

it's probably just shipper goggles on to an extent, but i feel like the xv implications were really strong this time around, with the parallels to that fontch guy's ancestor, and the guiping n everything... i'm kind of disappointed that we don't get to actually hear any of venti's unobstructed thoughts on xiao; like the ribbing n implications at the dinner are a lot of fun (like, they were totally making out in the marsh before dinner. we all know this. it's very clear imo), but it kind of makes me wonder why we can hear xiao like... do his Very Heavy Implying abt venti's importance to him (though again, he doesn't outright say anything-- we know the full extent n depth of xiao's feelings abt venti (romantic or not) bc we can read his character stories, so technically really he hasn't told us jack squat in the current canon timeline), but the best we get from venti are smug expressions. those expressions are very telling, ofc, but a very unhinged part of me wishes that mhy didn't feel the need to wrap up the xv in layers of allegory and metaphor and just outright heard one of them say, "this person is very dear to me." i know it's just the rabid shipper in me, and i need to be sedated, but i was really kind of hoping that we'd see the allegory w/the fontch guy's ancestor n madame ping lifted away at the end n, like, see or hear it be bound to xv outright. just for purely self-indulgent purposes o(--(

but anyway (3) i also love love loved all the playful ribbing, witty banter, and prev event callbacks btwn the characters!! hu tao n venti canonically making a pact to be poetry friends was SO GOOD you just KNOW hu tao is gonna commission venti to compose a JINGLE for wangsheng advertising purposes later, while zhongli n xiao are like, "this meeting never should have happened. we are all doomed." somehow i legitimately forgot that xq n venti know each other from irodori n was like, "...huh?" when xq mentioning knowing venti for like, a FULL two seconds. the way venti was like "damn you know i was right outside this entire time. can you believe the way some people ignore the wind?" n zhongli was like "hahaha (✿◡‿◡) the harbor is very busy this time of year (✿◠‿◠) it is very hard see or hear an individual person's whereabouts (^人^)"

AND ALSO. PAIMON BEING ELECTED AS THE "MOST DISTINGUISHED GUEST." PAIMON YOU GOT IN THE WAY OF MY DERANGED SELF-DELUSIONMENT MANY TIMES THIS LANTERN RITE BUT THAT WAS PRETTY FUNNY. i thought it was interesting how no one nominated venti. like i was kind of expecting xiao to do it (but ofc he nominates traveler) which is fair honestly, n then i was like "IS LUMINE GONNA NOMINATE VENTI????" but then she nominated paimon n paimon was like "wait... me?????" n it was just EXACTLY like a bunch of adults telling the little kid they are the most specialest ever n they should have the honor of doing The Thing. as that little kid growing up, i know the feeling very well lol

there are other bits i'm just,,, rotating around in my mind, like venti and kazuha hanging out on the alcor, the way xiao goes "i can't taste the difference in xiangling's special almond tofu" when you go visit him afterwards, ALL THE GANQING THAT HAPPENED IN THE MAIN STORY I'M SO HAPPY FOR THEM I'M SO HAPPY FOR ME I WON VERY HARD THIS LANTERN RITE, n like,,, yeah!!!!

[smartzelda]

Blorbo bingo go!

Autor (he counts he's the one your most attached too in the show. I KNOW YOU.)

Mikami

Prompto

Dib

Ienzo/Zexion (throwing him on here cuz you really were an Ienzo apologist for like a solid year buddy.)

Okay so for the good of everyone I've decided to put my answers under the cut because you *know* I can't shut up

ㅤ

Autor:

Okay you know what? That's fair. That's true. I was attached to him BEFORE I knew he was gonna be important. He was the most (side) character of all time to me

Boy sometimes your blorbo is a funky side character who just WANTS TO READ HIS BOOKS IN PEACE IN THE LIBRARY, DAMMIT

(And uh also stalk the pretty boy who comes by to search all the fairytales who you just so happen to be uper jealous of because he gets to live the topic of your special interest)

But he's idk he's more of a voice of reason for other characters, especially early on, but he's also definitely passionate. Somewhere between sensible and will do anything kinda guy. It's almost surprising he hasn't killed a man yet.

