#tree plumes in pool

[conchovalleypools]

We cleaned up this San Angelo pool after a storm left it full of tree plumes. With a stubborn pump and clogged plumbing, we still got it looking great — watch the full 360° POV.

[gouraminnow]

Birds of a Feather

(Entirely platonic | SFW | Marco & OC) Marco the Phoenix is found by an orphaned harpy child that mistakes him for one of their own kind. It takes less than a day to commit to adoption- he really is taking after his father.

Warnings: Past world government/celestial dragon related incident, drugging/sedation. This is self indulgent fluff catered to me and exactly one other person she knows who she is. Hi <3

Marco had just wanted to stretch his wings. The winter island they’d all stopped at was beautiful- sloping hills, valleys and deep forests blanketed in thick snow, with the soft orange lights of the small town that had only recently sprung up. They weren’t going to be here very long- at least they didn’t plan on it. Apparently, there were some nice hot springs in more remote areas, and some of the others had asked him to see if he spotted them on his flight. Whether or not his brothers actually wished to commit to the hike when there was booze to be had in town was another matter, but he enjoyed the airtime anyway. The clear wintery skies were quiet and refreshing.

Cresting over a hill and peering down into a valley, he spots the stacked hot spring pools overlapping like fish scales.

But he also spotted something else.

When he swooped lower to get a look at the layered pools of the springs, he also noticed a small white shape- scampering through underbrush, between trees, trying to keep up with him despite being grounded. He can’t get a good look from up here- but whatever it is, it’s awfully little and makes no attempts to conceal itself. He dips again, going lower in an attempt to catch a glimpse of this thing- aiming for a clearing between some pools up ahead, he turns in a wide arc, flaring his wings out to catch the frigid air and slow his descent. He kicks up a healthy plume of snow when he lands, and takes a second to shake himself off. He stands still, arms still transformed into wings as he searches for any movement- though he doesn’t have to wait long. Something white and fluffy with bits of gray and black darts right toward him with a loud trill. He steps to the side, the tiny thing skidding right past him with an undignified squawk. 

The fluffy mess shakes itself off, and he’s met with the confused face of… some sort of little bird creature. It can’t be much taller than his mid-thigh. It wears no clothes, but it does have a leather shoulder bag. It’s covered from head to taloned toe in thick, downy feathers. It has wings instead of arms, but longer, more dextrous phalanges form three functional fingers at each wrist. Little black talons poke through a generous amount of unkempt plumage at both the feet and pseudo-hands, and the face- large, black eyes rimmed with orange, with bright blue circular markings on the cheeks, framed by a wild mane of… well, feathers, but it takes the place of hair. Two little tufts stick out on top of its head, not unlike the “ears” of a great-horned owl. They’re covered in gray and black stripes and speckles- impressive camouflage. He’s sure if the little beast had actually tried to be stealthy, he never would have noticed them. 

But it wasn’t. It was dead-set on getting his attention. It didn’t take a genius to be able to guess that it mistook him for its own kind. He furrows his brow, watching it shake itself off and look back up at him, releasing a quizzical chirp. His mouth presses into a firm line. This was… probably a harpy chick. While harpies were typically depicted with bare faces and torsos, this was a cold environment. Probably just a climate-specific adaptation- or maybe they’re completely feathered as babies and they’ll lose coverage as they age. It chirps at him again, taking a tentative step forward, and he sighs. He’s not sure what to do here. He’s unfamiliar with whatever this species is, and he doesn’t want to inadvertently upset some territorial parents. While the little one seems to think he’s one of them, it’s entirely possible the adults would know better. He looks around- scanning the treeline, the clearing, the sky- and finding no hint of any other presence, he turns back to the creature before him, who has been inching closer and closer. He holds their gaze for a moment. “Where’d you come from, little one?”

They blink up at him. One of their little ear tufts twitches.

“... Can you understand me at all?” He tries.

They tilt their head at him, a little chrrr chrrr chrrr sound bubbling out of their throat.

Inconclusive, but probably not.

With a low chuckle, he crouches down- and that’s when they strike. They launch themselves forward, tackling Marco with a shrill cry. “Woah there,” he says as they cling to his coat, little feet scrabbling frantically as they struggle to get themselves up on top of his bent legs, sitting themselves right down on his lap. They’re not shy at all about getting settled, curling up and nuzzling his chest with a sweet trill. Marco huffs. “Well, aren’t you affectionate, yoi?” he muses, shifting his wings back into arms. Gently, he wraps an arm around the creature, supporting their weight by pressing them against his chest as he sits down cross-legged, settling them back into his lap.

They don’t really react, just continuing to nuzzle against the man. They’re awfully happy to be here, aren’t they? His hands run through the downy, speckled feathers on their back and his mouth presses into a firm line. Checking them over, he finally realizes just how dirty and unkempt they are- specifically in spots they wouldn’t be able to reach on their own. There’s an uninterrupted strip of grimy, disheveled feathers interspersed with the waxy sheaths of developing pin feathers down their spine- when he pulls his hand away, there’s a thin layer of grime on his fingertips. 

“... Who’s taking care of you, kiddo?” He murmurs, only met with the happy, idle twittering of the creature in his lap. “You’re real excited to see me huh…” He’s not sure what to do. They very well could be an orphan, or even a case of a hatchling being ejected from the nest by a stronger sibling. Or they could just be very, very lost. Gently, he pushes the creature’s shoulders back, so they can look each other in the face. “Blink three times if you understand me,” he says, voice firm. They just stare, tilting their head a little bit. Marco sighs. The language barrier is a problem. He takes a second to think, letting the kid snuggle up again. How much this creature takes after regular birds was unknown but some things could be inferred. The eagerness with which they latched onto him suggested a social species- the state of their feathers suggesting flock members assisted each other in grooming. At least at this age, anyway. If this creature had parents, he needed to figure out how to locate them- but as of right now, he had no way of telling if that was the case or not.

 He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the creature begins to rummage through their little bag- producing what looks like two small, dried pieces of meat and then holding one up to his face. They chirp, smiling brightly, practically shoving it against his chin. He looks at the creature's wide eyes, then at the shriveled, burnt looking scrap they’re offering. When he doesn’t accept it immediately, their little face scrunches up, mouth settling into a pout. They pull away, maintaining eye contact, and pop one into their mouth. They make a loud, exaggerated display of chewing(with their mouth closed, thankfully) and swallowing with an audible gulp. Marco huffs, a lazy smile spreading across his face. As unappetizing as it looks, he can smell the char on it, so at least it's been thoroughly sterilized at this point. Not that contaminants were something he worried much about with his particular devil fruit, but some things are just a matter of principle. Dubious meat is dubious. But the display was awfully cute, and he’d hate to disappoint them, so when they slowly hold it out to him again, he plucks it from their talons and swallows it whole. He does briefly taste the char he suspected, but the big grin from the hatchling is worth it.

He ruffles their hair, and they eagerly lean into the gesture. But when he tries to pull away, they grab onto his hand, hopping to their feet and gently trying to tug him along with them. “Oh? Got something to show me?” He gets a series of chirps in response, and they keep tugging. Well, he’s got plenty of time. Might as well see where they want to take him- it's probably his best bet at answering some of his questions.

-

Marco casually follows behind the little bird as they lead him through the snow. He’d gotten them to let go of his hand- they were so short he had to awkwardly bend down in order for them to reach it, and walking like that was very uncomfortable. At one point during their little walk, they had turned back to him and twittered with a quizzical tilt to their head, before flaring their wings out. He raised a brow, and they just repeated the gesture. “Sorry, kiddo, not sure I get what you mean…” they huff, stomping their little feet- before pointing to him and flaring their wings out a third time. A light goes off in his head. Ah, that’s what it is, huh? With a dramatic flourish of blue flame, his arms bloom into wings. He flares them just like they had, flapping a couple times for good measure- disturbing the pristine snow around the two of them in a ten-foot radius. He seems to have gotten it right- they cheer loudly, hopping up and down and twirling in a circle. He can’t help but soften at the sight- he wasn’t a conceited man, but appealing to his ego certainly didn’t hurt. After the little display he just followed along, listening to them chirp and warble endlessly. They may not understand each other, but there was no doubt they were a chatterbox. 

It isn’t long before they come upon a sort of crevice between two tall pools, hidden away by some simple foliage. The little one slips right in, but it’s a bit of a tight squeeze for Marco. The first thing he notices is just how warm it is in the little cave. Makes sense to him- perfect place to make a den. The walls are a soft, reddish brown, working with the pleasant warmth to directly contrast the bitter chill outside. There are a few old wooden crates and cracked, scavenged pottery shoved against the walls of the cavern- the former of which store a variety of pilfered knicknacks, most notably packs of crayons and paints along with what looks like a coarsely-bristled brush tied to a long stick. There’s a nest further in, made of loose furs and old rags primarily- but just beyond that, on the far wall, countless drawings have been pinned up, rows of wobbly child-like sketches displayed right next to their bed. Stepping further, eyes gradually adjusting, he notices something else:

Tally marks.

Hundreds of them- tiny, shallow tick marks etched into every wall of the cave, reaching only a little higher than his knee. Something in him twists, as he crouches down to run his fingers against the clumsily scratched lines. These ones are organized in groups of seven, rather than five. 

He hears another trill, the rustling of papers- and he looks back to see the little one bounding toward him, holding a drawing up above their head with a grin. They shove the paper towards him with an excited cry, earning a chuckle from the man, who graciously accepts it, raising the yellowed material up for a closer look. He goes still, a tightness blooming in his chest. In a childish crayon scrawl, the colors bleeding past the wobbly outlines, are three figures. One is the child standing before him, who is currently excitedly hopping from foot to foot in silent anticipation. They draw themselves as little more than a speckled puffball with big eyes, blue cheeks and their distinct ear tufts. The second figure is bigger, standing to the left of the child. The stripes on this figure are darker, with some browns mixed in with the black and gray stripes. The markings are similar to the child’s, with the blue cheeks and orange-rimmed eyes, but with a few key differences- namely the large tail feathers, black tipped wings and feet, with a hint of that same blue on the undersides of the wings.The drawing is actually… really good, for a kid- there’s an impressive amount of detail put into recreating the distinct markings of their family.

The third figure… confirms some of his suspicions. It’s slightly smaller than the second, but still larger than the child. And the plumage of this adult is primarily a bright, brilliant blue, save for white patches on the belly and face. There’s a tightness in his chest as he holds the paper, eyes flitting to the ever-hopeful face of the child. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. If these harpies matched up with the same types of sexual dimorphism as many bird species, the brightly colored ones are probably the males. This is clearly a family portrait, but the little one’s parents are nowhere to be seen. And the tally marks on the wall don’t reach very high, nor do the drawings they’ve hung up- if they had someone older looking after them, more of that wallspace would probably be utilized. Do they think he’s just another harpy, or their dad specifically? Probably not- if they were able to draw out the markings their parents had, then they’re probably able to see the difference.

“Kid…” he starts, taking a step forward and crouching down. They seem to view this as an invitation, because just like last time, they launch forward and flail their way onto his lap. He sighs, circling an arm around their waist and standing back up. They barely weigh anything at all. He wonders if their bones are hollow.

Now carrying the child, he approaches the wall featuring the rest of the drawings. His steps reverberate around the small cavern, the harpy purring against his chest. He steps into their makeshift nest, settling down in the various pelts, blankets and cushions. It smells a little musty, truthfully… reminds him of the few times he’d entered Ace’s room.

He shakes the thought out of his head, instead focusing on the drawings the little one had made. It’s… a lot of drawings of other Harpies, some scribbly mountains and trees… one seems to depict a gathering of twelve, with a bonfire in the middle and the bird people taking turns roasting nondescript lumps on sticks. He’s sure it’s meant to be meat, as two of them do almost look like rabbit silhouettes. Another depicts the child in his lap playing in the springs with other harpy children- all drawn with sweet little smiles and those big, black dot eyes. All the drawings they’ve pinned to the cave wall are happy scenes with a loving flock that is nowhere to be seen. Many figures celebrating, playing together, hunting and cooking game… none depict a Harpy by itself, all of them groups of at least three. Going off of these, he was right in suspecting they’re part of a highly social species, raised as part of a crowded and attentive flock. Abandonment seems out of the question if these idyllic little pictures are to be believed- but regardless of the circumstances behind their isolation, this was clearly some sort of desperate coping mechanism. Hanging pictures of the family they missed dearly, right by where they sleep? Examining another drawing of adult harpies fending off some large, fearsome thing- mostly black scribbles, big sharp teeth and eyes- while the chicks watch from behind them- the idea of abandonment at the talons of these bird-folk feels like nonsense. He doesn’t want to say anything for sure when all he has to go off are these pictures, but some deep, small but sharp sting of instinct within him makes the suggestion of neglect feel utterly wrong. Something worse had happened, the phoenix was all but certain. His mouth presses into a thin line, and he can’t help but hold the poor kid a little tighter. 

They’re completely oblivious to the inner turmoil welling up inside him, interpreting the slight squeeze as deliberate affection. Their eyelids droop and their feathers puff up as they settle against his warmth. It isn’t long at all before they’re snoring softly in his lap… Marco sighs, idly petting the little bird monster as they doze. “You make it real hard not to get attached, huh, yoi…” He mumbles, gently scratching their chin. Hmm. He wants to check something. Thinking back to their little family portrait, he leans them back and gently unfurls one of their arm-wings. Most of the feathers are still soft and downy, but he catches hints of those iridescent blue patches the mother in the drawing had right under her armpits. Checking their wings, gently detangling as he goes, he catches no further glimpses of those vibrant pinfeathers, and concludes that the child is most likely female- though he is unfamiliar with the child’s age and how quickly their species develops, so he wouldn’t know for sure until all the baby feathers were gone. Judging by the little blue sprigs, it wouldn’t be long-

Marco blinks, stopping his train of thought. When had he started thinking as if this kid was going to live with him? He hadn’t even known them for a day. Suspicious circumstances and heartstring-pulling be damned, it’s far too early to be acting this way. The ideal way this all turns out is that their real family is located, and they’re left with their kind. In the best-case scenario, he’d never even see their adult plumage, having sailed on with his family after reuniting the child with their own. If he did take them with him, he would have to figure out their specific needs on the fly, such as diet, exercise, hygiene, sleeping habits… though at least the size of the crew was unlikely to bother them once they’d integrated, if the large social groups in their artwork were anything to go by. 

Marco sighs. It’s simple- he just needs to know more. And now is the perfect time, seeing as the little one is sleeping like… well, a baby. He sits up, hands raising to their shoulders to gently pry them off from where their claws dig in to the fabric of his coat- and god is the little puffball tiny, one splayed hand covering the width of their speckled back- but as soon as he tries to pull them away, he hears a sleepy little whine and their three-fingered hands bunch up the wool. He frowns- taking in the way their eyes move behind their lids, and the drooping of their ear-tufts. Ugh. Damnit, they’re far too cute for their own good.

With an exaggeratedly resigned sigh, he pulls them back in, the little one cooing contentedly as they snuggle back into the warmth of his chest. He takes a second to adjust, moving the sleeping chick up to a more comfortable position before swinging his legs over the nest’s edge and standing up. He'll just... carry them while he has a look around, since they're so attached. So, with the little chick tucked against his chest with one arm, he begins his search. Starting with the wooden crates off to the side, he’s careful- sinking into a crouch and resting the harpy in the gap between his chest and the tops of his thighs. He picks through- this one is primarily art supplies, as he observed before. Packs of wax crayons dumped into a smaller box, paintbrushes- most in poor condition, he observes, the chipped handle of one resting against his palm as his thumb rubs over the frazzled, uneven bristles spiking outward. There’s a ripped canvas with a broken frame slotted into the box- when he goes to lift it, some chalk falls from where it had likely been resting on the wooden struts. The soft clatter makes the hatchling twitch, but nothing else. There are a few paint pots at the bottom as well, but they’re mostly empty or dried out. Curiously, he finds a couple small rectangular boxes with hinged lids as well, no bigger than his palms. They’re made of a thin, light colored wood and they remind him of Izo’s makeup- a thought that proves its merit when he flips the lid up to reveal the brightly colored chalky substance they have packed away inside. This one has three colors- yellow, orange, and red, and there’s a small mirror tucked into the underside of the lid. Snapping it closed, he opens the other- a sky blue, a darker cobalt pigment, and a deep purple. Hmm. He puts the palettes back where he found them, and turns his attention to the sleeping kid again. Leaning back, he rubs a thumb against the bright blue cheek spot, then pulls it away. Nothing. Those markings were natural, then. Well, it was left at the bottom of the box. If it was something they used with any regularity it would’ve been easier to reach. But the idea of birdfolk adding a little extra pigment to their plumage is one that tickles him.

He doesn’t find much else of note. He examines the brush on a stick he had seen earlier, finds some tools such as knives and scissors. One box has netting, rope, and fishing line- a broken rod laying at the bottom in two pieces. There’s a hole in the floor closer to the entrance of the cave, covered with an old pot lid- when he opens it, he finds a rabbit, two wrapped fish, and a handful of berries in a cheesecloth resting in a bed of snow.

But then, looking back to the inside of the cave, his eyes catch something he’d missed, somehow. Peeking out from under the nest, are more scraps of paper- the crinkled, triangular corners overlapping each other. More drawings… moving back toward the nest, he crouches slowly, careful with the child as usual. Reaching out, he tugs the crinkled papers out from under the furs they’ve been hidden under-

His heart leaps into his throat. His hand, tightening its grip, further crumpling the thin material.

The first picture is of a ship bearing the familiar emblem of the world government, scribbled navy blue and white trim topped by the golden figurehead all world noble ships have. He doesn’t need to look at the rest to know this poor child really is alone. The rest of the hidden drawings, pulled out from where they’ve been shoved and unfolded by his deft hand, are devastating- not just because of the contents. All of them less precise, more frantically drawn, indents or even tears where the kid had applied too much pressure while coloring. Tiny pinprick stains of water damage, if he looks close enough. One drawing is just a large fire. In another, adults and children alike trapped under nets. One shows suited men shooting some of the creatures as the ridiculous bubble-headed celestial dragon oversees. And there was yet another, depicting the familiar bright blue-plumed male flying away with the baby in his talons, little dots as tears falling from their eyes.

No wonder they were so happy to see him. No wonder they could overlook the glaring differences between him and their own kind.

The little one shifts, and Marco realizes how hard he’s breathing. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes a moment to calm himself, for their sake- but it’s not easy. Well. He’d already wanted to take the little one with him. He didn’t see a world where Oyaji would say no, especially not once Marco told him everything. And if anyone else had an issue (though he doubted anyone would, other than the typical rational concerns when it comes to having a small child on a pirate ship), they would just have to deal with it. Marco was a commander, he did what he wanted.

But of course, he still has questions. In the brief time they’d spent in town, nobody had made any mention of harpies. He knows the small village is a very recent development- four years old, if he remembered right- is it possible that its presence is younger than the tragedy that befell the birdfolk? When visiting a new place with his family, local urban legends were quickly picked up on. Proud, hardworking folk like these often want others to be impressed with the places they call home- that’s why they’d put so much emphasis on the springs. It seemed odd that nobody had mentioned that this island once contained at least one whole flock of mythical creatures.

But looking at all the tally marks on the walls, the small, clustered groups of seven, seven, seven- he hadn’t counted them, but over four years of living alone looked very plausible if he assumed the kid counted accurately. Did… the kid know there was a human settlement? He would assume they did, but then again… the distance is a lot for someone so small. He only spotted the remote cluster of pools from the air, before he swooped down for a closer look. And all of their things look old, held together through improvised fixes- nothing new that would suggest they had stolen from town. Though if they did know of its presence, it was possible they avoided it on purpose. They only wanted Marco’s attention because he was a giant blue bird. They might not differentiate between world nobles and humans in general. With that in mind, he should be cautious with crew introductions.

Well, regardless of the kid’s relations (or lack thereof) with the other locals, they were coming with him. As well as he can using one hand, he gingerly stacks the previously hidden artwork, tapping it against the ground to line them up. He wishes he had some sort of folder… tucking them into his coat will have to do for now, so he slowly leans them back- prying their little fingers out of the grip they hold so he can unbutton the front enough to slide the papers in. Something to show the others- some sympathy for his cause wouldn’t hurt.