ㅤ

Mikami:

*GASP* HIM

I ADORE HIM

Okay I'm aware I'm going to have to explain myself a little

The feral square refers solely to the fact that he gets very much feral when he's passionate about something or generally *really* feeling an emotion. I think how he acts when he writes names in the death note + is noticed by Kira and during the entire yellow box scene (at least in the anime) is proof enough

I will not be explaining the Autism™ square. If you can't get it then 🤷 All you need to know is that even though it's not technically canon it means so much to me that this absolutely factors into his childhood and how things happened to him

Haha you know he's my favorite I couldn't hide it if I tried

He's my pathetic meow meow because he's a serial killer and he dies so tragically and just...sad. He's pathetic and committed atrocities and I love him

Let's be clear, when his mind is at it's clearest, he *is* the voice of reason. And yes this cam be true despite the murder. He has a strong black and white idea of right and wrong, and if he thinks something is wrong he cannot be swayed. It's probably only around Light those reasoning skills dwindle

Technically accidental parental figure is movie canon. I may not have watched the Japanese death note live action movies yet, but by god I live for Teru Mikami adopting Hikari Yagami. Now, of course I'm disappointed from what I know about how that specific plot works and how the movies handle Mikami, but...it's better for the brain if I think about Mikami adopting Light's son and pretending the rest of the plot surrounding that doesn't exist.

By god he needs it so bad. I think most people think he just needs it because he's "insane", likely evidenced by how he acts in the yellow box scene or when writing names, but it’s so much more than "oh, he needs therapy because he's crazy". No, dudes. He's *traumatized* traumatized. I'll spare you all most of my essay for now, but if you take a look at how he narrates his own backstory, it becomes so clear just how messed up a lot of things were, and how some of his feelings on the matter arised after the fact. Teru Mikami, as a middle schooler, did not actually think his mother should die because he asked her to prioritize his own wellbeing and stand down so he wouldn't be bullied. He didn't even begin to think that she must've deserved it and that it was divine justice until she'd died and he had to cope with it. Who he is is such a mix of all the trauma he endured by the bullying and uh harrassment (an understatement), having an absent parent, definitely being neurodivergent, trying to solidify clear differences between right and wrong, being orphaned as a young boy and having to cope with his mother's death, and just...god. Like, come on. There's no way that deciding his dear mother must've deserved death and *that's* why she died along with his bullies, turning from defending the weak to taking out "the bad people", and deciding that he's god's poor meow meow and *that's* why all this is happening because he's "chosen" aren't at least partly coping mechanisms of some sort. Okay, okay. I'll spare you all the full essay

Do I even need to say it? I need to be him now absolutely now. Pretty man with longer hair in trench coat and ah

I mostly marked the muse one for the "haha he's god's poor meow meow" joke but also god I have so much fic I need to write for this man

There's nothing like having identity crisis (in terms of neurodovergence) because you relate too well to a character who is absolutely not neurotypical and dealt with largely similar social problems (minus most of the harassment) to you while also being an intelligent overthinker haha

I don't 100% know why I marked this but it is not derogatory. Does he have a super tragic and traumatic backstory? Check. Is he also literally built to be god's perfect number one follower? Yes. My man looks good and neat, he washes regularly, he can cook, he started working out, he literally thinks he's god's poor meow meow, and he happens to think very very similar to Light so he does get praise. Like of course it implies he worked for most of what he had but by god man he's basically perfect? Like if I was Light I'd malewife him here and now. His life also went coincidentally so just so he *could* see himself and actually become god's poor little meow meow

There are so many reasons to be feral about Teru Mikami

ㅤ

Prompto:

Aaaa I haven't talked about him in a while but god I love him

I need to preface this by saying I only marked angst machine because he is a secret angst machine. Once you get more of his character it just starts leaking out until the dam bursts, man

He is like, quite literally that character who is happy go lucky and a sunshine boy and he's the protag's best friend and everything is great, right? Right??