And with that, he lets himself partially transform- Wings, feet, tailfeathers. with a flourish of healing fire- that he washes over the child, just in case. She blinks, yawning- and he watches the flickering of his own flames in their dark, glassy eyes as they widen. They smile up at him with a chirp, and he returns it. “Have a nice nap, little one?” He croons. “How would you like to go on a little flight with me, yoi?” They twitter up at him, feathers puffing up. He sets them down on the floor- which they whine about, earning a laugh from him. He shifts from foot to foot before holding one up and making a grabbing motion with his talons. They perk right up- and sprint outside. Marco blinks, moving after them and squeezing himself through the jagged opening to their little hideout. That’s something he wasn’t looking forward to when he came back to pack up their belongings.

Out in the snow, the hatchling calls out to him- they’ve laid down on their belly, sinking into the powdery substance. He’s amused and impressed they got the message so fast. He thought he’d have to take a leaf out of their book and draw a picture of himself carrying them away. He approaches slowly, holding out one foot again- and when she doesn’t move, he slowly, gingerly wraps his talons around their midsection, the first of his three front toes resting just under the armpit. He tests his grip first, lifting them up while balancing on the other foot, which earns a giggle from them. It feels secure enough, and they don't seem uncomfortable. So using his free foot to propel himself upward, he flaps once, twice, and they’re off- Marco smiling widely at the excited trill they let out. While a little awkward to carry, they’re tiny and weigh nothing to him. They soar over the trees, and Marco climbs higher- even through the sound of the air rushing past his ears, he doesn’t miss the little gasp that escapes them once he’s gotten enough air to reveal the pinks and oranges of a horizon at sunset.

It doesn’t take long. His jaw clenches when he can feel their little body growing more and more tense, the closer he gets to the Moby Dick. When he begins his descent towards the deck, Oyaji and a few others in view- they emit a loud, piercing whine, starting to wriggle. He pulls up, wings flaring out to slow himself, and sticks the landing on one foot, balancing himself before gently setting the kid down with the other. They immediately latch onto Marco’s legs, feathers bristling in agitation. Whitebeard raises a brow, leaning forward in his seat. He’s still shirtless, despite the weather. “Marco,” he rumbles out in greeting. “What’s this you’ve brought to us?” He asks, gesturing to the cowering child clinging to Marco’s legs.

Some of the others have started to gather around, wanting to see what this is about. Marco sighs. First, he reaches into his coat for the bundle of artwork. “Tate, would you mind looking over these with Oyaji?” He asks, extending his arm to the nurse, who approaches slowly. He hands them off to the nurse, who is thankfully dressed for the weather unlike his father, and crouches down to try and dislodge the kid. They whine at him when he grips them by the shoulders, peeling them off of him to the amusement of his brothers. He flashes a quick glare to the men and their chuckling quiets down. “Come on kid, you’re fine, yoi” he chides, opting to lift them into his arms. They bury their face in his chest as he sits them on one arm, turning the other into a wing which he carefully folds around their trembling body. Hopefully, hiding them from view gives them a little security.

He looks back up to Tate, and to Oyaji- he’s leaning over her shoulder as the blonde woman examines each childish drawing, her face growing more troubled with each one. Oyaji keeps the same stony expression the entire time, save for the subtle narrowing of his father’s eyes. “This one spotted me flying, Oyaji. Chased after me from the ground.” He says, watching his old man’s eyes raise to meet his own. “... They think I’m one of them. They’ve been alone for a real long time, yoi. What you’ve got right there, that’s what happened to the rest.”

“These… these are awful,” Tate breathes, still fixated on the foreboding artwork. Marco nods, mouth set in a firm line. 

“Hmph. So you’re saying we’re keeping them, I take it?” the old man says, plucking one of the drawings from Tate’s hands and leaning back to examine it closer. 

Marco nods. “My responsibility, of course. The kiddo’s already… attached.” He sighs, feeling them shift against his chest. “They don’t speak any… human languages. I have no way of telling them that I am not what they think I am, yoi.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the deck, Whitebeard’s stern gaze sinking to the wing concealing the tiny creature. “And you are certain there are no others of their kind left here?” He asks, the unspoken meaning clear. He is not unsympathetic- it’s the same thought Marco had. It would be better to reunite them with their species, if possible.

Marco nods once again. “They’ve been living in a small cave, and they’ve scratched hundreds of tally marks into the walls. I didn’t count, but it’s been years, yoi. I think…” he sighs, pausing for a second. “None of the townsfolk said anything about bird people. I think this event predates the existence of the village, and this child has managed to remain hidden all this time, yoi.”

His father regards him from a moment, a warmth in his eyes few others would have recognized. “Let me get a look at them. Only for a moment.” Marco nods, retracting his wing. The little one sits with their face buried in his chest, trembling. He nudges them. They whine. He sighs, leaning them back, patting their head with his free hand and gesturing to Whitebeard. They hesitantly turn their head, and he feels them tense when they meet eyes with the Yonko. The towering man gives them a small smile, but it doesn’t help much. They recoil into Marco, pitchy squeak leaving their throat. The Phoenix sighs, letting them latch onto him and covering them from view once more. “Well, that’s it, then.” Whitebeard grunts. “What d’you need?”

“Somebody find Thatch- I need him to whip something up for ‘em. Some meat, add a sedative- I’m going back to their little hideaway to pack their things while they sleep.”

-

Thatch is located, and is reportedly happy to assist. Marco had moved the little beast to his own room, since being around so many humans all of a sudden had utterly terrified the poor thing.He swaddles them in blankets, and intends to leave them in bed- but his face softens when a hand shoots out to cling to him once more. He sighs at the little one glaring at him from the bundle of fabric. “I know, I know,” he coos. “I wish you understood me,” he laments, lifting their swaddled form into his arms. “But this is a good thing, yoi. We’re going to take care of you.” He makes his way over to his desk, opting to at least read over some reports while he waits for Thatch. Settling the child in his lap, he picks up some papers and leans back. 

A bit of guilt creeps up the back of his throat- the poor thing is still trembling. They aren’t being deliberately affectionate like they were before- no chirping, no squeaking, no nuzzling. Just laying where he put them. He sighs, using his free hand to rub their back. They don’t do anything, other than shift slightly. 

It doesn’t take long before he hears three knocks at his door- making the kid flinch. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, patting them softly before speaking up louder. “Come in.” Thatch enters, carrying a  covered platter on one hand.

“Hey, Marco!” the chef beams, strutting inside and setting the food down on the little corner table. The child clings to Marco’s chest tighter, at the sound of his voice. “Heard the big news- fatherhood is gonna look great on you, papa bird~” he teases in a sing-song voice. Marco rolls his eyes, adjusting the kid and standing up to face his crewmate. Thatch’s face softens when his eyes fall onto the bundle in Marco’s arms. “Aw. Still upset, huh?” He says, considerably more subdued now.

“Yeah,” he affirms, patting the bundled creature on the top of the head. “Can’t blame the poor kid- they don’t understand a word we say, so it’s not like I can do much to reassure them, yoi.”

Thatch sighs. “Well, I got the message,” he says, one hand on his hip as he removes the lid with a flourish. The child doesn’t move, but Marco can hear them sniffing. Thatch prepared various types of meat, cut into thin strips, arranged almost like a charcuterie board. There’s a peeled orange and some mixed berries as well. “I’ve got some cured meats, fruits, and I grilled a bit of pork- that’s what's got the sedative in it. Thought about doing chicken, too, but y’know…” He gestures vaguely, and Marco snorts with a shake of his head.

“Thanks, Thatch. And don’t leave just yet, alright?” He says, sliding into a chair. Thatch pulls up one of his own right across from them.

“Don’t have to tell me twice. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of ‘em, anyway. Everyone up top is gossiping.” He smiles, leaning back and propping a foot up on the opposing knee.

Marco returns the smile. “It’s your lucky day, then. You’ll be the first crewmate I introduce, yoi.” If he wants the kid to learn that the others won’t hurt them, the chef is a good place to start. He pries their little talons out of his shirt, shushing the undignified whine the action draws from them. He pulls the blanket down so it’s bunched around their waist, and spins them in his lap to face the tray of food. Thatch’s eyes widen, and a soft gasp falls from his lips. 

The kid regards him warily, leaning back against Marco’s chest. Their ear tufts are drooping back, and their talons find their way to the arm around their waist. “Hey there, little one. Oh, aren’t you cute?” Thatch greets, offering a small wave and a reassuring smile. “I heard all those brutes upstairs gave you a scare, huh? Poor thing,” he coos, before pushing the platter closer. They tense, but lean forward, sniffing the air. “Go ahead, kiddo, all yours.”

The hatchling is hesitant. Their little hands rise from Marco’s forearm, and both men watch their fists clench and unclench. When they turn back to look at Marco, their little face is scrunched up in worry- even if he can’t see their eyebrows through their thick, messy hair, he can tell they’re drawn tight. He gives them a relaxed smile, and slowly reaches out to pluck a piece of salami off of the plate. He makes sure they’re looking when he eats it, chewing slowly. He nods to Thatch. “You eat something too, yoi,” he says. The other man nods, opting for an orange slice. The kid’s little ear tufts perk up, just a little, and they lean forward. Some of the apprehension is beginning to melt away, but they still aren’t going for it. They look nervously back and forth between both men, head swiveling on their little neck. So Marco reaches out again- another piece of meat in his hand, holding it to their mouth as they had done to him. Slowly, they lean forward, biting the edge, and Marco lets go. It doesn’t even take a full second for the kid to realize how good it tastes, snapping it up instantly. They chew, swallow, lick their lips, go to reach for another-

And they freeze, just shy of touching the food. Marco could groan, but he doesn’t. Thatch gives the kid a nod, and when they look back to Marco, he does the same. Their dark glassy eyes go wide for a second. They pick up a blackberry, looking at both men for any reaction before eating it. This repeats a couple of times before they finally give in and start eating like the damn place is on fire, much to Thatch’s delight. The cured meats and fruits are snapped up in a flash, the thin prosciutto torn to shreds as they indulge. The pork is a bit chewier, taking them a little longer, but they eat everything before the drug even starts to set in. They’re licking their talons clean when Thatch pulls the platter back, and stands up. “Well, that was impressive,” he muses, smiling down at the child. They don’t cower against Marco anymore, instead leaning forward to chirp quizzically at the tall man. “Yep, I’m talkin’ to you, honey,” he laughs. “You’ll give Ace a run for his money, I know it.”

“Hope so. All of this is fluff, they’re a scrawny little thing underneath, yoi” Marco chuckles, rubbing the top of their head, relaxing when they lean up into his touch again. He was right. Food is a good way to help most creatures feel secure. 

“What do you need hope for? You know I won’t disappoint! They certainly seemed to like it, didn’t they? Oh, just look at them,” Thatch coos, watching as their eyes squint in satisfaction. 

The two speak a little longer, Thatch telling Marco that word had spread quickly. Oyaji had already given them a nickname, referring to them as “Pipsqueak” and sternly instructing his sons to leave them be for now. Marco told Thatch more about his encounter in turn- the way they’d exuberantly tackled him, the cave, the way the happy drawings had been pinned up by their bed- that particular detail had him dramatically slapping a hand over his heart. “Sent off to find some hot springs, and you come back with an orphan. You’re really taking after the old man, Marco.” He says with a sly smile. It doesn’t take too long for the kid to start nodding off- after around five minutes, there’s a big yawn, and they’re snuggling up to Marco again. He wraps an arm around them, gently preening their wings with his fingers. The speckled little creature all but melts against his chest.

“I think that’s your cue to get going, yoi,” he says.

Thatch sighs, dramatically slapping his hand over his heart. “So it is… how cruel.”

“Oh don’t pout about it, yoi. I actually let you see ‘em didn’t I? And you’ll be bringing them plenty more meals, I’m sure.”

“Of course I will! I’m aiming for the title of Favorite Uncle, after all!”

“You’ll have some stiff competition, yoi.”

“I’m a chef, my dear brother,” Thatch beams, spreading his arms. “Kids love food. Everybody loves food. I like my odds.”

Marco wouldn’t say it, but he did, too. Instead he just smiles, lifting the child into his arms. They rub a blue cheek against his chest, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah, yeah. Now go, yoi. Shoo. I’m sure I’ll be up shortly.” Thatch chuckles, gazing tenderly at the child before shaking his head. As his weathered hand grips the brass door handle, he shoots his brother a knowing smirk.

“You sure you’ll be back in time for them to wake up? I’m a busy man, but I’d be happy to keep an eye on-”

“I said shoo, yoi! Get on with it!”

Thatch laughs, the door swinging closed behind him with a creak. Marco sighs, shaking his head, but he’s still smiling. Turning his attention back to the kid, he holds them closer and stands up from his seat. He listens to their soft breathing, trying not to let the patch of drool seeping through his shirt bother him. He sets them down on the bed, carefully unwrapping the blanket to tuck them in properly. He lays them against the pillow, huffing at their drowsy face, their mouth still hanging open. He pulls the blanket up to their chin, patting them on the head. They nuzzle into his pillow, sigh, and quickly slip into slumber.

He stays for a moment, warm hand resting on top of their head as they doze. “Big day for you hmm?” He muses. It didn’t take long at all for him to commit to this, did it? He wishes they understood him. That he didn’t have to do things like this. But at the very least, his intentions were altruistic, and the child suspected nothing. And when they woke up, they’d have all their drawings hung up within view of their new nest.

[aynavaano]

Tell me you want me

Hunter x f!reader

Rating: Explicit/NSFW

Wordcount: 3.5k

Summary:

You’re part of Clone Force 99 since a while and have an eye on your Sarge ever since you joined. When you are left alone with him skinny dipping in natural hot springs, things get steamy.

Notes:

Enjoy this little Hunterxf!reader smutlet while we all anxiously wait for the final episode to drop. Reader is part of the squad, she is their medic and has a nickname. All other Batchers make an appearance too. We have fingering and unprotected sex. All happening in the water.

As the sun begins its descent, casting long shadows across the landscape, you and the squad finally retreat back into the Marauder, weary from another grueling day of repairs after your crash landing a few rotations ago. Dropping your tools with a clatter in the corner, you sink down onto the floor, feeling the exhaustion seep into your bones. The day's work has left you covered in a film of sweat and grime, your skin sticky with oil and dust, again.

"If I have to endure one more shower with that recycled water, I swear..." you mutter under your breath, frustration lacing your words. Despite the pressing need to fill up your rations and change the water in the Marauders system or at least the filters, there was no way off this kriffing rock before you got the ship back up and running. The overly recycled water, depleted and stale, left you feeling far worse than without a shower since the last days.

Suddenly, Tech's voice cuts through the exhaustion, his tone matter-of-fact as he suggests an alternative. "There are geothermal hot springs just a couple of clicks south from here, they are perfectly safe to utilize for personal hygiene," he remarks, drawing everyone's attention.

Wrecker's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "So that's where you've been sneaking off to in the evenings," he says, earning a knowing nod from Tech.

"Why didn't you mention THAT before?" you inquire, taken aback by the revelation. Tech shrugs nonchalantly.

"Nobody asked me and you all seemed content with the ship's refresher,besides I didn’t sneak off I just went there, " he replies simply, earning an eye-roll from Crosshair and a sigh from Hunter.

"Well, looks like we're all going tonight," Hunter declares, scanning the room as everyone nods eagerly. However, Tech interjects with an apologetic tone.

"Except for Echo. I'm sorry, but the mineral composition of the water isn't compatible with your mechanical parts." Echo sighs resignedly.

"Well, Someone has to watch the ship anyway," he remarks, grabbing a ration bar before retreating to the cockpit.

Watching him leave, Hunter urges everyone else to gather their essentials as you prepare for the trip to the hot springs.

Following Tech's lead, you traverse through a dense thicket of trees and across a rugged terrain, the distant plumes of steam already signaling the promise of warm, rejuvenating waters.

When you finally arrive at the steaming natural pools, happiness surges through your veins, eager to immerse yourself in the warm, relaxing waters. You swiftly cast your bag aside and quickly shed your clothes, opting for a skinny dip - a necessity, given that swimwear isn’t something provided by the GAR. But the night is dark enough to conceal your naked body, the dense steam rising from the water further obscuring any view.

As the squad's medic, you've seen them in various states of undress during countless check-ups or emergencies, but you've managed to maintain your own privacy, determined not to stir up any trouble within the group. However, you can’t deny that you have a weak spot for your Sergeant ever since you joined them and enjoyed patching him up a bit too much.

The sound of water splashing nearby interrupts your thoughts, and you turn to see Wrecker paddling around eagerly. "Come on in Mini, it's amazing. We won't peek, I promise," he assures you with a boisterous grin. You chuckle at the affectionate nickname he gave you a while ago, and the others quickly adopted, not wrongly, given that you are barely more than half his size.

With a contented sigh, you lower yourself into the soothing embrace of the hot spring, feeling the tension melt away from your weary muscles. The clean, refreshing sensation of the water provides a stark contrast to the sticky residue left behind by the Marauder's recycled water and it feels incredibly good to finally get rid of it.

Occasionally, a gentle breeze disperses the swirling steam, offering you fleeting glimpses of your crew mates. Your gaze lingers on Hunter, captivated by the droplets cascading from his tousled hair, now freed from his bandana. You trace the lines of his tattoo down over his broad chest as they disappear beneath the surface of the dark water. Despite your best efforts to remain discreet, you find yourself locked in a momentary exchange of gazes with Crosshair, his piercing eyes betraying a knowing awareness.

Your breath catches in your throat as Crosshair maintains his gaze, his lips curling into a sly grin. Wrecker interjects, attempting to diffuse the tension. "Cut it out, Crosshair. You're making her uncomfortable. We promised not to look," he scolds, casting a wary glance in your direction.

“You did” Crosshair hisses at Wrecker before turning his attention back to you, his tone teasing. "Like what you see, Mini?" he quips, his confidence evident, that smug bastard you think to yourself and attempt to muster a confident response in return, but the slight tremor in your voice is betraying you. "Nothing I haven't seen while patching you all up," you retort, hoping to deflect his attention.

“Sure” he groans with a mischievous glint in his eyes but thankfully, he decides to let the matter drop, and you exhale a silent sigh of relief, sinking deeper into the warm embrace of the water, trying to hide your reddened cheeks. Casting a fleeting glance skyward, you marvel at the sight of two moons ascending over the horizon, casting a serene silvery blue glow over the landscape.

Before long, Tech emerges from the water, signaling for the group to prepare to depart. You, however, are reluctant to leave the comforting embrace of the hot springs just yet.

"Already? Can't we stay a bit longer?" you plead, attempting to negotiate for more time.

"It was ample time to get clean," Tech responds, his tone firm. "And we have another full day of repairs before we can leave this planet. You need at least seven standard hours of sleep to—"

You cut him off, feeling frustration bubbling up. "Stop it, Tech," you interject firmly, your disappointment evident.

"I'm only concerned for your well-being," Tech counters, his concern genuine.

"I know, I'm sorry," you answer, softening your tone. "I didn't mean to sound so annoyed. It's just... I can't remember the last time we had something like this. I'd like to soak in the warm water a bit longer. My whole body is sore from our crash, and this feels so good," you explain, hoping to convey your genuine need for relaxation.

Tech hesitates. “I understand, but it’s too dangerous to leave you here alone, besides the way back to the Marauder is …”.

"It's okay, Tech. You go. I'll stay here with her," a voice rings through the thick steam from behind you.

Hunter.

Your heart skips a beat at his unexpected offer, a rush of warmth flooding through you at the thought of him and you being here alone.

It takes a moment for the rest of them to processes his proposition. Finally, Tech breaks the silence "That is an acceptable solution," he states, his usual pragmatic tone cutting through the night.

Relieved you allow yourself to sink back into the soothing warmth of the hot springs, the steam enveloping you like a comforting embrace. In the background, you hear the others bustling about, dressing and gathering their belongings. Amidst the activity, you catch snatches of conversation and you could swear you heard Wrecker grumbling that he also wants to stay, interrupted by a sharp retort from Crosshair.

"Alright," Tech announces, drawing your attention. "We're heading back. I'll leave the comm open in case of unforeseen events. Regardless, please remember it is not recommended to stay longer than two standard hours in water with this temperature" and with that, the group begins their trek back to the Marauder, leaving you and Hunter alone in the quiet of the night.

As the sounds of their footsteps fade into the distance, a slightly uncomfortable silence descends, punctuated only by the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. It’s not the first time you’re alone with Hunter, but THIS, this is different and you are trying to control your heartbeat knowing very well that he can pick that up with his heightened senses.

“Thank you for staying with me Hunter” you whisper through the thick steam wafting over the pool. The thought of him naked in the water, just a few steps away from you sends a shiver through your whole body and you feel the heat pooling between your legs.

Stars, stay calm you try to control the visions overtaking you, flashes of his naked body and his hands all over you flickering through your mind.

You try to catch another glimpse at him past the billowing steam and through an opening you see him slowly treading through the water towards you, his eyes locking on yours, a look of concern on his face. The water reaches barely up to his lower stomach, exposing an ungodly amount of his luscious body, his caramel skin, toned chest and a tempting trail of hair running down his abdomen now illuminated by the silvery glow of the moons, you can’t break your gaze away but you are close to loosing control completely now.

“For someone happily relaxing in a hot bath your heart rate is concerningly high. Are you uncomfortable? Did you change your mind, do you want me to take you back to the Marauder?”

“No, I…I want to stay” is all you can stumble. Him being so concerned and caring is only adding fuel to the fire already burning inside you.

Hunter is right before you now, scanning your face for any signs of distress but the only thing he finds is your bright pink cheeks and dilated pupils.

He carefully brushes a loose strand of your hair from your face, his hand lingering a bit too long to go unnoticed.

“Is this because of me?” he whispers softly, a hint of trepidation in his voice. He lost count of how often he wanted to ask you this, when he felt your heart jump at his touch, when he sensed your eyes lingering on him, but he didn’t dare, knowing a no would destroy him. So he decided to remain oblivious instead of getting hurt. Until now.

You gaze up at him and there is no denying anymore, no hiding, so you nod, not able to voice what you feel for him. That you want him so badly.

And before you know whats happening his lips are on yours. His kiss is soft but quickly getting hungrier and messier. He pulls you closer to him sliding one arm around your waist and you intuitively wrap your legs around him feeling his already hardening cock pressing against your core.

He gasps at the sensation of you grinding your hips against him and breaks away from the kiss, looking deep into your eyes.

“Tell me you want this," Hunter's voice is a low, urgent whisper, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me you want me."

You lean back in to kiss him, desperate for his lips on yours and hungry for more but he breaks away again, searching your face for an answer.

“I’m your Sarge, I don’t want to take advantage of you, I need to hear you say it. Say you want me and I’ll give you everything.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you meet his intense gaze. "I do, Hunter," you reply without hesitation, your voice barely above a whisper. "I want nothing more than you."

Before you can even finish your words, he pulls you closer again, his arms wrapping around you possessively. The warmth of his embrace fueling your hunger for him and when his lips crash against yours in another searing kiss, you melt into him completely, his tongue trailing along your lips pleating for access.

Your tongues entwine and Hunter's touch feeds the fire within you, every caress sending sparks of heat coursing through your veins. You feel his hands hungrily roaming over your body, down your chest, gently cupping your breasts, leaving a trail of longing wherever they touch you.

His hands slide down to your hips, one hand cupping your ass, pulling you closer as his lips trail down your neck, leaving a line of open mouthes kisses and soft bites in their wake. With each movement, you feel yourself melting into him, your body craving more of his touch and your pussy aching desperately for his attention.

"Stars, you feel amazing," Hunter murmurs against your skin, his voice husky with desire. "I've been wanting this for so long."

A soft moan escapes your lips at his words, the sound mingling with the gentle lapping of the water around you. You feel his fingers trailing down to your throbbing core and you can't help but arch into his touch, desperately yearning for more.

He carefully slides his fingers between your slick folds, teasing your clit with a slow gentle rhythm that leaves you gasping for breath. Each stroke sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body, quickly building a tension that threatens to unravel you completely in his arms.

He keeps you steady, his strong arms easily holding you up, the water flowing around you, fingers trailing through your slit and finally with a slow, deliberate motion, he slides one finger inside you, giving you a taste of what you so desperately want. You gasp at the sensation of him entering you and arch into his hand, aching for more friction.

"Stars, you're so wet for me," Hunter whispers, his voice low and breathless.

You can't help but beg for more, craving the sensation of him deep inside you, filling you up completely. And as he picks up the pace and slides in another finger, you feel your body tightening, getting ready to explode with pleasure.

"Kriff, I love how responsive you are to my touch." he whispers in your ear, nibbling on your neck.

You let out a few lewd moans and gasps at his words, the sensation of his fingers driving you completely crazy. With each thrust, you feel yourself spiraling closer and closer to the edge, the pleasure becoming almost unbearable in its intensity. The tension in your core almost reaching it’s snapping point, two fingers pushing inside you and his thumb rubbing your clit.

And then, with a flick of his wrist, Hunter finds that perfect spot that sends you hurtling over the edge, your body convulsing with the force of your release. Waves of ecstasy wash over you, rippling through your whole body, leaving you trembling in the wake of your orgasm as you cling to him for support.

“Stars, do you know how beautiful you look cuming all over my fingers?” he moans against your skin, looking at you as if you’re the most precious thing in the galaxy.

He slowly slides his fingers out of you to steady you against his chest while you catch your breath. You let out a low whine when he slips out of your core, leaving you feeling empty, and immediately desperate for more. You fumble around trying to reach his cock but he firmly holds you up, both hands under your thighs, his face buried between your breasts.

“Hungry, are we?” he grins up at you, sucking one of your nipples into his mouth and sliding his fingers over your wet folds aching to be stretched again, drawing a couple of lewd sounds from you.

You tilt your head back when he captures your other nipple between his teeth and finally pulls you closer until you're straddling him in the water, your bodies pressed together in a heated embrace. You feel the pressure of his rock hard cock straining against your core, fueling your hunger for him even more.

"I need you," you whisper, your voice barely above a breathless moan, impatiently wiggling around in his arms to line him up at your entrance. When he carefully bites down on your neck, leaving a mark, while squeezing your breast with one hand, you are completely loosing any kind of self control, you might as well just beg.

"Hunter, kriff…please…fuck me"

He looks up finding your gaze and without a word, he guides himself inside you with a single deep thrust, his huge cock stretching you in all the right ways as he fills you completely. You gasp at the sensation of your pussy stretching around him, your body arching into his as he begins to move, each thrust giving you more of what you’ve been longing for ever since you joined the squad. He starts slowly, not far from teasing you, pulling out almost completely a few times, until only his tip rest inside you and then slamming back in until he is buried to the hilt.

The water around you amplifies every sensation, the gentle rocking motion only adding to the intensity of his thrusts. He increases his pace and with each push of his hips against yours, you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak, your pussy already clenching around him.

“Fuck, not gonna last long like this” he groans “ …y..you feel too good around my cock…so tight…been dreaming about this too often…”

"I'm close," you whimper, your voice barely above a desperate plea. "Please, Hunter, don't stop."

With a low growl against your neck, he increases the intensity, each thrust pushing you further towards the brink of oblivion. You cling to him, nails digging into his back, grinding your hips against his, to take him as deep as possible until you feel the tip of his cock deliciously pressing against your cervix with every thrust. You wrap your arms around his neck your fingers finding hold in his hair, as you begin shaking, and with a shuddering gasp, you feel the tension in you snap and the first wave of pleasure crashing over you with an intensity you haven’t felt before, stars exploding before your eyes, your whole body trembling as you ride out the waves of your orgasm on his cock without slowing down.

He keeps fucking you through your high, drawing more moans and gasps from you until you feel him tense too, his length pressing even harder against your walls.

“Where do you want me?” he gasps.

“Inside” is all you can get out with a loud moan, your pussy still clenching around his cock and you feel Hunter's own release echoing yours, his body trembling with the force of his orgasm. With a final thrust, he spills himself inside you, filling you to the brim with his warm cum as you both ride out the waves of pleasure ripping through you together.

You cling to each other, panting, your bodies pressed together in a sweet embrace as you bask in the afterglow of your lovemaking. You let your fingers trail through his hair and softly trace the lines of his tattoo looking at him in awe, completely blissed out. He let’s his forehead rest against yours and you are exchanging soft loving kisses when you suddenly hear your comms crackle from somewhere beside the pool.

“Hunter are you listening… Hunter…Mini… “

“noooo Tech…leave them” you hear clattering and a voice in the background

“Hunter do you hear me? Even though Crosshair suggested you are not solely bathing but possibly engaging in intercourse I recommend you get out of the water. The time you spent there is unacceptable and will negatively affect your blood circulation. Mini… I’m sure you know that, you’re the medic. Do you hear me? It’s clearly been too long. Get out of ther…” the comm crackles again, weird noises and mumbling in the background until you hear Crosshair.

“Sorry for the interruption Sarge, I couldn’t stop him, just give us a sign when you’re headed back” and with that the comm falls silent again.

You can’t help but blush, feeling a bit exposed before the whole squad not even knowing where this is going or if it was just a one time thing. You desperately hope it’s not, when you said you want him, you meant it but you’re to afraid to ask how he is feeling, so you just revel in the heat radiating from his body drinking up every scent, every detail while it lasts, legs still wrapped around his waist, holding him close, fingers trailing trough his hair. Hunter nestles his head in your neck, pulling you even closer to his chest, leaving a few soft kisses along the way while his softening cock is slowly slipping out of you.

“Let’s get back to the Marauder then” he murmurs against your skin, “at least it seems they already suspect whats going on and appear to be ok with us being together…sleep in my bunk tonight?”

Your heart beams at his question, pounding in your chest.

“Guess that’s a yes” he chuckles, giving you one last loving kiss before he sets you on the edge of the pool to get ready for heading back to the ship.

[fratello-rigatoni]

otherwise um. uh. um. aether makes copia a really really good burger.

*tap dances* its summer and i really miss good ole barbecues!! here ya go!!

Copia couldn't help the moan as he bit into the burger again. And then again. And a third time, before he finally managed out a, ”Cazzo, that's some good shit.”

Aether smiled softly and looked back to the grill he was tending. It was summer, the sun was shining, and Copia had suggested that a cool ”American-style” barbeque was in order. Really, it was just another excuse for him to park his ass close to the grill and watch Aether tend to the flames, mopping sweat from his brow. He knew Copia was salivating over the array of meats as well as the way the muscles in his forearm tensed as he used tongs to flip hot dogs.

It was distracting, the little sounds Copia made as he ate. The burgers were fairly simple: a thick patty seasoned with lots of black pepper, cheap mustard and ketchup and mayo, crisp lettuce and red onion, a slice of heinous processed yellow cheese that oozed down the sides. Nothing special, but Copia was eating it up as if he hadn't had food in days.

”Slow down, love,” Aether said, watching him go in for another bite. ”You're going to choke and then I have to leave the grill.”

Copia hummed and swallowed, tilting the buger to lick at the pinkish mess of condiments squeezing out the back. He had smudges of grease at the corners of his mouth. Dressed in a horrid tropical shirt and his red sweatpants, he certainly seemed to be having fun.

”We should do this more often,” he chirped, pushing the last of the burger past his lips. ”It's real fun, no? Getting outside, fresh air, fresh food. Maybe we make it a weekend event.”

He leaned back in his folding chair, stretching his arms back behind his head. As he did so, the white tank top he wore underneath the ugly shirt rode up over the swell of his belly. If Aether had been keeping track correctly, he had eaten at least 3 hot dogs, and 2 burgers. A can or two of cheap American beer had also gone down the hatch, and plenty of chips and dip.

”Mhm.” Rotate the hot dogs. ”That would be...very fun.” Press down on a patty.

Siblings, Ghouls, and the like were all lounging around. Someone had dragged a sprinkler from somewhere and Rain and Phantom were running around through the spray, shrieking and chomping like dogs.

Dew trotted over from where he'd been lying under a tree with Cirrus and Cumulus. ”Yo, hot dog for a hungry fella?”

Aether began to reach for a freshly toasted bun when Dew simply reached over and plucked a sausage straight from the grill. He bared his teeth in a sharp grin when Aether grimaced, then reached for more.

”And for the girls. Thank yooouuu.”

The click of a lighter to his left caught Aether's attention. Copia was lighting up a joint, inhaling deeply and his eyes closed.

”Oooh, hey, lemme hit.”

Aether watched, heat pooling low in his belly as Dew trotted over to Copia, straddled him (somehow not awkwardly, despite the horrible folding chair and him brandishing un-bunned hot dogs), and let the joint be placed between his lips. Copia hummed and exhaled out a plume of smoke while Dew inhaled, his hands going to the Ghoul's narrow waist. When it was Dew's turn to exhale, he did so long and slow, and Copia breathed in the smoke.

”Thank you, Papa,” Dew purred, kissing Copia's cheek with a smack before hopping up and trotting back to the others waiting for him.

Copia sighed contentedly and slouched in his seat, gaze drifting back to Aether. He waggled his fingers and the joint.

”Eh?”

”Oh, no thank you. Someone needs to stay sober and keep an eye on you.”

”Suit yourself.” Another long drag. ”Any chance I get another burger, grill master?”

Aether adjusted the temperature of the grill and then set to work. Toasty bun, condiments, patty and cheese, veggies, other toasty bun. He gave the top bun a little squish, watching the burger spring back before handing the plate to a grabby-handed Copia.

”Mmmf. Cazzo, cazzo, cazzo.”

It was difficult to direct his attention elsewhere, with Copia blatantly stuffing his face. The man was groaning almost obscenely, hunched over in his chair and cheek bulging with food. He was pink from the sun, and beer, and showed no signs of his appetite slowing down. Aether licked his lips as he gazed at his rounding belly.

”Here, drink something. Wash it down,” he added as he stepped over and extended an unopened beer.

Copia, still chewing, gestured with the buger in his hand. ”Do you mind?”

The tab popped up easily with Aether's claw, and he stepped closer to press the cold can to Copia's lips. He tipped it slightly, adjusting as his Papa gulped, unbreaking eye contact.

A dramatic gasp as he sat back, and then a muffled burp behind a fist. Copia blinked a bit stupidly and licked his lips, catching a stray droplet of beer.

”Grazie.”

”Of course.” A purr rumbled deep in Aether's chest, and he could feel himself flushing beneath his fur.

Copia went in for another bite, and his eyes drifted shut. The burger was still dripping hot grease, but he clearly wasn't bothered by it. His pink tongue darted out to lap at the excess, disposable-gloved fingers shoving fillings back in that dared to slip out the buns. When a glob of condiments splatted onto the plate in his lap he swept a finger through it and then sucked it clean with a pop.

Aether, admittedly, was already thinking about preparing another burger, just to have it ready as soon as this one was demolished. His eyes constantly drifted to the swell of Copia's middle. As soon as Copia was stuffing the last bite away, Aether took his plate.

”How about some hot dogs to shake things up?”

[silliest-donkey]

Even in the earliest hours of the morning, Jackson had a lively neighborhood. The faint sounds of children laughing and facilities opening was paired with the soothing scents of breakfast and wet wood.

The crispy snow crunched softly under the firm pressure of Dina's boots. On her way to the stables, the air was nippy, as twirly snowflakes silently fell all over her hair and clothing, adding new layers to the already frozen ground.

Maria had assigned her a new patrol partner. Of course, to top it all, Dina had no idea what the person looked like. The only information she got was that she would be patrolling with the scariest girl of whole Jackson - if she listened to the rumors. Which was not in her habits. So, she basically knew... nothing at all.

When she entered the stables, you were already there, fully set and ready next to your horse. You were not paired with anyone, and judging by the looks people were giving you, the brunette assumed you were her newly assigned partner.

Oh boy oh boy. C'mon, D. Don't panic. You got this.

"Hey, I'm Dina, but you can call me D. I don't believe we've met before." she stated with a friendly look, holding out her hand, waiting for you to reciprocate the handshake.

As soon as you locked eyes with Dina, the warm hues of her brown pupils pulled you in. Looking at her for the first time felt like drowning into endless pools of honey.

"Maria set me up as your new patrol partner." You softly stated, wrapping your pinky finger onto hers in some sort of a clumsy handshake. You were taken aback by her striking charms.

Dina smirked at your unusual gesture, gently shaking your pinky with her own.

"You must be the sniper I've heard so many people talk about, huh?"

"Positive." You replied, before gently pulling away.

Dina gave you a firm, confident nod. You did not look so bad after all. She held back a snort, suddenly feeling ridiculous for fearing your encounter. She let her gaze linger on your hands - which were barely sticking out of your coat, like a child's. The end of your fingers had turned pink because of the cold weather. You were fidgeting with the reins of your horse, shyly shifting on your feet. You two had just met, but your new colleague was already thinking you were adorable.

Dina cleared her throat before she spoke again, trying to steer the conversation away from her insistent staring.

"Damn, the way people talk about you, I thought I'd meet someone a lot more menacing. They call you the 'Poker-Faced Sniper' around here, after all."

"Huh?"

You stared at her mischevious smile in disbelief. The rumors about you seemed to have taken an uncontrollable toll over your image. Dina's eyes watched you expectantly, waiting for some badass comeback or flexing monologue. Surprisingly, you just stood there like some cartoon character waiting to get a cream pie thrown at their face.

The brunette's playful giggle broke the awkward silence. She moved over next to you, folding her arms.

"They always say one thing about you... She's very beautiful as well." she stated, the softness of her lips crimping into her signature lopsided sneer.

You turned to face her, nonchalantly leaning on your side against the stable's wall.

"Do you find me beautiful?"

Dina's long eyelashes fluttered. For a few seconds, her smirk faltered. There was something with the way you talked that made her feel weak in the knees. Or maybe it was something about how your hair framed your face perfectly when you flipped around to look at her. Or your unwavering gaze. Or...

Fucking hell. What am I doing?

"I find you as beautiful as a wet mop on a Monday morning."

Sweet.

The horses treaded carefully through the deep snow, their powerful steps breaking the stillness of the wintery forest. Snow-dusted pine trees reached their slender arms toward the sky, their branches weighed down by the heavy snowfall. With each exhale, the horses' breath formed plumes of misty vapor, visible against the backdrop of a crystalline blue sky.

You two had cleared the first half of the patrol in complete silence. Ah, wait, you two? Not exactly, no. You had dispatched most of the infected by yourself in a record time. The more it went on, the more Dina had trouble keeping up. You were simply infuriating. Infuriatingly skilled, infuriatingly fast, infuriatingly quiet, infuriatingly efficient...

Infuriatingly pretty.

Dina let out an exasperated sigh as she hurried her horse towards yours. Why was she still thinking about this?

"So, how's the wet mop doing? Pretty good, huh?" you taunted, breaking the silence after two hours of tension.

Dina bit down on her lip, holding back a myriad of curse words. How were you so effortlessly attractive in every damn thing you did?

"...doing more 'pretty' than good" she let out bluntly.

You grinned maliciously at her visibly flustered expression, slowing down your horse so it could ride alongside hers.

"Ha! Are you finally admitting to my irresistible beauty, or are you afraid my stealth game's unmatched?"

"Honey, your beauty was never the question. But if you think your stealth game is so unmatched, why don't you hide your insecurities as well? I can still see them as clear as day."

You never thought you'd hear such harsh words coming from her mouth. You tilted your head to the side. Something was wrong. Neither the lustful look in her eyes or her almost loving tone matched the mean speech she had delivered to your face. But you decided to play along.

"Excuse me?!" you dramatically scoffed, leaning in from your horse, invading her personal space.

Dina let out a low chuckle. She suddenly turned her head to face yours, a wavy strand of her dark, flowy hair dangling over your lips. "Excuse me." she talked back in a sultry voice.

Before you could ask what the hell was she suddenly apologizing for, you felt her hand slowly creep over your thigh as your horses walked next to eachother. She palmed the inner corner of your leg which was shaking back and forth on the side of your saddle, her cold fingers getting dangerously close to your crotch.

"What the fuck?" you managed to mutter, completely taken aback by the wild switch-up in her behavior. One second she was roasting your whole family tree, the next she was hitting on you.

You felt your breath hitch as she leaned in closer, her cupid's bow teasing the lobe of your ear.

"People in town say a lot about you. They say...you reject all the boys. Is that true?"

The familiar, blood curling sound of infected screeches came from the building across the path, breaking the moment. Dina instantly fixed her posture on her saddle, taking out her gun in a swift move.

"Let's get this over with."

Your feisty patrol partner galloped away, her bun untying in the process. As she passed right beside you, your nostrils caught a warm vanilla flavor, before a brutal ponytail slap on the face pulled you out of your daydreaming. You cursed under your breath. This woman was really going to be the death of you.