Wrong. He struggles heavily with body image and fatphobia, his outgoing sunshine personality began as a cover so he'd be more appealing, he feels like a living lie for so many reasons (given that there's a blurred thin line between what of his personality is actually him and what's a curated mask, he pretended he wasn't who he was as a kid thinking Noctis would find him more appealing as he is now, he keeps most of his real thoughts and feelings and insecurities inside because he's afraid to burden them, he feels like an outsider in his own friend group because Noctis is the prince and Gladio and Ignis are connected to that, meanwhile he's just some commoner, and he's not only secretly *from* the empire Noctis's kingdom is at war with, but also was born to become I believe the energy source for the empire's robot soldiers (ik what they're really called don't worry about it)), and he even has an identity crisis! *slaps head of boy* You can fit so much trauma into it! Oh, and also it's implied that his adoptive parents are basically never around and that he's not sure if they care about him so

He needs therapy so bad

He also needs a kiss from his best friend as a treat. It wouldn't fix him but it sure would help

ㅤ

Dib:

Hehehehehehehhehehehehehehe

God I miss him

I am

Mmmmmm

I am literally vibrating okay ah so many thoughts whirring around the brain

I hope what this gets across is that he's an absolute bastard who really has an abnormal threshold for "just a normal Tuesday" and an interesting set of morals. He's a feelings denier, he's absolutely traumatized by all the shit in his life (what, from everything with Zim to going through literal torture to being basically locked in an insane asylum as a child to no one, even his father, ever believing him, to just trying to please a father who's never around and never seems to actually be proud of him, to the best friends he's ever had being another kid who's also probably heavily traumatized and is basically his stalker and well Zim). Whether canon or in aged up fanon this boy is messed up and traumatized, neurodivergent, self sacrificial, easily angered, passionate, and bad at feelings.

ㅤ

Ienzo/Zexion:

Hey HEY

I'm actually still an apologist thank you very much

Yes he did bad things no matter his circumstances and enjoyed it, and yes I acknowledge he could end up turning on the main cast and betraying them

However also he can do no wrong I love him in fact if he just so happened to uh get rid of Ansem tw I would say he deserves it. He can do whatever he wants

By god I am...too tired to go into it right now but wtf when you did into him just

By god so many things have happened to him. At least the rest of the org were older teens this boy was AN 8 YEAR OLD when he became a nobody. Think about that. You're an orphan kid who's practically adopted by the local king and the stern cold man of science. The former is "the fun dad", which means he uses you as an excuse to get his favorite icecream. He doesn't actually hang out with you because he wants to hang with you and doesn't seem to do most of the real parenting. The former cares about his science projects above all, and while he probably does all the parenting work he's far from warm and caring. And then all the people you live with/your older friends practically dramatically exile your technical adoptive parent and convince you that he deserved it, and then coerce you into you know literally having your heart pierced so you can divorce your heart from your body and not have to deal with pesky feelings. So he gets drawn into a literal cult at age 8. And then for the next like eleven years grows up as a nobody/without his heart while being told he's now broken without it and will never be able to truly feel emotion and care, and is also basically raised through these years by said cult made up of his friends and some sketchy people. And then of course he basically dies before coming back to life, and sure he's technically whole but he has complicated feelings about all this and of course now his technically adoptive father is back and just does not acknowledge what he put him through (Ienzo ends up being the one apologizing for everything in front of him as if he's taking the responsibility of it all above himself). I swear he's a ticking time bomb there's no way he can just stay okay with everything that happened to him.

ㅤ

Anyways, thanks for the ask, Xion! You know how I love essaying on my favs🥰

[madraleen]

Bungo Stray Dogs - Kafka Asagiri/Sango Harukawa Vol. 16-17: A "THEY ARE SO PRETTY!" Commentary (*anime spoilers and manga spoilers up to ch.114.5)

-OKAY BUT the image of fyodor and dazai playing chess and looking pretty, and dazai's extended arm sort of towering over and sheltering atsushi and the non-atsushis ASDSDF

-oh, francis wants mitchell revived because she can kill hawthorne, i didn't remember that

-okay but now i feel bad for nominating tanizaki for the mafia so strongly, he's so sweet telling yosano "i'll do it for you" when he sees her reluctance

-it's so wild that "the great war" of this 'verse ended only fourteen years ago

-oh elise was docile at some point, i see

-going back and forth reading the volumes and catching up with the latest chapters, i think bsd is excellent at setting the tone and atmosphere. there's energy and pace in the composition of the panels, AND there's really no panel wasted.