"Four runners - on your left!"

"On it, D."

Dina had gotten used to your pace after taking a closer look to your moving patterns and strategies. Now she felt more at ease. When you were actually in sync, you two made a pretty great team, to say the least. After she was done covering her part, she moved back to your side.

Dina watched in awe as you deftly wielded your blade, each movement precise and deadly. The steel glinted in the dim light, reflecting the sharpness and focus of its handler at each firm stab.

Suddenly, a creaking sound alerted her ears. It didn't take her much time to realize the tiles under your feet would be soon collapsing. Dina shoved you away only a few seconds before a good half of the floor tumbled down over itself. She reached out to pull you close in a tight, reassuring embrace, enveloping you in a securing veil of softness. Her fingers gripped onto you, firm yet gentle, as she held you close, your hearts racing in unison.

You both let out a deep exhale you didn't know you were holding. Maybe it was the stress of the busy patrol you two had just completed, or the fact that this building was unsafe even after clearing it out because it was crumbling down in ruins and decay. Maybe it was simply the cold that made you two crave for the warmth of someone else's body.

But neither you, nor Dina, wanted to pull away from the unexpected embrace. Actually, maybe, just maybe, you two had grown to like each other.

The brunette felt your body turn around, your arms encircling her waist. She let you bury your head into her chest, and slowly stroked your hair with one hand.

"There there. You're fine. I'm here. It's over, you're safe."

Her other hand drew slow, soothing circles around your back. As she tightened her grip around you, her signature vanilla-like scent enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The soft curves of her frame clicked perfectly into yours, as if your bodies were designed to fit against one another.

You couldn't remember how long it was since you had received a compassionate hug like this. Or just a simple hug in general. It had also been a long time since someone had actually, genuinely cared about you the way Dina did just now. No, wait, actually, it never even happened in your life before. No one had done it like her. No one could do it the way she does.

You have been stuck in some kind of uneasy mood these days. You were the "if anyone gives me a hug right now I'm probably gonna cry" type.

You let a few tears run down your face, praying they would go unnoticed.

"Dina..."

Your shaky voice caught her attention immediately.

"Yeah?" she replied with a gentle tone, looking at your face which was buried into her coat with caring eyes.

"...nothing. I just wanted to say your name. It's...comforting. I like it. I like you." you mumbled, your voice vibrating against her chest.

Such genuine, sweet words made Dina's heart flutter.

"Anyway, pretty sure we're done." you muttered, gently pulling away to walk towards the exit of the building.

Your patrol partner followed you. She noticed smudged tear stains over the fabric of her coat. She chose not to comment on it - but she needed to do something about it. She needed to find something, anything that could make you smile. No matter how stupid she was going to look, she needed to do it for you.

Just when you were about to mount your horse, she held you back.

"Not so fast."

You turned around to face her shy lopsided smile. She gently tugged on your sleeve.

"There's something I want to show you before we leave..."

"So that's it, huh? Just...silly little flowers?"

Dina playfully shoved your arm. "Ah, c'mon! Quit being so grumpy and admit it's cute. You don't usually see flowers in winter, especially not blooming out of snow, do you?"

You burst out laughing while your patrol partner was eyeing you up with a sheepish expression.

"These are called...snow drops. They usually bloom when spring is coming. And what makes them so special is that nothing can stop them from coming out of the ground, even if it means poking out of layers of snow."

You nodded in stunned silence, impressed by Dina's knowledge. Deep down, you knew you admired her for more than just that, still, you thought she probably didn't want compliments from a 'wet mop'. Before you could open your mouth to call her a nerd, she stopped in her tracks right in front of you, turning around. Her hair had completely come undone by now, cascading down her shoulders, perfectly complimenting her face which was tinted by a natural blush from the blizzard. When her eyes met yours, they lit up instantly, their familiar brown tint almost turning to gold.

Your hands intertwined together. You felt Dina's shaky fingers give yours a gentle squeeze, before her voice resonated once more through the chilly air.

"You know... you're just like a snow drop to me. You're someone people look up to. You're someone we think about when we have better days in mind. And I'm not just talking about your contribution to Jackson's community, I- I'm not close to you, but the more I spend time with you, the more I realize just how special you are - how much you come out of the snow."

Your eyes widened.

No one had ever said such words to you. You simply stood there, trying to process how wholesome that just was.

Meanwhile, your patrol partner's gaze darted to the ground. She was visibly panicking - yes, she had planned this, but she had unintentionally poured her whole heart into it. She muttered in defeat.

"...sorry...that was stupid...I shouldn't have-"

"C'mere." you cut her off as you sat down on a massive log, patting the spot next to you.

The brunette did as she was asked. Her brown pupils dilated as they met yours, trapping you in a velvet-like embrace. You contemplated the best way to reply to her sudden compliment. There were so many things flashing through your mind, so many words you wanted to say to her. The two of you stared at each other in silence for a few moments, lost in infatuation.

"You still haven't replied to my question." Dina's eager voice broke the silence.

You raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"I asked you... is it true that you reject all the boys who hit on you?" she carefully chose her words.

You tilted your head towards hers, leaning in closer. "Why would I accept any dude when girls like you, with the prettiest eyes, who care deeply for me, exist, and are able to magically solve my trust issues first patrol?"

You could see the face of your colleague progressively reach a redder tint, her lips parted in surprise at your praise. She let out an awkward chuckle, clearly taken aback. But you did not stop. You couldn't. You felt almost angry at her for not realizing.

"No man on this damn, doomed planet will ever be able to hug me like you did earlier or offer to me beautiful, heartfelt words like comparing my persona to snow drop flowers in such a poetic manner! No one could ever compete with you, and those eyes, and- and your overwhelming capacity of making people at ease, and-and-"

The brunette unexpectedly cut you off. It was obvious she was trying her best to keep a straight face, but her voice was edged with a hopeless bitterness.

"Come on, you really didn't know guys thought you were good-looking? You're pretty popular, you could have anyone you want. They talk about you like you're a greek goddess or something."

This was it. You let out a frustrated sigh, glaring at her as if she had started a fire. Well, considering the one that was progressively taking over your heart, she probably did.

"The only, greek goddess. I. want to hear about. Is. You."

Dina's smirk widened at your mad response. She loved the sight of anger and passion mixing up in your eyes.

She then looked at you for a moment before she spoke.

"Although, we could be goddesses together. We would make a pretty greek statue, all in white and drapes-"

"Ha! Me, a greek goddess? I'd rather have you consider me as the devil" You cut her off. You felt so done with her bullshitting, constant teasing, beating around a damn nonexistent bush you'd pull out of the ground in a second.

Dina giggled, visibly satisfied she had successfully made you as enraged as a pitbull. She spoke again, in a warmer, seductive tone.

"Oh come on, you can't be the devil. You're too... pretty for that."

Her hand sneaked her way on your thigh for the second time of the day. You weren't usually a religious person, but you felt like you were gonna need to start praying the gods to give you the strenght to hold back from kissing her until she choked on her own breath.

You gaze darkened.

"You never know."

"Maybe I want to know"

Five words. Five simple words - whispered, murmured, muttered, exhaled....no, pleaded from her inviting lips.

You were gonna ruin that pretty greek statue, right fucking now. The gods could go screw themselves.

Your mouths met forcefully, teeth clashing together in a fierce, almost ballistic collision. It was a rush for passion and desire, lips smashed together in a messy, frenzied exchange. Tongues all tangled and wrestling for dominance, each trying to claim the other through a heated, savage kiss. Possessive hands roaming restlessly, claiming, touching, pressing closer as the kiss grew more ferocious, the taste of each other like a flame that burned harder, and hotter, boiling at the spot any snowflake which dared to get closer.

You found yourselves surrounded by a swirling white veil that dampened the sounds of your surroundings. Your hungry breaths, hot against the cold air, puffed around your tangled bodies in misty clouds as your lips melted together. Oh, it was far from a gentle touch, nowhere near a mere brush of the lips like the softest snowfall. All of the built-up desire, pent up like a gathering storm, overwhelmed your senses.

The chilly ice no longer seemed to matter. You two were lost in each other, waves of heat pooling between your thighs building like the fervor of a blizzard raging through them. Dina's hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer - if it was even possible anymore - lips and tongues sparring in a fiery exchange that set your blood ablaze against the frozen weather.

When you two pulled away, it felt like the whole world was spinning.

The sight of Dina resting her hands behind her back over the log you two were sitting on, dark, wavy strands of hair falling all over her face and shoulders, shaky exhales sending heated clouds through the winter air - it made you feel weak in the knees.

Speaking of knees, you found yourself dropping to them on the ground between her thighs. You felt the same sneaky hands which had teased you so much hours earlier press your shoulders down.

"My... little... snow drop."

Dina's voice had grown huskier because of the laboring breaths she was taking. You felt your whole body tense up at her tantalizing words. You were completely doomed - as if possessed by the relentless fire her bittersweet chuckles and smirks had ignited within you. A blunt sentence fell out of your mouth before you could even process it.

"Dina, I need you so bad, I really don't think I can wait for the ride back to Jackson-"

"Shh-shh." her hands went from your shoulders to your cheeks, caressing them almost like a pet's. You leaned into her touch, as you felt your head getting cloudier each second.

"It's all your fault for beating around the bush...you're driving me crazy..." you groaned against her thumbs which were softly tracing your lower lip.

"Hmm, I'm glad. Trust me, I definitely wasn't beating around the bush... I just wanted to hear you say it out loud."

You suddenly removed your coat, and put it over her lap. Before Dina could even register what was happening, her pants and underwear were slipped down to her boots. Shivers ran down her spine as the freezing air hit her bare skin under the fabric of the piece of clothing you were holding over her thighs.

"Whoa-"

"There are things I want to hear you say out loud too." you cut her off, talking in between subtle kisses you planted all over her ghoosebumps. "Very...specific sounds, in particular."

Dina whimpered shakily as your lips worshipped her thighs, planting a trail of heat over her cold skin. Her heart was racing from how forward you were being. She nodded, letting out a breathless and flustered response.

“Fine. Go ahead, sweetheart, you can try. Make me feel good.” she demanded, wrapping her legs around your head to pull you closer to her aching core.

Your own lips quivered in sync with hers - down there. You were quite literally french kissing her slippery folds right after french kissing her mouth, and you were far from complaining.

Dina quickly lost her breath at this maddening tongue action, letting out a strangled moan, her trembling fingers tangling into your hair. Her mind was going blank from the sensations.

"That's it...just like that...lap it all up, babe." the needy commands she whispered occasionally between her moans only fueled your thirst for her godly pussy.

Two of your fingers teased their way from her labia to her throbbing clit, as you kept licking and tasting and devouring, furiously eager. You could feel her vagina clenching all around your tongue, each desperate pulse marked by the most precious gasps you had ever heard.

You pulled away, admiring the sight of Dina slowly coming undone before your blessed eyes. The view you had on your patrol partner's figure, from under her, made her look like a goddess descending from the sweetest of heaven's gardens, sun rays reflecting a halo from the snowy landscape around her.

"Holy...Dina, you're so fucking perfect-"

Her thighs almost instantly squeezed your neck, forcefully shoving your face right back into her dripping cunt. The last thing you saw was her parting her lips, those very lips that could both degrade and praise you in such lengths you went crazy over them in the span of one single patrol.

Her commanding tone left no room for negotiation.

"Oh, honey. You're not stopping until I say so."

[masterlist]

[ominoose]

𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐲

Pairing: Skyrim!Jake Lockley x Witch!Reader Summary: A dragon roar shakes the ground, a bleeding man in black armour is laid against a rock. He's lucky the Witch of The Woods knows a special brew. Part of A Sip of Coffee and Cream Zine! WC: 1.3K

This was technically written a year ago, and while I'd like to say my writing has improved from then, I'm posting it as from the zine! Special thank you to @del-ightful for the art !

Another distant rumble shook the cottage, but it marked the end of the roars that pierced the usually tranquil forest. The first time a dragon attack on Whiterun had echoed all the way to their humble haven, tucked well away from nearby settlements with only the local wildlife and occasional skeever for neighbours, it seemed like the end of the world. The trees swayed as the ground trembled, the great screeching sending flocks of birds into the sky like plumes of smoke. The imagination ran wild imagining what it was like at the site of the actual dragon attack.

Now it was an almost fortnightly occurance, with merchants tattling on about the elusive Dragonborn, the fabled hero that would slay the beasts and restore peace to all of Tamriel. The thought almost made the market trips sad.

The Witch Of The Woods wasn’t the most original name, but it was as neutral of a name as the folks of Whiterun could give when said Witch wandered into town for Spriggan Heart or Void Salt. Neutrality would grow to positivity when the trips became exchanges, freshly brewed health potions were in high demand when Dragons were always at the door. Really, the Dragons were quite welcome, in their opinion. Alchemy had never been more profitable.

When the telltale shake of the ground shook the shelves of jars, the Witch had the cauldron boiling and the glass bottles lined up. Butterfly wings, Black Warbler Eggs and Blisterwort sunk beneath the rolling bubbles, stirred and crushed until at last the final ingredient could be added.

The empty jar of Imp Stool caught a stray ray of afternoon sun in the Witches hand, shining smugly.

The potion couldn’t be reboiled, and on its own was as useful as a Skeevers tail. All they could do was forage from the surrounding woods and hope to be lucky.

Outside, the forest was quiet, only a rare bird call in the distance accompanied the Witch as they trekked forward, eyes scanning the swaying grass and scattered sticks. It should’ve felt eerie to tread through such foreign silence, but it felt peaceful, akin to walking in a serene dream with no destination, only the journey.

Time slipped past as the sun warmed the trees, and the Witch only stopped once a heavy, rhythmic breathing drew itself out of the silence.

No one strayed this far off the path and into the woods, that's why the Witch liked the little nook so much, and had they not been so used to the distinct noises of the critters that claimed the land as home, they might’ve been none the wiser.

Only a few steps away, slouched and shielded against a boulder, head drooped against his broad chest, was a man. Quickly the Witch whipped their head around, but could see no sign of forest fire, the scent of smoke would’ve warned them first. And yet the man was singed, soot covering half his face, marred by streaks of sweat. The cloth underneath the dented armour had wilted patched, blackened ends fraying from the fabric yet stuck to him with dark, clotted blood.

It was as if a portal from the Daedric realms had spat him out randomly and left him for dead. Or for them to find. Regardless of how he had stumbled here the once steady breathing was becoming strained and blood was starting to pool from unseen wounds.

Quickly the Witch crouched, tapping his face in an attempt to rouse him. It worked, briefly, as the man lifted his head enough for his charcoal eyes to stare with an intensity they hadn't experience before. The man huffed a breath through flaring nostrils, an armoured hand raising slightly to shoo the Witch away before his entire arm went limp and a wince crossed his features.

“Go away. ‘M fine, just need… to rest.” The thick accent was entirely foreign to the Witches ears, although not unexpected. The tanned, olive skin was a contrast to the pale populace of Skyrim, yet not as dark as the typical Redguard. Wherever the man hailed from was not of concern, everyone died the same when blood trickled down their side so freely.

“You’re bleeding out. Come, I can heal you.” The Witch tried to be as gentle yet persuasive as they could be, hand cupping the mans shoulder.

“No, I’m just… resting. It’s just a scratch.” He protested weakly.

“Your scratch is making a pool beneath you. Come, before you become a Skeevers dinner.”

His response was unintelligible, a grumble rolling off the tongue, but he heaved himself up regardless, straining through his teeth at the effort. The well-worn armour groaned as the man leaned against the Witch, nearly toppling them both over.

“Mierda… the hell are you doing this far into the forest anyway?” He drawled out, chin still resting on his chest.

“I’m the Witch of The Woods. And you?”

There was the beat of silence the Witch expected, until the shaking of the man's broad chest led them to noticing the amused smile tugging from underneath his black moustache.

“I’m just Jake."

The rest of the limp back to the cottage was silent, and as soon as the Witch directed him to their bed Jake fully collapsed, physically and mentally, leaving the Witch to unbuckle his armour and cut away the torn clothes beneath.

The gash in his side was a searing red, made by something large and sharp. It was nothing some special salve and stitches wouldn’t fix, but it caught in their mind all the same.

It wasn’t until the moon was high in the sky that Jake stirred, groaning and hissing out foreign words that could only be cusses. The man seemed much more aware than he had been in the woods, the dark eyes whipping around the room before narrowing onto The Witch. Then they almost softened.

Silence reigned again, the crackling fire and boiling cauldron providing a small ambience.

“I thought witches were meant to be those ugly Hags.” The rough drawl was much clearer now, although the words themselves took The Witch by surprise.

They stirred the cauldron patiently, adding in diced mountain flower and herbs.

“Hags are exclusive to covens, to which I am not a part of.”

Jake merely hummed in response, eyes now on the cauldron.

“That some freaky potion you plan to kill me with?”

The Witch almost snorted.

“This,” they took a small wooden cup and dipping it into the dark green liquid, “is a herbal tea, it restores health.”

Jake eyed the cup warily as it was brought to him, the herbal scent almost pleasant. Had the attractive person before him hadn’t admitted to being a witch, he might’ve been more forgiving.

“A tea? I was under the impression health restoration was alchemized into potions, not tea.”

“And I was attempting to forage some Imp Stools to make a batch of potions. That was before I saved your life and all but carried you into my home.” The retort was final, two sharp stares burrowing into the other until the opposite surrendered.

Jake was never one to back down, let alone surrender, but Jake also tended not to have life-long scars in the making raked down his torso.

The cup warmed his calloused palms, yet it was the Witches brief touch that brought heat to his chest.

“You often adopt wounded strangers from the woods?” Jake asked before sipping the tea. It was as herbal as it smelled, but the little surprise of honey soothed his throat.

“Only the handsome ones that kill dragons.”

The tea spluttered out of him as he choked once, then twice. For the third time since meeting them, his eyes locked their the Witch’s, hoping to gleam a wisp of their soul, their thoughts. All he found was warmth, a cosy, quiet abode. He smiled.

“They should call you The Wise Witch instead.”

[fuckzachariah]

xxii. revolving door

Zach had always been early to rise. As a boy, it was the constant churn of a straitened neighbourhood urgent upon single-glazed windows, or the thunder roll of his mother’s return from a weekend bender, or a friend calling on him to ask if he wanted to smash in the car windows of a new decided foe. Next was the culture shock of working life; sixteen hour days with 5 AM wake up calls at only thirteen years old, passed between the hands of elders, stretched out and plucked at and bent into shape and paraded to wailing, grabbing crowds like a show pony. Then, the drugs. With the drugs, sleep never truly came at all. He slipped into bouts of unconsciousness from which he would startle awake with a hunched spine and clammy skin, eyes sharp for where he’d left the baggy, or the joint. His circadian rhythm left stunted somewhere in the infantile stage; a seed that had been planted and simply died in the soil. He had never grieved sleep because he’d never lost it.

Except, somewhere between rehab and now, he’d come to know that nights could last more than three or four hours. They could stretch to six, seven, sometimes even eight. That is, of course, until the Label’s dinner party. Two weeks later and most slumbers he awoke from to a moonbeam lick and the fading sensation of a white hot touch. Even if he couldn’t remember what he’d dreamt of, he knew it was her. Always her. A feeling he had like a memory running away from him, like walking into a room and forgetting why he was there. Alex, Alex, Alex, all over him like a crawling breeze from a cracked window. In his sheets and in the gaps between streams from the showerhead. In silences and in every phone buzz. It was like being haunted, but worse. His ghost was alive and he could still taste the perfume pluming from her skin.

It was in the early mornings he’d taken to swimming. The pool decorating the hillside his former home had hung over was only ever used to push friends into, or to bob wordlessly on a floatie in the mid-afternoon sun, nursing a killer headache until he felt ready to drink again. This pool, almost double the size of his last and tucked away behind a winding alcove of palm trees at the bottom of the yard, was the reason why he still carried as little weight as he had when his appetite had been suppressed by stimulants. Only now it wasn’t gauntness; his shoulders spanned wide and tall, bronze-speckled through a certain carelessness with sunscreen, his chest and arms sculpted out and strong to carve through water. And beneath that top-heavy mass, his stomach and waist dove into a fine point, muscle smooth and clean like tiles to display his tattoos upon. Though he swam mainly as a distraction, or something to fill time when his time had been endless and winding and bleakly sober, he was fascinated by the changes in his body. He had always been accustomed to being built like something made with intention – he knew what he looked like, knew what he did to people. But after so many years of killing himself, it was a shock what living could look like. And he never kept the pool heated, so beneath the shade of the palm leaves the water stayed cool. He needed that; he always woke up hot to the touch, flushed with her. 

It was 7 AM and he had been doing lengths for an hour. Finally, the flush had waned from his cheeks, and his mind was still. He entered their home through French doors with a towel over his shoulder, dripping onto the wood. Kylie skated by, frowning at the path of pool water that had followed him inside. “Your fault when Rennie slips and dies later,” she says in full motion, swiftly exiting before she had even finished her sentence. “Don’t call him Rennie.” Zach trailed after her into the kitchen, shaking out his hair like a wet dog, and she jumped back. “Zachariah.” He slapped his towel down on the marble island, leaning into it with locked out elbows. “I’ll clean it up before he gets here,” he said, glancing at the clock behind her. Loni’s mom wasn’t due to drop his brother off for another hour. He hadn't seen him in almost a month, being so busy with recording. He smiled at the thought of reunion. Then something dawned on him. “Wait, aren’t you late?” Kylie flashed her eyes at him. “Yes. But I’m waiting on Buddy. I can’t drive myself.” Zach just looked at her. The corners of her mouth twitched. “Yeah, yeah. I just don't want to. Shut up and go dry off.” Today was Kylie's first day of rehearsals for her new music video. The song she had performed for the first time at the VMAs, Tell Em, had undergone re-master after re-master, had been filtered through the hands of three different producers, before she and Andrew had decided it was ready. She’d been freaked out about how long she was taking to release it, fretting the hype would die down. But Andrew wasn’t worried – he seemed to have it all figured out, two steps ahead. As fucking always.

It was strange. Sad, even. The back-and-forth between them was like a match striking on a smooth surface; nothing sparked off him anymore, he wouldn't light her aflame. When the maybes, and the fantasies, the unsent texts and whispers in dark hallways, shine more brilliant than reality, what do you do? Zach glimpsed out the floor-to-ceiling window to his right, wide hand absently rippling atop his towel as though over piano keys, and when he thought of Alex again that hot flood burst in his stomach as though on fucking cue. His head twitched, belligerent. Oddly resistent to the hold she had on him. For fucks sake. Every time. He had to do something about it. Maybe just once, he thought. Maybe just once would be enough to get it out of his system – maybe just once would be easier to sell her on. She could still marry Andrew. He could still – whatever. He kissed his teeth and turned heed, muttering, “break a leg, babe." But Kylie called over him. “Oh!” Zach stopped in the doorway, turning back to her and leaning against the frame. Her eyes fell on him and changed, swelled. Then she came back up to his face and smiled. “Mm. Guess what?” He raised his eyebrow. “Andrew told me he got Alex to say yes to choreographing. I’m actually meeting her at her studio right now.” Zach, spine straighter at the mention of her name, paused. Then a slow, pressed smile rolled out over his face. “Really?” he asked lowly, his tone sort of swinging in amusement. 

Kylie began to say something, but Zach had gotten lost in his thoughts, recalling when he had last been at Alex's studio. Sneaking out the morning after dinner at their Manhattan penthouse, bringing her coffee, like nervous teenagers. All those mirrors reflecting a hundred of her in an eflish throng around him. Like something out of dreams, or even nightmares. It was where she’d told him they were engaged, tears in her eyes, confusion on her face like she couldn't fathom why she might cry. How the tears had made him feel sick. When she took the world and turned it inside out. Zach stood erect, then, and furrowed his brow. But that was New York. “Wait,” he interrupted her chatting. “Does she even still have her studio in LA?” Kylie remained silent. She looked at him intensely, searching for something. His stomach kicked over. “Did - she used to have one, right? That would make sense,” he attempted to cover his tracks, trying not to sound as though he’d slipped up. "She's been a teacher for a while, I thought."

Kylie set her purse down and begun methodically pulling up piles and piles of golden hair into a ponytail, eyes sliding to the floor. “I think Andrew is renting one out for her while they’re between cities. So she can keep teaching, or something. I don’t know if she used to have one here or not.” Her phone zzt’ed on the countertop, and she swiped it up, then looked at him again. Weighing. Deciding. Zach squared out his shoulders and crossed over to her, uncompromising in his confidence. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Not yet. A wide smile, and he hooked her waist. She beat on his chest, the sound like wet feet on tile. “You’re dripping all over me!” He leaned in, and she screamed, body going limp as her weight arced back into his forearm. He chased her down, kissing her cheek, and she laughed. He stood her upright. All better. She gathered his damp face and kissed his wet mouth square, making a dramatic mmmm-wah! sound to signify their relenting of arms. “Right,” she considered him, ran a hand down the defined ribbing of his stomach, then slapping it. He pushed her shoulder, urging her toward the door. “Bye,” he insisted. “Byeee!” she waved, grabbing her purse and retreating.

[voraciousvore]

The Tiny (Chapter 15)

Chapter 1 | Previous (14) | Next (16)

Content Warning: Stalking, kidnapping, non-con sex, fatal hard vore, violence, threats, foul language

Word Count: 2.8k

------ Chapter 15: Kidnapped ------

It wasn’t hard to find out where he lives. 

I have his license plate number, after all. I know his face, his scent, his vehicle. I’m a good tracker. The hard part is stalking him without him noticing, but I manage. I have my ways. I loiter in the parts of town that he frequents, waiting, following him whenever I catch a glimpse of him. He never has his human with him, regrettably, but her residue always lingers in his vicinity. I know she’s his pet. 

I’ve become obsessed, over the passage of days. It’s normal to crave humans, but I can’t stop drooling over her particular flavor. She’s unique, umami yet sweet. I need to possess her, to use her, to devour her. This time I’ll try to keep her alive a little longer. I bide my time, fantasizing, anticipating the right moment to strike. 

I don’t have to wait long. A thunderstorm rolls in on a moonless night, and I drive into the woods. I screech my car to a halt when a blinding blue bolt unexpectedly streaks across the sky close to my location. I get out of the car, licking my teeth with a savage grin. Fortune is on my side tonight. 

I can’t smell any prey over the overpowering essence of rain and leaves, but my predatory instincts lead me on the right path. Heedless to the rain that pelts my coat, I follow the logical trajectory of the lightning. I’m not disappointed, for the frantic motion of a bipedal runner catches my peripherals. I pounce. The human dives toward a hollow in the earth, but I snag it by the back of its shirt and elevate it to my eye level. 

It’s a tiny, porky, middle-aged man. His legs swivel furiously through the air, as if he could run on nothing. He shrieks curses at me, but the shrillness of his tone betrays his undiluted fear. His invectives deteriorate to senseless pleas as I crank open my eager jaws and toss him inside. A crunch, a savory burst of blood, followed by a swift swallow, and my hunger is sated. 

Yet, I desire more; my original goal remains incomplete. I suck the blood off my teeth as I get back in my car and continue on my way. Soon enough, I reach my destination: a quaint cottage out on the fringes. I park behind some trees. The rain and thunder conceal any noise I make as I exit my car and shuffle over to a window on the side of the house. 

I wait for another loud peal of thunder before I break the window. I crawl inside, carefully brushing aside broken shards of glass with my sleeves so I don’t slice my hands. I’m hit with the overpowering perfume of my prey, a pungent plume blowing into my face. My lower jaw droops open as my salivary glands reflexively respond to the irresistible temptation. I prowl forward, the floorboards creaking under my massive boots. Water pools into footprints on the floor, but I don’t care. I have a singular purpose in mind, and nothing will distract me. 

I enter the bedroom, my steps muted by the carpet. The room is dark, but I can make out a man sleeping on the bed, with his hand resting on his chest. A flash of lightning temporarily illuminates the room, and I detect the miniature woman that haunts my dreams, curled up peacefully just above his knuckle, rising and falling steadily in rhythm with his breathing. 

She jolts when my sinister shadow engulfs her, but I react with the speed of a starving beast. I snatch her up in my fist, muffling her screams as my fingers coil around her like tentacles. She retaliates with a bite feral enough to bring forth blood, so I suppress her with a crushing grip—eliciting pain, but lacking sufficient pressure to bruise that tender flesh.  

Her keeper doesn’t stir from his slumber, unaware of the silent struggle right above him. I turn away with a smirk and confidently walk out, taking the front door this time. What a fool. This was too easy. I’m elated. Now that we’re outside, in the whipping winds and rain, I loosen my grasp enough to allow the woman to wriggle her head out. I want to see her, to revel in my victory. 

“Chester, help! Chester! I’m being kidnapped! Help!” she wails, her voice barely audible above the howling of the storm. She flinches and sputters as raindrops splash her face. “Chester” doesn’t come to her rescue, and her expression slowly crumbles to despair as she realizes how screwed she is. I savor every second of her agony. 

I take her to my car. Her face blanches when I slam the door with finality, cutting off any chance of escape. I toss her on the dash as the engine roars to life. She scrambles back, huddling as far away from me as she can get, her back pressed against the windshield. She trembles as I drive, her eyes darting to and fro. Repulsed and frightened by my leering visage, she avoids my piercing gaze. Instead, she looks up at the tree limbs overhead, as they are silhouetted by lightning flashes, their scraggly branches twisting and contorting like the rotted claws of a ghoul.  

The trees give way to buildings, paved streets, and cars. I pull into the underground parking garage for my apartment complex. What’s his name—“Chester”—doesn’t know where I really live; he’ll never find her here, without a scent to pursue. I park and cut the engine, throwing us into an unsettling hush. The tiny lady whimpers. She crams herself into the corner, barely visible under the dim orange lights. I peel my lips back into an ugly sneer, delighted by the sight. 

“D-don’t touch me!” she yells. I ignore her and enclose my fingers around her, prompting yelps and fresh struggles. I warn her with a cruel squeeze; she gets the message, going limp and quiet in my hand. 

I carry her up several flights of dimly-lit stairs, through corridors of cracked walls and peeling paint, to my filthy apartment. I unlock the door, fling it open, and step inside, closing and bolting the only exit behind me. I want to have some fun, so I kneel down and drop the terrified human between my boots. Of course, she does exactly what I expect of her: she runs.  

I let her believe she has a chance to escape, allowing her get a short distance away, before I slap my hand down, blocking her path, and shove her back across the carpet to my boots. As soon as I release her, she sprints again, only for me to drag her back a second time. We repeat this process over and over again, my sadistic glee only increasing with each round. She pushes herself to exhaustion, trying desperately to outmaneuver me, twisting and turning to elude my fingers, to no avail. Her last vestiges of brittle hope crack until they shatter, reduced to insignificant dust. She flops down between my boots, defeated, gasping for breath and dripping with sweat, snot, and tears. 

“You done?” I deride with a mocking grin. I pinch her between my fingers and jerk her up, spinning her in my hand as I unfold my legs into a standing position. She cries out, her face as white as virgin snow.  

I play with her like a cat with a mouse, examining every inch of her from her head to her feet. She goes limp as a ragdoll out of pure fear, uncertain what I will do as I bend her joints and flop her limbs as I please. I throw her high into the air, almost up to the ceiling. She screams wildly, even after I catch her. I toss her back and forth between my hands like I’m juggling. I dangle her by her shirt far above my head, bouncing her teasingly; her eyes bulge as she looks down from what must appear to her an unfathomable height. 

“You want me to let you go?” I taunt with a vicious edge. 

“N-n-no, please don’t... drop me...” she begs, trembling. With a chortle, I lower her directly in front of my eye, marveling at the effect I have on her, how easy it is to absolutely terrify such a miniscule being. She stares deep into my iris, unable to look away from an eye as big as her. I blink, and she recoils at the sudden movement. I shake her between my fingers and laugh at her frenetic response. She withers like a scrap of burning paper. 

I rise her up high again, debating what I should do with her next. I’m not really hungry, since I had the extraordinary fortune to find and consume another human earlier... but she doesn’t know that, does she? I decide to tease her a little more, opening my mouth wide underneath her. I��m instantly rewarded with vigorous thrashing as her raw survival instinct takes hold. 

I lower her down. She fixates on my cavernous gullet, the fleshy passage to her sepulcher, my belly. She disappears from my visual range as her small, writhing body descends beyond the curve of my teeth, but my tongue fills the sensory gap, finding her bare legs and tasting her juicy flesh. Ohhhh myyyy.... if I drop her inside, I doubt I’ll be able to resist the temptation to swallow... 

“Wait! Stop! Don’t eat me, please!” she squeals. “I’ll do anything!” 

I halt, pondering. Her kicking feet brush against my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Her fingers attempt to cling to my slippery teeth, but they are too high above her to provide sufficient grip. As delicious as she would be, I don’t want to waste her. I want to enjoy her, savor her, and I can’t do that if I kill her too quickly. I languidly pull her out, taking my time. A string of saliva sticks to her side, draping from my lip as I remove her from certain death. She shivers convulsively. 

“Anything?” I sneer, cocking a brow. She freezes up, dreading the implications. I exhale, deliberately submerging her in a wave of humid breath, reminding her where she could be. I think about what I want, strolling over to my shabby couch and laying down. The worn-out springs crack under my mass. 

“Anything,” I mumble again in contemplation. So many possibilities! An excited twitch in my loins perks me up. “How about this?” 

I unbuckle my belt with my free hand. Her face puckers up with horror and revulsion, but I’m too aroused to be bothered with such trifles. I pull open my pants and boxers, exposing my big, hard dick. She shrieks as I shove her inside and zip my pants closed, trapping her against my groin. 

“Pleasure me,” I command, fondling my crotch. She fights to escape, stimulating me further. I moan with pleasure and lean back, closing my eyes, stroking myself through the fabric of my pants. Without thinking, I widen my legs slightly, and she slips down to my balls. I understand now, why that other giant chose to keep her alive. She’s got plenty of vigor. 

My pleasure is abruptly cut off by a stab of pain in my most sensitive region, like my testicle is being squeezed with rubber bands and jabbed. I gasp, doubling over, more startled than injured. I feel a small wiggling lump scurry down my pant leg to my boot. I look down to find the human sprinting across the carpet like a roach. 

A volcano of rage erupts in my belly, filling me with molten heat. I lurch sideways to catch her, only to miss and slam into the floor, knocking her down with my seismic disruption. A bellow tears out of my throat. “GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE BITCH!” 

I lunge forward, springing to my feet, and stomp hard right in front of her. She falls back and I clamp my fist around her roughly, bringing her up to my face. I’m seething, unmoved by her pathetic tears. I want to slaughter her in the most brutal way possible. I storm into the kitchen and stuff her into a blender. 

She freaks out as soon as she recognizes her surroundings. She screams indecipherable pleas, bangs on the walls, and claws at the plastic as if she could miraculously climb out. My mouth stretches into a savage snarl as I glut myself on her torture. 

“You’ll be sorry for what you did,” I growl. “I’ll turn you into a smoothie.” I lick my chops, imagining the stain of her blood upon them with glee. I’ll slurp up every last drop. Thunder booms outside, rumbling like the inside of my stomach. She crumples, limp with resignation, as I plug in the blender and press the button. 

All I detect is a loud crack of static, the whiff of fried electronics, and a thin wisp of smoke. Nothing happens: no buzzing motor, no spinning blades, no blood bursting as her cadaver pops like a balloon. The blender fucking broke! 

I lose my shit, kicking over a chair, swearing at the top of my lungs, and tearing at my scalp with unhinged wrath. I focus all that white-hot fury like a laser on the woman cowering down in the cup, with nowhere to run or hide. I wrench off the blender cap and throw it across the room before reaching in to snatch her up. A colorful string of curses explodes out of me as I cut my finger on one of the blades while grabbing her.  

I’m so incensed, I can barely think straight. I drop her on my dining room table, replace my chair, and sit down with clenched fists. I glare down at her with a fiery hate powerful enough to bring her to her knees. 

“By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna wish I had just eaten you instead! I’m gonna break all your bones and chop you up!” I roar, rabid foam spilling from the corners of my mouth. She recoils as if my words hold physical force. The storm outside heightens in intensity, matching my wavelength: the wind blusters, the rain drums, and another crash of thunder hangs in the air like a bad omen. 

Magma courses through my veins as I leap out of my chair and ransack my drawers, searching for something diabolical. I know exactly how I will make her pay for her insolence—how I will hurt her. When I find what I’m looking for, I grin like a demon and march back to the table. She gasps when she sees the hammer. 

“Give me your arm!” I bark. I give her no time to run as I collapse down on her, slamming her to the table with my hand. No amount of begging or scrabbling will stop me as I pin her down with my fingers and splay her toothpick of an arm down flat on the wooden surface. I raise the hammer with reckless abandon. I don’t care if I smash my finger—as long as I crush her skeleton to splinters. 

Her demeanor is strangely defiant, despite the situation. She raises her free hand with purpose, as if somehow she can stop me with her inconsequential strength. Her behavior is comical, ludicrous even—until I sense a strange tingling in my fingers. The lights flash on and off like lightning, and the air itself seems to darken, the individual molecules centering around her, sucking in with an irreversible gravity like a black hole absorbing the very fabric of reality. Time seems to warp and slow; my heart stops, turning into an inanimate stone in my chest; my arm holding the hammer freezes in place, incapable of dealing the finishing blow. 

And then it happens: A blinding blue light shoots from her hand, cutting through the molecules of space towards me, dragging them into its path with its intense magnetism. The jagged sword of blue sizzles the air with its heat. When it touches me, it fries my flesh throughout my body with startling speed, from my feet to my head, even singeing the ends of my hair. The pain is indescribable, burning and jolting and convulsing through me, filling me with sharp bolts of searing light. 

Magic. She electrocuted me with magic. That last thought brands my optical nerves, burning with its intense brightness, before everything goes dark. 

Chapter 16

[bestworstcase]

thinking about those two deer in the lost fable again. out of all the assets created just for this one episode, why?

like… it’s not random. the only other animals in this story have been amber’s horse, zwei, and the branwens’ bird forms. all have some narrative relevance, a clear connection to a character that justifies the expense and effort of modeling them. and then in the lost fable—an episode that was always going to be a heavy lift technically and financially for the sheer amount of ground to cover and novel assets required—has these two deer. they’re only on screen for like two seconds.

it’s narratively motivated. the lost fable is a highly symbolic episode and that symbolism foreshadows the ever after / ascension / all the v9 lore quite strongly; it follows that the intended symbolism of this shot demanded the presence of these deer.

the god of light has deer antlers. in the blacksmith’s story, the first act of destruction is to eat; darkness eats, light does not. light holds himself at a distance, he designs, he does not live. these deer are grazing. salem appears from a plume of smoke at the base of the withered tree, and the deer startle at her approach and look up at her. the shot transitions to salem looking upon the grimm in the ruins of a town—

“she cursed the gods, she cursed the universe. she cursed everything—everything but herself,” says jinn. but her expression isn’t anger. (always check her eyebrows.) it’s more intense concentration, intense thought…

…which brings her back to the pool of grimm. jinn says that “fate” led her back here because that’s what ozpin believes. but this sequence begins with those deer, eating. destruction in its purest unadulterated form. salem visually emerges from the withered tree. she’s observing the grimm and she’s thinking. if the fountain of life had given her immortality, then surely the pools of grimm would finally take it away—not “finally let her die.”

rolls over.

the fountain of life gave her infinite life. salem hoped the pool of grimm would take it away. not kill. not destroy. infinite life. if you take from an infinite quantity, an infinite quantity still remains. this force of pure destruction could not destroy, so it created…

destruction first, to clear the wilderness away. darkness eats the tree’s brambles and through this act creation is born. jinn’s telling distorts through ozpin’s belief, but the truth is there. pure destruction and infinite life are not in conflict; rather, destruction feeds life.

the pool of grimm did take from her life—subtract from the infinite and the infinite remains—she’s torn apart and remade. creativity, to imagine what, and who, could replace the wilderness.

jinn tells this story, ozpin’s story, in a way that obfuscates salem’s real agency and her personhood, casting her alternately as tragic object of fate and inhuman monster. fate led her back to the land of darkness; a being of infinite life with a desire for pure destruction.

he believes salem wanted to die when she leapt into the pool of grimm.

did she?

the deer, the grimm, herself, the pool of grimm. wilderness and ruin. all that remained. i arrive at the edge of the world […] should i kneel?/what should i feel?/will i fall apart?/maybe that’s all i want […] and in my heart it’s there/standing tall enough to fix it all/it’s just a new beginning/it’s just a different ending […] i am everything and nothing/all at once/i’ll meet you at the horizon/where we first met/where i died, i’ll be born again…

(something. something. without you i am nothing, but because of you, i am everything. self-similar narrative.)

the edge of the world. . .

mutters. sow the death and reap the seed -> the moon will sadly watch the roses die -> a rose will grow to be a seed/from every life another leads -> some roses will never bloom. the burning rose, the shattered moon.

did. she know—did she have an idea that destroying herself would create a new world? destruction to clear the wilderness, creativity to imagine its replacement.