-idk idk, little yosano's arc is so smart. it's so twisted and thought-out and poignant. if i didn't already applaud asagiri-sensei, i would just based on this. it's another arc that's so hard to read - in a good way.

-hot take but you know how some people feel there's too much dazai focus etc etc... there isn't though. like, at all, not in the main manga. i feel like they might get that sense because of the spin-offs etc, or maybe because such a vast majority of bsd fans loves dazai and constantly talks about dazai, but dazai himself is not featured particularly much in the manga, he's there just as much as any of the main-main cast, maybe even less. i think it's that he has such a presence, he makes such an impression and is so memorable that it FEELS like he's featured a lot because he's the one that sticks in your mind at the end of the day, but i wouldn't say he's stealing any spotlights or anything.

-mori's greatest crime is the immortal regime

-as entertaining as bsd is, there's some parts that i find genuinely difficult to read. they're too much. (in a good way)

-"to take down a mafia boss this strong we need an undead regiment" and then he goes and kills the boss himself. WHICH IS IT, MORI-SAN!

-aw yosano grew up alongside ranpo and under fukuzawa's care <3

-"our agency reveals its true power when we all gather together" O RLY nOW ATSuSHi, does that mean we're gonna get a reunion to beat the tripolar singularity, does it DOES IT?!

-WHAT DID KENJI-KUN EVER DO TO YOU, ASAGIRI-SENSEI, WHY DOES HE HAVE TO GET BOTH BLOWN UP AND STABBED

-GIN IN A SUIT

-"in this fight, the agency will emerge victorious" I BELIEVE YOU, FRANCIS, BUT AT WHAT COST

-dude, look at tanizaki with kenji, he's terrified

-man, now i feel bad again, tanizaki cares so much for the agency and i'm giving him up to the mafia like lamb for slaughter

-i love how atsushi isn't dumbed down. he uses his brain, he's perceptive.

-ooh right, mitchell's been treated but we haven't actually seen her conscious yet!

-tachihara be multitasking, like... playing both protag and antag in the same damn panels :'D

-dazai is so pretty, he's so pretty, i can't.

-KYOUKA LANDS SO GRACEFULLY AND ATSUSHI JUST FALLS FACE-DOWN IN MUSHITAROU'S CELL

-oh yeah, did we ever learn what the deal with "the seventh agency" was?

-"intelligence can cloud your senses" true true

-behold ango, the man who hasn't slept since this entire arc started

-yes okay, but why does ango look so soft when he tells us he's been working with dazai from the beginning, aw. well, and a little harassed maybe. but let's go with soft

-oh! oh!!! ango looks genuinely appreciative of dazai's heart rate trick!! in the anime he was more dismissive, calling it just a party trick for dazai!

-the fact that ango used the seventh agency only once to erase dazai's crimes so that he could live outside of the mafia.

-oh ango was the mind-reader of the government? i thought the skill-user they mentioned literally read minds. not objects.

-narrative consistency my ass, book-san has no concept of narrative consistency.

-THERE'S A "SEVENTEEN WORLD VILLAINS" LIST?!

-what wife, fukuchi. fukuzawa is too busy dealing with his adopted children and his two ex male-wives. what wife.

-OH? OH?! YOU PICTURE DAZAI AMONG THE AGENCY MEMBERS NOW, FUKUZAWA?! WHAT HAPPENED LATER, FUKUZAWA? WHAT HAPPENED AND YOU FORGOT YOUR BLACK SHEEP SON, FUKUZAWA?!

-okay, but jouno and tecchou tho. just. them. together.