“they could claim the powers of their creators for themselves and in turn perfect their own design; all they needed to do was destroy their old masters.” -> “this was it, this had to be it, the brother’s grimm, the pools of black that continued to give rise to horrific nightmares” -> “we could be the gods of this world. […] create the paradise the old gods could not.”

like. it’s not just

it’s those fucking deer. eating. the grimm picking over the ruins. (grimm eat their prey.) salem, observing, thinking. “the gods had hoped that salem would learn from her eternal curse, and she did.” the god of light bade her learn the importance of life and death, and she did. and then she jumped into the pool of grimm and created remnant. a new world. a completely unfamiliar world–

…oh. ohhh

“magic was a gift from the gods that all could wield” -> “without the blessings of the gods, no one could perform magic like mankind was once capable of”

and

“aura is a manifestation of the soul, a life force that runs through every living creature on remnant.” we could be the gods of this world.

how does pyrrha unlock jaune’s aura? “for it is in passing we achieve immortality; through this we become a paragon of virtue and glory, infinite in distance and unbound by death. i release your soul, and by my shoulder protect thee.” a religious mantra echoing salem’s idea of transcendence. magic was a gift from the gods that all could wield; aura is a manifestation of the soul that everyone has, though only a select few are privileged by ozma’s institutions to learn. “with enough training and focus,” salem says, “a user’s aura can turn them into much more than just a man.” the illustration is ozpin’s silhouette—but ozma’s power isn’t derived from aura, it’s magic, and the infinite man is fond of saying that he is “only a man, not even a very good one,” and salem herself sees him as diminished, as lessened. he’s the image of “just a man.” a person’s aura can make them much more than ozma. much more than the brothers’ design.

our powers surpass all others.

salem is grimm. even if she has aura, she cannot use it to protect herself. the gods gave humans magic and then took it back; salem threw herself into the pool of grimm and it broke her apart and—symbolically if not literally—took away her aura and gave it to the people of remnant, reborn from the ashes of her rebellion. a semblance is the outward manifestation of one’s soul. she wanted humanity to claim the powers of their creators and perfect their own design, and… with enough training and focus, a user’s aura can turn them into something much more than just a man.

[stingynugget]

Lost Kingdom Bowuigi Prompt

An idea I had for Bowuigi, though I'm not sure how to flesh it out (so any ideas are welcome lol):

Luigi is in the Lost Kingdom from Mario Odyssey, looking for a balloon his brother hid. He gets caught in an acid rain storm, so he goes to a cave to hide... only to find Bowser already there. However, Bowser is acting strange. He won't open his eyes, and he doesn't get up when he hears Luigi enter the cave. (Maybe somehow a poison film covered his eyes, and one of his legs got dipped in a poison pool and got eaten down to the bone.) Cue injured Bowser x Luigi story, but one where Bowser doesn't recognize Luigi for either a while or until he's healed and is at the Mushroom Kingdom for a party. Could have some Cinderella/Little Mermaid elements as Bowser looks for the man who saved his life, but he has no idea what he looks like.

I started this idea off, but I lost motivation haha:

Luigi pushed aside a particularly dense area of vegetation and breathed in the earthy scent of the Lost Kingdom. Tropical trees and plants surrounded him, along with stretchy wigglers and klepto birds. He was looking for a hidden balloon, as part of a hide-and-seek game between him and his older brother Mario. 

His compass, which told him what direction the balloon was, pointed down into a nearby pool of poison. He’d been trying to figure out if Mario actually hid the balloon in the poison or some nearby location for the past hour, but he still couldn’t find it.

To make matters worse, clouds were starting to form overhead. The Lost Kingdom was notorious for its horrifying poisonous rain. 

Luigi sighed. Did he just give up and try again tomorrow? But Mario was already at Blue Balloon rank, and Luigi was still stuck at Yellow Balloon. He needed to catch up soon, before he lost the month-long game altogether.

He felt a sizzling pain on his arm. Crying out, Luigi looked up to see the rain had already started to fall. Luigi frantically looked around, until he spotted a path that he knew led to a large, dry cave. He made a dash for it.

As he rounded the corner, the cave came into view. However, the last being he expected to see was sleeping there: the King of the Koopas himself. 

Bowser deeply snored, his head resting on his arms as he curled up in the cave. His spiky shell nearly touched the top of the cave, though the cave was deep enough for the rest of his body. He wore his usual spiked armbands and choker.

Luigi froze. He glanced behind him, at the sprinkle of acid rain that was now a downpour, and back at Bowser. Maybe… he could just sneak in quietly, and Bowser wouldn’t even know he was there. Just until the rain stopped.

Luigi took a small step forward and immediately tripped on a protruding rock. The sound of his shoe scuffling and his body thumping on the ground resounded throughout the cave. 

Bowser stirred and sniffed the air. “Who’s there?” he growled. 

Luigi’s heart hammered in his chest. He tried taking a small step backwards, but he didn’t get far without nearly getting poison on him. Right. The whole reason he was in this cave was to get out of the rain. But now he was stuck with Bowser. Which option was worse?

Bowser chuckled lowly. “I know you’re there. I can smell the sweat on you.” His eyes remained closed, which Luigi thought was strange.

Luigi squeezed his hands and desperately tried not to panic. But he was panicking. What should he do? Say “hello” to the Mushroom Kingdom’s biggest problem? Or just wait it out? More sweat dripped from under his hat and onto the tip of his round nose.

“You have three seconds to say something before I fry you.”

Luigi gulped. “Um!” His mouth chattered. “S-sorry to bother you. I was trying to g-get out of the r-rain.” He waited for the inevitable plume of flame that would be headed his way.

Bowser smiled. “There. Was that so hard?”

Luigi blinked in surprise. What was Bowser playing at? And why was he keeping his eyes shut? Did he just want to go back to sleep? Because Luigi would really like that.

“I w-won’t be a b-bother,” Luigi said. “Once the rain stops, I’ll be out of your hair.” Red hair, to be specific.

Bowser hummed. “Or… I throw you into the rain right now.”

“W-what!?” 

Bowser chuckled darkly. He didn’t move from his spot, though. “In exchange for letting you stay here, you will become my servant. Being an underling of the King of the Koopas is quite the honor.”

“B-but—”

“Just until I’m out of this awful kingdom. Though, if you do well, I’m actually recruiting right now. Lost a lot of minions from my last escapade. That's why I’m here in the first place.”

Luigi had a feeling that by “last escapade,” Bowser meant the last time he tried to kidnap Princess Peach. Mario and Bowser had a huge battle in the Moon Kingdom, with Mario winning of course. Luigi was just glad Mario hadn’t dragged him on this adventure. Flying in The Odyssey sounded like a nightmare, especially since he had acrophobia.

And wait, Luigi thought about the other thing Bowser said. “You… want me to join your team?”

“Were you even listening? That’s if you serve me well.”

Luigi frowned. He studied Bowser, who was still curled up on the floor of the cave. Bowser’s eyes, now that he looked at them closer, seemed to have a thin purple film covering them. 

Luigi tiptoed to the other end of the cave, but Bowser’s head didn’t follow the movement. He waved his hand, and Bowser just continued to “stare” at the rain falling outside.

“The pay’s good. Same with paid time off,” Bowser continued, when Luigi didn’t say anything.

Luigi shivered at the thought of working for Bowser. “I’ll, uh, consider it.” 

“Now, servant, what is your name?”

Luigi flinched. “Uh…” Shoot. He definitely shouldn’t give Bowser his real name. “L… Luis.” This was never going to work. He was so bad at lying.

“Luis… Sounds kind of familiar…”

“Er, it’s a common name.”

“Hmm… I see. Well, servant, your first action will be seeing what you can do about my leg.”

Why did Bowser even bother asking for his name? “Your leg?”

Bowser growled. “You think I’d be in this cave if I could help it?” He gestured behind him with his chin. “Get to it. And if you cause me any pain, I’ll fry you.”

“B-but—” He wasn’t a doctor! How was he supposed to know what would or wouldn’t cause pain?

“Stop dilly-dallying and get to work!” Bowser roared.

Luigi straightened his back and cried, “R-right!” As he crept around Bowser, he considered just running as far down into the cave as he could. Though… while Bowser couldn’t move, he still had his fire breath—and Luigi had plenty of experience to know that stuff had a wickedly long range. 

[evolutionsvoid]

The Arimakki threat remains a challenge to contain, as their infectious members continue to find ways to breach any barriers put in their way. They burrow through the earth, scurry across the land and flutter through the air, always foiling the cleansers who seek to keep their horrid presence sealed away. Their numbers are many, their determination indomitable. The Arimakki are committed to spreading their kind and infesting the land. Yet, their behavior seems odd in some places, and one big question was raised when the coastal communities noted their homes being Arimakki free. While the rise of colonies can seem random, it was soon noticed that no hives were springing up along the coast. As investigations went deeper, it was even found that the colonies appeared to avoid major water bodies. Pools of humors and bodily fluids were certainly enjoyed by the Arimakki, yet places of pure water failed to grab their attention. The places alongside the ocean seemed free of the infestation, as none of these parasites ever really ventured in that direction. This soon resulted in the belief that the presence of water warded off Arimakki, and that this would be the element that could keep them at bay. Folks whose lands were consumed by the fever fled to places of water, hoping to be free of the boiling terrors. There was certainly excitement going around at the time, as it seemed like there was now a weapon that could truly contain the infection. That was until stories from the whaling ships started to make landfall, and a new horror was brought to this world. 

Those who hunted leviathans at sea started to report sightings of a strange new creature found in the waters. Something pale and wormy, yet adorned in fleshy plumes like a revolting bird. The tales speak of the sea boiling and hissing as this great beast swam, its vile body exuding a sickening heat. Only after a specimen was killed and hauled to shore, did the world accept this grim truth. The specimen was dubbed "Arimakki Umi," though the sea folk kept to calling it a "Reviliathan." It is a large parasite that worms its way through the ocean, boiling the waters around it with its Feverish Sweat. When it rises to the surface, the sea boils and bubbles. Five hose-like tendrils whip wildly from its head, releasing clouds of this burning sweat that can consume entire ships. When in battle, it writhes and flaps its horrible wings to churn the waters, making it chaos for those floating upon it. Boats that try to bring it down must kill it quickly, as when in trouble, they will breach the surface and flop their immense bodies atop the vessel. Their wings and boiling fluids smother the ship and crew, dooming all aboard to a deadly searing embrace. Some whaling crews have succeeded in slaying these leviathans and have attempted to harvest some kind of reward from its flesh. Oils, blubber and Feverish Sweat is collected in abundance, but nothing is edible. It was found that the oils and fat could be turned into fuel, but tales speak of terrifying nights plagued by nightmares and wild hallucinations whenever someone slept beneath the glow of a Arimakki fueled lantern. The flame that burns is "unnatural" and those who try to see by its light claim to see pale writhing things in the corners of their eyes, and grotesque faces leering from the edge of darkness. In most cases, the Umi are simply killed and left to rot, with the hopes of slaying these beasts before they can spread. 

When news of an ocean dwelling Arimakki became widely known, many feared that it was all over. It wouldn't be long before these leviathans swam to every corner of the globe, spreading their eggs to every continent and land mass. The Vile Red Tree would soon consume this world, and there was nothing that could be done to stop it. Yet, when folks began to take a closer look at these encounters, a strange pattern emerged. 

All reports of an Arimakki Umi sighting always occurred in shallow coastal waters. So far, not a single ship recorded an encounter with them in the open ocean. And these same sightings kept the Umi to very specific waters, with their range seeming oddly small for such a vast area. Information from the Academy and local sea folk points to these very regions as places where the ocean water is the warmest. It seemed like the Umi cared not for the cold ocean water, which seemed to bizarre for an aquatic species. With this new discovery in mind, whaling crews did their own experiments during a hunt and found that Umi weren't just uncomfortable in cold water, but they actually feared it. A ship tried to drive a Reviliathan away from the coast and into the open ocean, and the beast grew frantic and panicked whenever its body felt the bite of a cold current. They thrash and spit, seemingly losing their minds when coming in contact with the cold depths of the sea. The whalers say that the Umi don't live in the coastal waters, they cling to them. The cold dark bowels of the ocean are to avoided, to be feared. They dare not cross the open ocean, lest they wander too far from the comforting warmth of the tropics. So it seems that while these Arimakki can attack and destroy coastal ships, they are not the massive threat as they were once thought to be. They cannot spread their kind, they cannot make more colonies in other lands, because it appears they despise the very water they live in. While it does give hope and relief, it does also raise questions about the Arimakki as a whole. As an "invading force," it seems like an incredible flaw to their design. How are they supposed to spread if they cannot overcome this obvious hurdle? Why does a simple thing like water perplex them so? What is it in the cold darkness that they fear, that drives them deeper into their warm, rotten burrows?

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

"Arimakki Umi"

Wasn't planning on chucking one of these things into the ocean, but then came across a rather bizarre map monster that I was surprised I hadn't seen before. Like we see plenty of sea boars, odd whales and weird owl faced seal eaters, but this funky fellow? Almost nothin! A crime! It screamed "Arimakki" to me, so thus here we are!

[halsinsbiceps]

So apparently I don't have an account on AO3, which I thought I did.

Anyway, if anyone is interested in my F!Tav/Halsin slow-burner, please give this a read. Once I have an account up and running, I'll post to AO3.

Please be kind, as this is my first fanfiction since I was like 14 and my first piece of writing I've ever introduced to the Internet.

Fic below the cut.

A Great and Sudden Change

A Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfiction

Chapter 1

Enelya woke face-down in the sand.

Granules clung to her hands and cheek in wet clumps; water soaked her leather druid armor and chilled her skin. A dull ache throbbed behind her left eye. Thick, fishy air gusted her hair into her face, along with the acrid scent of smoke and charred flesh.

The moment she cracked her eyes open to the light, the throbbing exploded into a blinding headache. If she had not already been on the ground she would have been leveled by the pain.

So instead she lay with her cheek pressed into the muck, and willed herself to remember what had happened.

She had just left Baldur's Gate, well-rested and with a restocked pack, headed east along the River Chionthar on her way to the Emerald Grove to meet with the druids there. The birds had been singing happily and the sun was hot on her face when everything fell silent, and a shadow overtook her.

Then she was trapped in a box…or some sort of pod? Flashes of tentacles and flesh, wet and pliant, flooded her mind. A small worm, teeth bared as it neared her face, panic rising in her chest. Pain seared through her face before everything fell into darkness.

Next she saw a humanoid creature with yellow skin in shining armor, then a woman with black hair and large green eyes. In the next flash she saw demons, imps...and a mind flayer, its squid-like face vivid in her mind's eye, and its voice pushing into her mind as it commanded her to the helm of the Illithid ship. Finally, she remembered the ground rushing up to meet her as she plummeted from the sky.

Enelya promptly retched into the sand.

When her stomach finally stopped heaving, she pushed herself onto her knees and wiped gritty vomit from her chin and cheek. Keeping her eyes closed, she blindly reached into the satchel hanging at her side, feeling her way through the bag until her fingers wrapped around the cool neck of a glass bottle.

The healing potion worked quickly to wash away the bitter bile coating her tongue. The throbbing behind her eye all but disappeared, while her nausea and aches lifted almost immediately. She stoppered the bottle with a relieved sigh, then tentatively opened her eyes.

The first thing she noticed, aside from the quickly setting sun, was the smoking wreckage of the nautiloid. Black smoke plumed in ominous pillars into the orange and pink sky. Tentacles the size of trees lay limp all around her. Following their line of destruction through crushed rocks and snapped trees, she saw the collapsed body of the ship through the smoke.

Gods, it was huge.

Enelya stood shakily. The warmth of the sun was fading as it sunk behind the hills and cliffs that surrounded her. She needed to find shelter, and quickly.

She came upon the first body as she rounded a rocky outcropping. She felt bile rise in her throat as she took in the mangled flesh of the fisherman. One of the brain creatures from the ship lay still in a pool of blood next to it. As Enelya continued down the beach, more and more bodies cropped up, each flanked by still more brain creatures.

After the seventh body her stomach heaved again. She caught herself on a rock as she gagged, her palms snagging the rough surface.

"Are you alright?"

Enelya instinctively pulled her dagger from her belt and spun as her training overtook her sickness for the moment. Green eyes met hers. The woman from the ship stood before her, her hands raised in a sign of peace. "I'm sorry," she said. Her voice was soft, almost child-like. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Enelya shook her head. The fear waned into relief, though her heart still banged against her ribs. She sheathed her dagger. "It's alright," she replied with a sigh. "I'm rather jumpy, it seems."

The woman nodded. "As am I. Makes sense, I suppose." She hesitated, then asked, "Do you know where we are?"

"I don't."

The two regarded each other warily for a moment. The woman was well-armored, although Enelya did not recognize the markings adorning her breastplate. Her dark hair hung over one shoulder in a banded braid, exposing ears that were not quite as pointed as Enelya's own.

"I'm Shadowheart," the woman said suddenly. "And I wanted to thank you, for rescuing me up there. You had precious time to waste, but still stopped to help me. It says quite a lot about your character, especially with that gith pushing you along."

A shiver ran across Enelya's mind as her emotions were assaulted. Disgust and suspicion flowed through her, but not at the woman before her. The githyanki's face flashed before her eyes, a sneer twisting her scarred face. As quickly as the emotions came, they went, leaving Enelya feeling almost empty.

Shadowheart pressed a hand to her temple. "Damn," she said. "I forgot about that. Haven't seen anyone else around here. Have you?"

Enelya shook her head again, still reeling herself from the sudden onslaught of emotions that were not her own. "It's only you, me, and these poor souls, I fear."

Shadowheart eyed the darkening sky. "Well, either way, we should find shelter. Tomorrow we can look for a healer."

"'We'?"

Shadowheart gave her a small smile. "Our odds are better together, don't you think? Besides, I think I can trust you. Why save me just to slit my throat?"

Enelya relaxed slightly and returned the smile. "I appreciate that."

"Come on then. I saw a fortress or something this way. It's not much, but it'll keep the wind at bay."

Shadowheart led her down the beach, away from the bodies. The silence that fell over them wasn't quite comfortable, but they quickly fell into sync and began collecting bits of driftwood at Enelya's suggestion. Once they reached the ruins, they had enough between them to keep a small fire going through the night.

Once the fire was lit and roaring quietly between them, Enelya pressed her back against the cold stone wall of the ruins. A heavy door was set into the wall, but it was locked up right. Shadowheart lamented the loss of real shelter as she jiggled the knob.

"Just not in the cards for us," she sighed. She sank down on the other side of the door from Enelya, keeping a fair distance between them. They watched the fire in silence.

"Enelya."

Shadowheart turned her head. "Sorry?"

"I'm Enelya." She waved her hand. "I forgot to tell you earlier, when you introduced yourself."

"Ah." Shadowheart's gaze returned to the flames. Embers flew into the air with a crackle, and she followed them with her eyes. "I suppose I can forgive your lack of manners this time."

Enelya laughed quietly, a sound that surprised her. "Careful, you don't know me yet."

"True." Shadowheart shot her an amused look. "But I have a feeling we'll get along just fine."

Enelya sighed and rested her head against the wall. After another moment she looked over at Shadowheart. "Where are you from?"

She sensed the other woman's uneasiness in her hesitation. "Baldur's Gate," she said after a pause. "I was headed there when that thing took me."

Enelya waited for her to continue. When she didn't, Enelya said, "I'd just left Baldur's Gate myself. It was my first visit. Quite a town, isn't it?"

Shadowheart snickered and closed her eyes. "You could say that. Where were you going?"

"East, towards Elturel." Enelya shifted into a more comfortable position.

"You're a druid?"

"That's right. From the High Forest."