-honestly, the most implausible thing in the entirety of bsd is lucy serving clients with THAT smile. i'd sooner believe it's a deep fake

-my god, tecchou is such a beautiful princess. he has very untainted eyes too

-SIGMAAAAA <3. he's so pretty. like extra super pretty vs the anime.

-"it's exactly how dazai-san planned it!" yes, atsushi, you summed up (most of) bsd pretty well, thank you.

-are they... are dazai and fyodor playing imaginary chess

-WTF DAZAI HOW SO PRETTY OH MY GOD YOU'RE JUST SITTING THERE

-OKAY BUT SIGMA ALSO SO PRETTY, LOOK AT THAT FACE, YOU JUST WANNA SQUISH IT

-on sigma: "he was practically born to run a casino..." AHAHAHAHA WAY TO SPOIL THE PLOT, MR GUARD! but sigma is so good at what he does though. he's such a good manager and leader.

-the panel composition is so excellent, man. so excellent.

-it's a pity tachihara can't truly join the mafia fam even if he wants to, 'cause he literally needs the hunting dogs' monthly surgery

-oh come OOOOON, sigma is SUCH A KITTEN, can we keep him in the agency, come ooooon, he's so kitten, and dazai would love to pester him

-shuuut uuuup, dazai used ango to send a "bet you're nervous, atsushi-kun? deep breaths, boy, deep breaths!" message to atsushi? SHUT UP THAT'S ADORABLE

-awww, this conversation calmed atsushi down and reminded him of the good old days at the office :""")))

[elandx]

Struggles Of A Young Man

It's currently 11:53 Friday March 29th as I am typing this. I know this won't be seen or talked about because I have no followers and I'm not using any tags. I just turned 17 a month ago and when I turned I thought I was going to transform into this new person and develop a whole new mindset. But that hasn't happened. I currently struggle with 2 addictions I won't name out of embarrassment from my digital footprint but i will say most boys struggle with both if they've been exposed to it. I've tried to kick both of them with no success and it's crushing my soul. No matter where I run I still find myself falling. Every article, video, life coach, etc I've found touching on the subject helped. I know its a mindset and I've tried my best to stay with it but I fear I'm not strong enough to overcome my demons. I lean on my religion and ask God to remove the want and give me the resistance to the temptation but weather it's a week or a month I always find myself indulging in the toxicity of my addictions. I know I going down the wrong path every time I do, but the feeling is just too strong for me. Now granted my addictions don't affect my day to day and I'm fully functioning, but when I look in the mirror I can't stand what I see. I'm well over 200 pounds (probably in the 215 range), I have no good looking features on me, and my beard doesn't connect. I set a plan for myself this year to fix all that but its just not easy trying to do it alone. I don't feel like I have anyone in my corner to lean on about this and it kills me but I know I'm gonna have to do somethings alone to achieve my goals. But that's where my problem lies, all these life coaches and wellness pages on social give you a list of things to do physically but never mentally. I lack discipline and can't really hold myself accountable for anything. It's a terrible trait I acquired from my dad and he's everything I don't want to be. But I tell myself that and I still sit on my ass all day eat chicken nuggets, make music, and play madden with no real thought of the damage i'm doing to myself. Socially, I'm not pulling the girls I want nor am I pulling the ones everybody can pull. I try to justify it with "I'm not looking for a relationship." or "who needs bitches anyway?" but in the long haul it's definitely an issue because I want a wife and kids. Emotionally it causes me to shit on myself a lot and the obvious answer is to fix the issue by starting to work out but I always feel like I'm embarrassing myself. I'm so fucking caught up with all this worldly shit that it's causing me to kill myself slowly and I'm sick of it. As we roll into a new month I plan on saying fuck it and start doing what i say i'm gonna do. My brain is the only thing that's stopping me and I know when I stop listening to it my body can do some amazing things. So I'm writing this as my first step into recovery from my addictions and my own self. I call on myself to do the right thing and get the outside help I need to achieve my goals. I ask God to guide me through this next chapter of my life and lead me to the ultimate triumph I pray for. I ask that he release me of all my demons and give me the wisdom to make sound decisions and not fall victim to the devil's worldly traps. I ask that he blesses me and leads me to a better place in life. I trust him with all my heart and I know he hears me. I ready for him and I truly believe I am at the cusp of something.