Shadowheart sighed. "I've heard stories about the druids. It always sounds so peaceful, living out amongst nature. Romantic, even."

Enelya didn't reply, and they sat in comfortable silence again for a time. Shadowheart's head lolled to the side, and she jerked awake with a mumbled apology.

"Get some rest," Enelya told her the third time she startled. "I'll take first watch."

While Shadowheart quietly dozed against the wall of the ruin, Enelya tried to quiet the worrying thoughts flitting through her mind. In the morning, they would find out where they were, and with any luck, a healer.

And this would all be over.

[damien-wolfram-art]

Titan’s Rest

@hashimada-week

@flawlessstriker made some art based on this one

Here it is!

A century ago, The Land of Fire was covered in trees and full of life. The Land of Trees would’ve seemed like a better name then. Now, however the land lies still– its forests charred. None more so than the trees at Titan’s Rest, where the great Wood Golem, Hashirama once clashed with the ancient Susanoo, Madara. 

In the time that they ruled, Wood Golems and Susanoo were both imposing behemoths. The Susanoo were creatures that arose from the continent’s fiery formation. Their hulking armored forms were made of earth, rock, and metals. Most impressively, Susanoo ran on the heat of the planet itself. Each individual had a molten core of magma fed by the earth that erupted from its joints when roused. Some Susanoo had crystals adorning their shoulders and sprouting from their heads in the shapes of intricate headdresses. These were some of the most desirable and attractive.

Madara was one of the most desired of the Susanoo. The females of his kind rarely left him alone for he was strong, sturdy, and his core boiled stoutly no matter the weather. When he was formed, he crawled out of the magma with his four powerful arms and when he dressed himself, he made quite the statement. He carried a blazing sword that he forged himself and clad himself in a pleated metal armor sode. He adorned his back arms with large blue crystals that he had harvested so that they resembled glistening wings. He also made a small headdress for himself from some of the same crystals that rimmed the seams on his head and neck. This is where his fire escaped from, causing a plume that resembled a majestic mane.

  It wasn’t until the day this curious Susanoo rose up and cultivated their molten soup of a continent into something less primordial, that the land’s name lost its meaning. The Susanoo may have been the ones who named The Land of Fire, for fire was what they knew, but Madara had no interest in women or remaining stagnant in the lava pools. He’d shoo them constantly in favor of gardening. 

When the first tree sprouted, he was infatuated. He couldn’t help but tell the other Susanoo all about the new life he’d created. This proof of concept encouraged other Susanoo to join him. Soon, more and more trees were growing all over the Land of Fire! Some of them grew to be larger than the Susanoo and with these trees, the Wood Golems were born.

At first, like the trees, there were very few Wood Golems. Forming from the tree bark, they developed quickly, absorbing life energy from the water and air around them.  One Wood Golem was friendlier than the rest. His name was Hashirama– a strong oaken behemoth with thick arms, and long vines that sprouted from his head. He fashioned himself armor from the wood he grew from in admiration of the Susanoo. He was Madara’s favorite. He took that mimicry as flattery and wholeheartedly accepted his creations.

  One day, Hashirama explained to him that Wood Golems had the ability to breathe in carbon dioxide and produce oxygen, something necessary to feed a Susanoo’s flame. Madara then showed Hashirama that he could summon rain to feed the Wood Golems by breathing fire into the clouds. This got Madara to believe that together the Susanoo and Wood Golems could thrive. Before long, the number of Wood Golems rivaled that of the Susanoo.

The continent however could only sustain one group of titans. Their growing population and their reliance on the earth caused resources to become scarce. The Wood Golems needed the earth for their trees so that they could procreate. The Susanoo needed the earth to feed their fires and so, they were at odds. Thus, began a long era of warring between the two groups.

For years, The Land of Fire was ravaged by their battles. The forests were burnt, and the waters became black– laden with ash. The culmination of all the fighting occurred at Titan’s Rest, although it had yet to earn that name then.

Hashirama and Madara were the last of their kind. Although neither one wished for conflict, both had suffered heavy losses and neither would back down. Madara leveled the forest for hundreds of kilometers with one swing of his sword. The remnants of the burning trees are what became Titan’s Rest, but what truly made the place iconic was how the two ended their conflict.

At the center of Titan’s Rest stand the remains of the two colossal beasts locked in combat. The Susanoo, Madara, no longer burns– his black craggy core, exposed by his own sword piercing his chest, suffocated by Hashirama’s wooden tendrils. In his efforts to stop Madara from destroying the lush world he and the other Susanoo had worked so hard to create, Hashirama disarmed his friend. He then plunged the sword deep into the Susanoo’s chest and gave up all of his breath. It was that expulsion of all the stored carbon dioxide in Hashirama’s body that not only stopped Madara, but it also stopped Hashirama dead in his tracks.

Their pain contorted expressions, fading rock, and withered wood serve as a reminder of a world that could never have been. A dichotomy that could never be overcome. They have stood this way ever since and that is the story of Titan’s Rest.

[xarrixii]

F/B Chapter_57 : "The Pretender"

CW: fighting, disorientation, detainment, blood/gore, guns, gunshots I hope the wait was worth it. 5.8k words

previous chapter | beginning | masterlist

/ / / / / | ---

“Decoy operation successful. A-dash-2 injury sustained. Monitoring.”

Alph breathed out a plume of white air through their black facemask. It was one of the first things Storm had handed them on the helicopter a few miles back, and fair enough. Northern Kampfdan was still extremely cold in late February. Inches of snow crunched beneath Alph’s bulky snow boots as they kept glancing cursorily at the dirt road they were following parallel.

They would get turned away immediately if they were caught on the road. Apparently it was monitored for activity.

Pokémon Go! was giving them a surprising number of Pokémon to catch out here. Alph was several miles from the natural dockline they’d departed from and maybe another half of a mile on top of that from the nearest city. They pushed away a notification about their data usage and stopped in the crack of a wildlife camera Storm had found the first time they scouted the place out.

They caught the Pokémon in range before moving on, stepping again in the thick layer of snow covering the ground despite all the damned trees.

“What the fuck was that?” the radio operator, nicknamed Fall, suddenly piped at the same time as a vehicle chugging along by, making Alph flinch and take a deep breath. They had to take a moment to look at the road before continuing to move.

“Some kind of explosion from out of a nearby building. Big chunk of debris, maybe, flew over to the penthouse.” That was one of the people on the decoy team. Alph as all for kidnapping corrupted wealthy fucks and had planned originally to join that team, but they’d been denied because there was a pool on the roof. The kind of logic that made sense but also sort of unravelled when you considered all of this snow.

Besides, Nacht had convinced them, you have a few skills that make the main side significantly easier to pull off.

So here they were, trekking tiredly through snow.

“Motherfucker!” the communicator from the decoy team said onto the main line after a while. “We might need to extract early. Some pyrokinetic just showed up⸺”

“Douse them,” Fall said.

The communicator Alph forgot the name of made some estranged noise of exasperation. “You think we didn’t just try that? There’s a big wall of fire here now and⸺” someone must have cut them off on their end. Some overheard chatter about a pool.

That piqued Alph’s interest enough to pretend to make a phone call on speaker with the phone in their hand and earbud connected to the radio feed.

“You put water on the fire and it didn’t back away?” Alph asked first. They had to take a bit to remember where they’d had that conversation with Liam. It had been after their exam, while they were holding Urban up. “You’re sure you’re dealing with a pyrokinetic and not just amateur arson?”

“Water would still make some of it go away if it was just arson,” he said back.

Hey. So. Urban, Liam had said in their head.

Alph had replied back with a simple What about him. Thinking about that rat-asshole still made their head hurt. Sometimes when he came to mind Alph wondered if he’d staged the kidnappers at the park to get on their good side. That just made them angry.

Yesterday night, it was raining. Has he always been able to summon? In the rain?

What the hell are you talking about? Alph had asked.

Even just manipulate?

Incredulously, You know how pyrokinesis works, right?

Liam had dropped it with a curt Nevermind.

Then life had gotten busy. They never got the chance to ask Urban about it. Urban probably would’ve told them something about it anyway. Manipulating fire and having it stay alive in the rain—that was major. More than manipulating it without seeing it. It was a defiance of a known mechanism.

Here it came up again, in the decoy mission where the only actual goal was to incapacitate one of Cinder’s primary operators as a distraction and a threat.

A threat that Storm could. And that Cinder deserved it.

Urban, Alph mouthed without really thinking about it. No one answered. There was mostly the background chatter and gunshots that came with radio silence and focusing on not getting hurt. Then, “SCATTER!”

A slam to the ground made Alph flinch at the same time Fall started talking. “What the fuck was that? Hello? Damien?” Fall paused. “Damien?”

Quietly, in the background, “Uh, this is Captain Michaels, prepare to copy⸺”

“Disconnect the decoy team from the radio,” Alph said. “Now.”

“Multiple suspects electrically sedated. Apprehending and leaving on elevator shortly. There’s a lot of fire, requesting Packard if possible. Downed suspects have some of those”—Michaels’ voice got a lot louder suddenly after a grunt—“earpiece radios. Volume was on high, probably for the gunshots. Something about this being a decoy. We may need to search the area and call for traffic stops. Over.”

“I’ve detached their line,” Fall said once the officer was done speaking. “I’ll have to move tracer sites after this. Al, you’re clear to keep on. I’m going to go unavailable, dispatch out a few people to recover our guys if we can.”

Cinder wouldn’t do that, Alph thought first. Then they thought of Urban, who was likely at the penthouse decoy. Please don’t let them leave you alone.

Electric sedation was the agreed term between departments for knocking someone unconscious with electrokinesis, meaning Captain Michaels was likely an electrokinetic, on a rooftop with⸺

“And, Al,” Fall started a little hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

“Remember to disconnect when you see the fence.”

Alph looked up from the phone in their hand. There was laughing off near the road—which meant an audio camera might be in range. Then the property’s fence line came into view, with a good distance before anything to be seen on the property after that. Chain link, barbed wire. “Alright, I see the fence. Gonna hang up so I can win that hundred dollars. Meet you at the airport later.”

Fall was clicking something in the background, but said nothing.

“This is literally the most meltable fence I’ve ever seen. They’ve only got people stationed along the road, I don’t know what you were seeing when you came up here but it sure as shit wasn’t advanced security.” Alph paused again. “No, dude, literally what are they going to do, put me on the road and tell me to walk back? I’ll still have gotten inside, gotten a Pokémon, and stolen your hundred. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

They pressed the hang up button on the radio line disguised as their phone contacts and pulled up one of their band rock playlists on shuffle immediately to “Burn It All!”

Alph made a dramatic effort of sloppily summoning an unsteady fire and manually huffing it out with their other hand along the fence line, as they had the first few times their mother had been teaching them. Pretended to get bored and hop on social media while waiting for the fence to melt. Another song passed entirely through by the time Alph had a big enough hole to step through without touching the fence and risking the fate of the PRIVATE PROPERTY: ELECTRIC FENCE sign that presumably repeated its text in Kampf.

They continued walking, phone-engrossed, in the ridiculously large and tree-thick windy property space until they heard more talking and stopped to look up from their scrolling of the radio transcript they couldn’t hear. Ducked behind a crate and opened their texts. Fall sent a message through.

hundred more if you can fidn whatever their hiding

Deal, Alph sent back and opened Pokémon Go!, catching a Pokémon they’d long been staring at on the map and clicking off the screen.

“Everlong” began playing while Alph was entering the warehouse and they began to quietly hum it aloud while passing through boxes and the wind chill that had rolled in for the past several minutes. They had to take the phone out of their pocket for the flashlight after finding a stairwell with a lowered lift they weren’t going to bother with.

Water was still melting off their soles by the time Alph got to the bottom of the stairwell and reached for the up button on the lift.

Someone shouted at them over the loud beep of the button getting pressed and Alph swiveled around to a gun barrel staring them down from a doorway fit for a bomb shelter.

“What?”

The person said it again. Alph looked at their sleeve, green in color.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Alph’s brain was going overtime thinking about marbles. Urban had said some old military guys around town had told him when he was trying to run around and earn any money he could get his hands on. Green marbles—lime. Those old marble race videos always had lime, and Alph always sunk into fake despair when they lost.

Cheap, untrained mental barrier. Marbles. Anything really.

“Uh, I don’t,” Alph sputtered, trying to communicate while thinking about something else entirely. Cinder green was telepathy. “I’m a—tourist. I, I don’t speak, uh, is it Kempflaggen⸺?”

“Shut up!” the telepath barked instead. Alph sheepishly laughed. “Get on your knees, damn it! Hands over your head! Slowly!”

Alph obliged semi-reluctantly, thinking about lime green marbles as much as they possibly could. Purple marbles? Urban had always changed his bet every time, fell into a nap, and awoke to find out the color he picked had gotten second or third place at the end.

They felt their hands get wrenched behind them as soon as they were on the ground, a set of gloved hands holding on tight and properly fitting a pair of binders over Alph’s as fast as they could. Alph felt their stomach instinctively drop with the weight of their arms drooping and someone yanking them back to their feet by the shoulders.

“You are trespassing inside of a private military base,” the telepath began before Alph could let out a purposefully dumb comment, shouting while half-rifling through the mess of empty thoughts Alph was filling their head with. “We are now entitled to enforce Kampfdan law as a registered private sector organized militant group. I am citing our ability to put you under lawful Kampfdan arrest by way of trespassing on our grounds. Refusal of compliance gives us the full rights to exercise up to lethal force as long as you are held on our property.”

“Where’s your passport?” the person holding Alph asked, hard and accented.

Alph ignored them. “You can’t kill me, I’m not a citizen. I’m traveling.”

“You’re in a secluded blacksite. You can disappear by the time anyone comes looking. Make good choices. Where is your passport?”

Alph bit down. “I didn’t bring it. My friend has it at our hotel. We were leaving this afternoon.”

The telepath’s eyes narrowed, rifle still pointed dead-center at Alph. If they really wanted to, they could probably try to hook the guy behind them and make sure they couldn’t be shot without risking the guy behind them being in the crossfire⸺

A pistol locked itself against the side of Alph’s head. One hand still on each shoulder.

Still heavily accented, “Identify yourself.”

“Ident—like, my name?”

The gun pressed in farther. Alph felt a faint breeze from the stairwell and a loud beep like when they’d pressed the up on the lift.

“Raiden,” Alph answered lamely.

“Like the video game boss?” the telepath scoffed. “Come on, kid,”

“Yeah, spelled like the original Transgressor comics, R-A-I⸺”

The pistol smacked against the side of Alph’s head hard enough to send them sprawling onto the floor and choking on a gasp on the way down. Throbbing flooded their head with a drawn out groan and the earbud cracked out of their ear onto the concrete.

A foot planted itself into their back as soon as their ears began ringing. Thoughts failed them.

“Don’t kill him yet,” one of them said, muffled by every other process Alph was trying to register. “We could get in trouble if his friend knows where he’s supposed to be and comes looking. Besides, he looks like the general.”

In, out. Give yourself a second.

“Telekinetic force hurts like a bitch, don’t it?” Alph heard the accent through the padding, could feel the person lean against them. “Be kind to yourself, now.”

Alph was forced up again and patted down for anything they were carrying. Pocket knife, phone—that they proceeded to make them unlock—wallet, and, much to both Cinder officers’ dismay, a passport.

“Lying little,” the telekinetic managed before saying something in a different language. “Ryder Leman, PY-C. Barely out of high school and you’re getting into trouble on another continent. Bet your mom would be real interested to get a phone call about where you’ve been.”

“She’s heard a lot,” Alph chuckled under their breath. “This would be far from the worst she’s gotten called about.”

They didn’t even need to make that up. Alph was the kid known for acting up until they hit eighth grade, when they figured out they could regularly hang out with Urban. Alph didn’t like to admit often that they spent a lot of their younger years specifically causing trouble against people they didn’t like so that their mother would come over. Otherwise she probably wouldn’t have been around at all.

The amount of times Alph had won my parent could beat up your parent on principle still made them smile just a little.

The telepath hummed. “We’re placing you in solitary until someone can come and pick you up. Your bail is reasonable to Kampfdan laws broken plus the cost of replacing the fence you’ve destroyed. Do not resist further.”

Alph could feel the telepath rummaging through their brain for more by the time they could sustainably think about random garbage again. When the two started dragging them through a maze of extremely ventilated hallways, they stayed completely quiet apart from subtle movements. It was always weird to know you were in the presence of telepathy but completely excluded. Denied access to an entire conversation.

Eventually, upon entering a cell commons devoid of actual prisoners, the telepath spoke up again. “Why are you here?”

“To win a bet,” Alph mumbled. “Friend said he’d give me a hundred bucks if I could get in and catch a Pokémon, then offered another hundred if I could get inside and snap a picture of something or, something. We figured you were just some local stuck-up rich people front. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What friend?”

“Ayf.” It was easy enough to just use the text logs Alph already had rather than fake a bunch of different ones for a while. If they really wanted to dig, they could find something incriminating, probably, but otherwise it was just memes and whatever else, plus the donated contact from Afyer just for the plan. “Saved as Afyer.”

The telekinetic shoved Alph a bit more forward across the empty cell commons. “That’s Afyer Octave?”

It was a habit Alph got early from their dad. They saved everyone in their contacts list as their full name and wouldn’t even change it until they had the person’s number memorized. Fingerprint unlock. It was in case Alph turned up somewhere and needed to be identified before getting their driver’s license. And also if they ever had to call anyone without their phone.

Or, more conveniently, situations like this where you wouldn’t want to explain where firework guy comes from. “Oc-tay-ve, yeah.”

The TK mumbled something under their breath and they all continued walking until finally the hallways broke into a lot smaller of a cell commons and the two Cinder agents shoved Alph inside one of the standard wall-locked cells. Metal encased in concrete was standard for most places that had to house kinetic prisoners.

“Alright,” the telepath, now holding all of Alph’s things, sighed when the telekinetic made their exit. “We’re taking and keeping your stuff until you’re picked up. And I’ve just received authorization from border control to perform an internal interrogation, probably so they can save money on interrogation bonus wages before your flight home. I’m starting with your phone contacts⸺”

“This is insane,” Alph complained as soon as they felt the telepathic probing come on harder. They’d have a massive headache later.

My apologies. On procedure, I am Theodore Nguyen, TE-C. Teddy does fine. That other officer just now was Issac Goodwin, TK-B. Except for appropriate law enforcement, the contents of this conversation are expected to be maintained in privacy. Is that clear?

There is no way this is legal, Alph said back.

I will now begin with your phone contacts. I expect honest answers to help prove your identity. Alph couldn’t gather if—he—said anything after because of the nausea-inducing slam that happened at the same time. Then he came back in, Who is Afyer Octave?

Like someone was kneading their brain. My friend. The one I made the bet with.

Alph waited for the reaction. Frankly most of the reaction they waited for was a bullet through their skull and an alarm going off. Nothing. Teddy scrolled down on the phone, slightly. A few names went by, like Alph’s dad and mom contacts renamed. It seemed the telepath Nacht nominated, Adiel if they remembered correctly, had managed to connect.

Harlow Collins.

Their thought processes flatlined, receiving a raised eyebrow from Teddy.

That name should’ve been way earlier in their contacts.

You almost seem mature, reading through these messages. All this talk about the weather.

We need to abort, Alph finished thinking by the time the binders on their hands and the wall had crumbled away from internal damage. Teddy went wide-eyed rather than weird-little-victory-smirk at the end and had delivered Alph a shot barely through the side of the abdomen by the time Alph tackled him and jammed their fist into his skull.

“Fuck,” Alph hissed out with their breath. They immediately put a hand over the hole and dug one-handed through Teddy’s pockets. Pocketed a pistol hidden in there on the way. It’d be easier on everyone else if Alph could figure out that weird knocking-people-out thing Urban could do.

Nothing. Alph got off the man and looked around the room. Also nothing.

Prepare something for me. I think I’d bleed out before walking all the way back.

Adiel gave them a curt mental laugh. You’re lucky I found you when you were walking, Alph. The only thing Cinder hasn’t smeared anti-kinetic is the open air and internal walls. I had to break a vent sheet open. I’d give us maybe three minutes before they figure out Theodore is unconscious. Her Yugenztch accent was still blatantly apparent when she spoke mentally. I’ll guide you to Raijin.

Alph snapped the fingers of their available hand together before remembering trying to cauterize themself wouldn’t work and they’d never burn any tissue.