It's in his name I pray these words.

-Amen

[shslpunkartist99]

PLEASE TELL ME MORE ABOUT LEROY AND HIS SIBLINGS

ESPECIALLY THE ONES YOU MENTIONED IN THAT MORE RECENT-ISH POST OF YOURS

LIKE WHAT ARE THEIR NAMES AND WHAT THEY'RE LIKE AND WILL LEROY BE ABLE TO HELP THEM RECOVER TO SOME EXTENT

PLEASE

I MUST KNOW MORE ABOUT THIS BLUE BOY OF YOURS

Ajslflwjskala

It's sad stuff, I will say that. They were made during my teen rp days, so you know it was edgy, but even after fixing them up, it's still sad.

Tw for abuse and drugs (won't go into deep detail, but still felt I should put the warning up). It's also VERY long, and I didn't even include the possible recovery. I'll include it in another post, considering that would only be for the Symbol verse anyway.

Leroy has an older sister and a twin brother, named Leona (6 years older) and Leo. Their father was abusive to both the kids and the mother for years, and it unfortunately became too much for mom, as she left the kids behind when Leroy was only four.

Despite barely being a teen, Leona took the role of the caretaker, doing her best to take care of her brothers while keeping them safe from dad. During the years, she was part of a softball team, then baseball, was able to participate in a tourney, and won a huge grand prize. Since dad never cared for her hobbies, she hid the prize money from him, took the brothers and whatever little belongings they had, and bought a house with the help of a friend's parent.

It was then that Leroy wanted his name to be Leroy; not only to match with his siblings' names, but because hearing his actual name brought fear and trauma from the father. The siblings agreed, and thus, they lived their new lives together in their new home.

Leona continued to be the caretaker of the others. Leo tried his best to step up more as well, but Leona always seemed to have it done better, so part of him began feeling jealous and inadequate. Leroy looked up to them both, and admired how strong and dependable they were.

Years went by, and once the brothers reached 17, Leona decided it was time she lived her own life now. Yes, they technically weren't adults yet, but she would still have her name on the house until they were old enough to take over. She wasn't able to live life her way because of mom's abandonment, so she wanted to travel and experience the world's good sides. She would still come back and visit from time to time, of course! But it was time for her to make the most of her life while it's still happening.

Leo and Leroy worked hard to maintain the house in the meantime. Leroy even dropped out of high school and got a job in order to help, as well as kept the house clean and helped with chores. Leo, however, wasn't doing too well. He still felt he should be the caretaker, especially now with Leona gone, but he can't keep a job, he gets distracted easily, so he makes more messes, and he gets tired easily. His mental hasn't really recovered, and he started getting thoughts of "Leroy sees me as weak. That's why he's taking care of me and doing everything. Just like Leona.."

When trying to find work, Leo ended up encountering... not so good people. They claimed to do simple delivery services, and they would pay him good money if he did it. Desperate to be compentent, he accepted the shady job, and earned money for him and Leroy. But as time went by, he got more involved with the job, more involved with the people.. and got caught in their secret affairs.

It was a hidden cult, and they convert most people with the use of drugs, manipulation, and brainwash. They ended up getting hold of Leo, and they made his condition worse and worse. Leroy was worried about his brother, but Leo never told him about it. He would just go to the cult, do their orders, go home, struggle to eat and sleep.. until he never returned home.

Leroy waited patiently for his siblings to return home for years. Hopeful ignorance blinded him for so long, but it ended up messing with his brain. For instance, he kept a bedroom perfectly clean for them. However, he would sometimes try to open the door, only to believe that it was locked. His brain would make him believe that his siblings were behind the door, locking him out and keeping him away, so he would end up crying and begging for them to let him in. He hated being home because of how empty and quiet it was, but he didn't dare sell the house, as it would be "a spit in the face to Leona and her sacrifices".

Skip to Tsuri coming into Leroy's life and living together. Tsuri was fed up with these breakdowns, so he did some research on where the hell his siblings went. With Naomi's help, he was able to quickly travel to where Leona was living.. and found she got into some trouble of her own. She got involved in gang shit against her will, and now she's stuck as their bitch until she's dead. Nowhere to escape, and having her hooked to their addictions, the reason she never returned home was because they would kill them all. Leroy and Leo's life is better with her here, away from them.. let them be happy..

Except they weren't. Leo was more or less worse. He was hardly himself anymore. Completely devoid of personality and thought, he was a walking mummy that did whatever the cult wanted. He hardly reacted when hearing Leroy's name. He was lifeless, only moving by whatever fumes they forced through his lungs.

Tsuri never told Leroy about this. If he did, he knew Leroy would try and find them, and it wouldn't work out as well as they would want. Even though it hurt, it was better to let the family go..

[carlotaflaneur]

#8 february 2024

How are you ?¿ hope you're cherishing the beginning of 2024 :-) I already feel it's brought so much joy, what a lovely start of the year !!! let's take a mental pic :-)

Some of my closest friends have told me they enjoy receiving my newsletter; they say they can feel me close as they read it. You guys keep me going… I write for me and for you. You know who you are !! I love you and I hope you're in a calm place.

I have the strong feeling that I'm facing a vital/creative revelation moment. I feel I've found a balance I'd been longing since… forever !! Finding balance means feeling at peace, which in turn means touching happiness :-) it's a sweet spot in my relationship with my music.

I make music because I adore it, because it comes out of my insides and I can't help it. But the process of making and sharing songs hasn't always been enjoyable; neither has it been being on stage or simply playing at home. I could often sense myself avoiding spending time with my instruments, hiding away. I would then ask myself: where does this suffering come from, if this is -supposedly- what I enjoy doing the most ?¿?

After many years of asking myself this question, I finally feel I got some answers ! Oh man I adore these revelation moments !!!

august 2023 – at the beach with Ferran (foto: Ferran Pegenaute)

Since I was a child, I’ve learnt to relate to life from a place of “excellence search”, placing importance in “doing things the right way”, or “the way they should get done”, or at least the way I sense I’m expected to do them. Since my career started, my brain had automatically destined most of its energy in creating an image of the “ideal Carlota”. A pristine version of myself that I had to pursue, which would eventually make me feel satisfied with my work - once I catched her.

Of course, the image of the “ideal Carlota” automatically rejects what we all know: no one's perfect, something perfect just can't exist. Despite this contradiction, the image lived inside of me and no step forward (small or large) that I’d take would be enough to reach the so-desired-satisfaction. There's always something you could be doing better; there'll always be things you won't know, things to learn from others.

And that would scare me. I would find it scary to think of the things that I still don't know; the idea of having to learn all of them would weigh on my shoulders and push me aside from the beautiful spark of learning. On many occasions I couldn't even grab my guitar, because I’m not a master playing it and that would make me feel miserable. Of course, not playing guitar would also make me feel miserable…… hahahah

I can't tell when it was that I started being aware at all times of the place in my body from where I was doing stuff; my intention. At some point I placed attention and care on my intentional being, and was able to start rewiring my brain and acknowledging that the true drive of learning can't be reaching excellence.

Fortunately, I've learnt to devote my time to music from a place of comfort search. Every time I sing, play or listen to a song, I give myself the chance to look for those nuances that make me feel comfortable, somehow more alive.

I can’t really explain what a life changing experience this has been… being on stage feels so different when you’re looking for comfort instead of perfection :-)

I now enjoy thinking about the amount of stuff I yet not know; it feels fascinating and really exciting, rather than scary. I like to think that I’ll get to learn a bit of this huge amount... the bit I choose, the bit that I feel most driven to.

BIG HUG IN CAPITAL LETTERS see you soon <3

PS: I'm finally recording new stuff !!! I'll let you know about it

Carlota