If they don’t have anything to close the wound, make your own. Nacht is on his way; however, I can’t guarantee that will be on time. You need to get moving.

What’s taking him so damn long? Alph asked.

Adiel made a noise in Alph’s head akin to some level of muted frustration. The decoy complications. He was debating going and handling it himself, apparently something about a personal grudge to settle against that J.E. Rowan fellow.

You don’t need a personal grudge to hate that guy. Alph gathered their things and decided on just using pressure. They didn’t have time to make anything to dress the gunshot. Thankfully, Adiel kept her guiding instructions very clear even though she wasn’t specializing in telepathic communications like Liam did.

By the time Alph got through the several layers of alternating materials and a hydrokinetic operative on their phone with their feet kicked up on their desk to Raijin’s cell, they were feeling the general sensation associated with collapsing and screaming out for their dad.

“Listen,” Alph started slowly, breathing, before getting stopped.

“What, Cinder’s finally sending you in? Did you want to spar?” Raijin was lying on a cot in the corner, hands set in a generally thicker set of binders, snickering. “Tell you what, I’d kick your ass again.”

“You remember.”

Raijin snorted. Alph put a little more pressure on their gunshot.

“That stunt you pulled,” Raijin seethed, “someone isn’t going to make it out of this mess alive. Still unsure who between you and that other guy.”

Alph looked again at Raijin’s binders. On one hand, he could help in getting both of them out. On the other, he seemed to justify your murder with being nearby.

“We don’t have time for this,” Alph barely managed to say before they had to whirl to the door opening behind them and snap off several blooms of fire at an incoming assailant. It bought Alph enough time to get out the pistol they’d nabbed out of Teddy’s hidden holster and fire off a few rounds into the operative’s feet.

Alph glanced back to Raijin grinning wide. A breeze swept through the enclosed room.

Fuck. How long had that silent alarm been tripped for? Alph couldn’t even remember the last time there wasn’t some kind of faint wind outside despite all the trees in the way. Just how long had an aerokinetic been feeling for?

If that’s the case, you’re going to have trouble getting out of there. I’ll be here to help, but even with Raijin you might have to just hold it out until Nacht shows up. It’s you and him against the facility.

Alph made a disconcerted groan under their breath and concentrated on burning a fire inside of Raijin’s binders long enough for them to break like Alph had done with their own and the wall. “Come on. I said we don’t have time for this. Let’s go before we have to deal with more of that.”

“I can handle a few goons, whatever your name is.” Raijin flexed his hands, cringed a little, and cracked his knuckles before shaking them off and stretching.

“It’s Alph.”

“Yeah yeah—one question, before I go, that blonde guy that was fighting off me and that Liam asshole trying to get them to stop at the same time, that was my target, wasn’t it? He was, Urban?”

Alph scoffed. Then cringed at the responsive pain. “Of course Liam was trying to get him to stop fighting.”

Raijin gave Alph a curt salute before disappearing in a mess of static that made Alph gag and lean against the wall with their free hand.

Did he just leave? Alph lashed at Adiel.

Hesitation. He’s Nacht’s spoiled brat, but he’s one of the most effective people we have. Don’t worry. He can handle himself and it’ll probably distract most everyone off you. A short pause. I’ll come in to help.

Don’t, Alph seethed and put their back to the wall. God that bullet was starting to hurt. Stick to the plan. I can wait it out. How much longer until Nacht shows up?

Adiel was tuned out by the loud crash and massive spawn of fire that sucked itself back down the hallway after appearing out of nowhere.

“Raijin!”

Alph had definitely heard that voice before. From where?

“He’s gone. Evacuate this entire goddamn compound, now. Establish priority targets and hit the alarm.”

“Yes, General.”

A few seconds pass of silence where Alph presses down hard on the hole in their abdomen. Maybe a centimeter off and they would be pretty much dead to rights or completely unscathed. They were dizzy, could feel themself shaking as they leaned against the wall and swallowed.

“You can come out now, Raiden,” the one addressed as General demanded.

What the hell? Alph bit down. Who the fuck is that?

After a moment, Adiel came back in, That is Five.

Like, my uncle Five? That Five? The one that Afyer kept saying absorbs fire? Alph did not like that. They’d met Five once before. He’d insisted on watching Alph spar even though he made it very clear that he was completely blind. Then proceeded to make comments the entire way through. Alph still remembered him sitting in the chair on the side, one leg over the other with his guide dog at his feet.

Alph had asked Liam about it after and he’d said something along the lines of It’s like sound. You can hear that it’s there, but not necessarily see it. He senses the location of heat and uses it as a form of eyes.

So it’s a gut feeling? Alph had countered.

People who assume that in a fight usually end up dead.

“Make sure they’re not dead. Amaterasu⸺” The rest ended up scrambled in an instantaneous fit of nausea that caused Alph to actually wretch onto the floor and heave in an awkward crumpled position before someone came up and gently pulled them up by the arm.

Alph’s brain suddenly wouldn’t let them do anything. An entire conversation tuned out as they stared forward in a helpless lack of motion.

Someone’s in your head, Adiel said, Yugenztch accent especially thick. Give me a second. I have to sever the connection.

Alph clicked back into their bodily autonomy maybe a minute later, feeling pressure over their wound from something that wasn’t their hand sopped in a thick layer of crimson.

They were up and throwing their bloodied fist into the person closest to them at the same time said person was hitting back. Alph cringed at the pain in their side and the slam of their head getting knocked back and threw up a leg until they heard the short release of air that told them it had connected.

“They’re struggling!” what Alph could identify as a hydrokinetic from their blue sleeve shouted. “We’re gonna have to knock them out!”

Alph slammed down across the side of the hydrokinetic’s head at the same time they shoved Alph off and ended up missing. Alph groaned out from getting thrown onto their side and tried to snap up a fire to use.

The HY flicked open their flask and doused the flame before Alph could use it. Alph shot up from the floor as fast as they reasonably could and threw themself forward into the HY. They couldn’t get enough force into their hits to do anything useful and eventually the HY got a water-laced palm over Alph’s mouth and nose for a good thirty seconds. Alph kneed them off again and had to take several deep breaths with a hand near their throat.

Fire exploded out of their hand and made the HY yelp away their next attack, giving Alph an opening to hammer one into their head.

“Fu-uck!” the HY cried out with a whimper. “Jesus!”

Alph was pulled off and punched in the face before they could land another. Alph responded by punching the newcomer right back with a fist full of fire, sniffling up the wet mess spilling out from their nose.

They wiped the back of their hand over the area and swore silently when it returned covered in bright red.

Are you sure you don’t need me to come down there?

I’ll be fine, Alph groaned, then hissed at their side again, twisting around to jab the hydrokinetic that had gotten up. Alph elbowed the other person that had joined in, then made a strangled noise as they grabbed Alph’s hand and a pulse ran through their spine.

Yellow sleeve. EK. Alph covered their hand in fire and yanked free, starting to put feet to pavement instead of continuing the fight.

Maybe if Raijin had stayed, Alph snapped off to no one in particular, sighing and moaning out curse words at the growing pain spreading through their side.

They’d gained a significant amount of distance and even navigated back to the stairwell through the unlocked hallways of people packing whatever they could to get out of the place as fast as possible when it turned into individual little stabs all over the location of the wound and had to halt at the bottom of the stairs to ringing ears.

Keep moving, Adiel urged.

Alph mumbled their dissent but kept climbing. The lift rolled past full of boxes and other generally carryable items Alph couldn’t discern.

Static charge pricked Alph’s upper arm and started practically dragging them up the stairs faster than they’d been going.

“Come on. I thought you could handle yourself decently without me. You’re gonna get yourself killed and then I’ll get an earful.” Raijin took a moment to sling Alph over himself before practically hopping up the steps.

“You came back,” Alph heaved out.

“I was taking care of some Cinder guys and freeing everyone else sitting around here. That telepath Dad is always picking to run his missions told me to get my ass over here.” Raijin scoffed. “Also, I frankly don’t know which direction from the trees is something useful and she won’t tell me.”

Alph was just thankful for the speed.

When they got to the top, Raijin dumped Alph onto somebody else Alph recognized from somewhere and shook himself off before pushing something on top of the stairwell doors. Then the wave of fire rolled through that Alph had to clench their fist to barrier the two other people from.

“My condolences,” Five’s voice came through along with a breeze. “I didn’t realize I had to start a war today.”

Another wave of fire.

“Get him out,” Raijin said, disinterested. “I’ve got this old blind man.”

“Even I’m not dumb enough to tell you that you can fight Five, Raij,” the guy shot back. “Hey! Raijin⸺! Do you want to die?!”

Alph let out a brisk laugh and settled themself on their own feet. Then noticed the binders still around the guy’s hands. Also with a line of rubber. Alph snapped up a fire and put their hand on the cold metal to the guy’s clear dismay.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting these off. So you can help.”

“The heated metal would burn my skin.”

Alph made a face. “That’s why I’m concentrating the heat on the inside in an off and on pattern, and not letting it escape past a certain threshold. So it’ll crack off.”

“Who the hell taught you that?”

“Urban.” Alph kept it blunt. That was a memory Alph did look back on fondly.

“The D-class?”

It was that sentence that prompted Alph to look the guy in the face. They removed their hand from the binders immediately and threw a punch forward by instinct. This was a Cinder operative. Why they had the binders on, Alph couldn’t say, but this was definitely that asshole electrokinetic Urban fought every week or whatever.

“What the hell⸺”

But if he was here, what state would Urban be in?

Isn’t he at the decoy right now?

Yes. You’re at the warehouse with Raijin? Alph kept forgetting Adiel was monitoring their head.

Raijin is trying to fight Five, Alph told Adiel as a large crack whipped through and exploded in little sparks with a set of maniacal laughter. Raijin freed a Cinder operative and put me next to them. I’m dealing with it.

Freed?

“Are you insane?” the guy whined, clearly unprepared. “I’m Storm! I’ve always been Storm! Ow, shit.”

Alph threw up a shield from the next round of explosions that rippled through. “What?”

“How do you think we found out about that D-class pyro in the first place? A prophecy from God?” He huffed, disgruntled, and looked at the binders still on his hands. There was a red print from where Alph had put their bloodied hand on the metal.

Alph wiped the back of their hand across their nose again. Wet, red.

They squeezed their eyes shut and breathed. A stack of crates crashed and Alph opened their eyes to watch it fall and kick up a mess of dust. This was their mother’s fault. If she’d never gotten Urban involved, Alph would’ve eventually joined Storm and it would’ve been so easy.

Their head hurt.

“Raijin is about to get himself killed, alright?” the guy began hesitantly. “We need to get him and ourselves out of here before that happens or this’ll be a real big red mess when Nacht shows up.”

Alph finished breaking off the guy’s binders and tiredly looked forward. They just wanted to fall over, continue to sweat, and die. Jesus fuck it hurt.

There will be painkillers. I am coming over now.

Another crash. Yelping through pained laughter.

The guy bounced off, leaving Alph alone again to stumble awkwardly around away from the stairwell to lean against somewhere else. Another crash sounded along with plummeting crates and boxes and shouting.

Alph turned their head around the corner to see and yanked on Five’s fire. It tried to draw back like a magnet while they kept pulling from different directions. Blake, Raijin, whichever one of the two electrokinetics Alph was stuck with were taking advantage of the openings but not hard or fast enough to actually get through before Five overtook Alph in control.

Five darted around out of sight. Damn it.

Alph got up and started walking somewhere they would be able to see again when Adiel dropped down and forced Alph up onto her shoulders to walk out of the warehouse instead.

“Nacht and his backup crew are within my range. He says he wants you at the gate when he arrives. Where are your injuries?”

Alph knew not to try and fight her by now. “Hole, just barely not a graze. I think it missed most everything important.” Some weird strangled combination of noises escaped Alph’s throat after that. “Probably something to do with my nose. General bruises. I don’t know what Cinder did with the gunshot.”

Adiel hummed and she continued to walk Alph through the silent snowed-in yard. They didn’t make it to the gate by the time two black vans rolled in and jerked to a stop.

Nacht hopped out of the first one already barking out orders. Alph grinned and nodded at him, who saw the motion and nodded back, continued his direction, and cleared his throat while approaching. “Alph. A medic is prepared for you in the back van. Thank you, and I will see you later.”

“Kick Five’s ass for me,” Alph said while Adiel helped them walk by.

Nacht gave Alph a firm pat on the shoulder. “Adiel, I expect you to go on and make sure they’re home safe.”

“Yes, sir,” Adiel replied quietly as he continued walking and shouting at people. She didn’t put Alph down until that was on the stretcher in the van. She was immediately talking with the medic that hadn’t gotten off. Alph’s condition, Nacht’s orders, and then something else before it went black.

next chapter | masterlist

/ / / / / | --- missing a content warning? let me know

the "next chapter" was, in fact, significantly longer of some kind

bet you expected my daily ambiguous quote post, didn't you? :) someone remind me to add the "next chapter" link to chapter 56

taglist (ask to go on or off): @madeoforgansandtissues, @fins0up, @kadjakat

[herenortherenearnorfar]

I've been swishing around a set of little stories for over a year now. I hoped to get them out for February, but failed. Instead maybe I'll manage to put a few out for June? This first one goes out to @outofangband my fellow in Aerinism.

Flayed, Thuringwethil walks through woods that she once flittered above.

She is still a nightmare, her great teeth beneath her lipless mouth. But a bat cannot fly without leather stretched between its bones. A vampire caught between human and leech is just another monster; bereft of all mutability, all prismatic sheen.

No one has use for a messenger without disguise or flight. Reduced to a common haint, she feasts upon the elves of Nargothrond, then wanders north up the river to Dór-Lomin. Men are plentiful there, so easy to catch and kill and rend—she regains her vitality, which Lúthien plundered, feasting on Beleriand’s new blood.

She doesn’t bother to stop when the quisling men, who call themselves her master’s servants, come to power. They ought to be frightened of what dwells in the dark. They tell stories of a witch woman cursing them—she hears it when she lingers under their eaves—but attribute the ill fortune to elves. As if elves could hang entrails from a tree!

Thuringwethil hunts other creatures too, in the shadow and the dark. Wolves, orcs, bears. She tries them on for size like cloaks, but finds none fit her so well as her bat fell.

Years pass. Her stolen skins slough off her, she does not love any of them enough to bind them. Her bare flesh prickles in the cold. The sky is ash dark, sunless. Crops struggle to survive, trees go dormant. The world has been on fire for a very long time.

One day the fire blazes closer.

A great house, the greatest one these mortals have built, burns. There are no screams. No one comes to douse it. Thatch fires are not unheard of, even after rain, but these men have many thralls to stomp them out. The plume of smoke is growing to the point of no return, and still the air is silent—no cries of men, no baying of hounds, no horses screams.

Intrigued, Thuringwethil comes nearer.

Through the trees she peers, and sees no onlookers. The hill is empty.

She wears a mountain lion’s coat this month—frozen gore around the curling edges. Cats are always curious. Creeping from shadow to shadow, Morgoth’s dead messenger slips through the abandoned homestead, over the stone wall, past the empty stable. There are fresh tracks in the mud of many people fleeing.

Blood clamors from inside, an olfactory overture beckoning her closer. Though she fears the flames—she burns like everything does in this shackled realm of substances and static song—she can’t deny her hunger. The fire is mostly absorbed with the damp straw of the roof, the turf-covered walls of the longhouse have yet to catch.

Thuringwethil ducks into the shadowed door, letting her stalker’s eyes take in the scene. Smoke coils around her and slithers into her lungs. There are bodies scattered about the hall, lying sprawled over tables, draped like drunkards over benches. A few have swords in their hands. Some are already aflame, for though the ceiling has yet to cave in there are pools of flickering oil drizzled across the floor and seasoned wood piled at the corners of the hall. All the fragrant scents men burn to fend off their stench blend together, pine, cedar, cherry.

Someone started this fire, she realizes, leaping over hazards. What fool would deny the ruler of the world this measly corner? Who would court death to kill a dozen mortal servants?

Only someone already doomed to die. Interest bubbles in her gut. The timbers above her are creaking. She wastes no time on the dead men, their roast meat and thin blood. Further back, that’s where her instincts (and the smell of burning hair) tell her the prize lies. Past the high table and the dead men clustered around it—burly men with broad shoulders now seared, rich bellies being rendered down to dripping fat, beards fizzling to ashes—is a woven curtain dividing the public life from the private.

Thuringwethil pushes through it, ignoring the cinders now falling on her pilfered pelt. Amid the looms and low chairs there are no dead mortals, just a few slaughtered sheep. On the great bed to the left one torch is blazing; a person, laid down as if to sleep, burning alive in a pile of fabric and furs. It looks as if they gathered all the bedding in the house and made a cocoon.

Perhaps they meant it to smother but the layers of slow catching wool and sturdy hide have had the opposite effect. Nestled up in their deathbed, this daring murderer has yet to die. Oh, the smoke is starting to finish the job; they're too far gone to even cough. Yet a hidden fire, the first fire, still flickers in their chest.

Such a little body, even shrouded. Such a tenacious spirit. She has hunted elves and orcs and men, but she's never seen any of them build their own funeral pyre.

Darting fast, Thuringwethil pulls them out of the firetrap they made. Her paws scorch, fur incinerating instantly and stolen skin blistering. There's oil on the blankets and it fries her at a touch. Beneath, her raw flesh shudders--its been decades since she's tasted such heat. But she wants to save this mortal thing, if only so she can shake answers out of them.

It is the nature of this world they built that the creatures that kill, live. Flesh-giver, fruit-bringer; cousin Ivann would disagree. She likes to coddle her own creations. But Thuringwethil is the beasts that tear each other in madness, the rage-sickness that hides secretly in bat blood and runs amok in drooling dogs. She is the predator and the infection that sets in after the bite. Both animal and disease know nothing but survival. To self-destruct like this is insulting, especially from something capable of such slaughter.

These are the justifications she feeds herself as she drags the human, still burning in places, back, through the doorway and the long hall of dead men, through the choking smoke and falling embers. Ambient heat has finally started to dry the thatch and burn down through the turf. Soon the entire hall will be ablaze, and after that the outlying buildings. Other men from nearby settlements will swarm in, vultures to a fresh kill. They will find the cracked bones and red-hot blades and start to piece together a narrative.

The hounds and hunters will come soon after.

Quick though she is, she is much diminished in later days. She worries the man will be dead by the time she drags them outside. The fire in her arms never diminishes though, and so she keeps carrying them; down the hill, into the woods. Only when they're safe beneath the darkness of the pines, where meddling mortals do not dare wander, does she stop to put out the smoldering flames in her coat.

The high-king's eye will wander here in time, if it hasn't already. Thuringwethil does not intend to be caught interfering. There have been no orders since she was skinned--to the iron fortress the useless are as good as dead. In her convalescence she's enjoyed a degree of freedom not known since her earliest days, when this spinning globe was blue with new air and the only hunters were minute, flanged, ocean-things--brainless beautiful new predators working on a scale that now seems infinitesimal. She's not eager to return to duty; she gave up on revenge years ago.

Harboring a little mortal fugitive, if only for a moment, could ruin things. She needs a disguise, and she needs some way to stabilize the half-burnt, gasping thing at her feet.

(The woman's eyes have opened, lashless lids peeling apart to stare feverishly up at her. They're a blue that borders on black, like the water-pourer's northernmost seas. For a moment she thinks of that girl, the nightingale's daughter, snarling and grey on the riverbank, a wolfhound lunging for a wolf.)

Thuringwethil kneels and caresses the human's--her human's--crackling, blistered cheek. Her pulse is thundering under dead skin and despite everything she's still breathing, rasping, desperate breaths. How unfair of her to go and kill herself when she so clearly wants to live.

"You are brave," she hums. "Be brave a little longer for me. I do not have enough water to drown this sickness in."

Blood makes a much better tonic. Fortunately, Thuringwethil has been staking out a she-bear, a fighter who tore apart those orcs and more recent monstrosities audacious enough to come after her. This charred lion's hide will have to do for a little longer--the bearskin is needed more urgently elsewhere.

She strips the last of the woman's clothing, sensible long wools that shielded her chest and stomach from the worst of the fire, with her claws. Her arsonist's temperature is too high and the fiber will only encourage infection from here. Underneath is a soft-skinned body, hardly made for violence. Only a killer's eye can see the death kneaded into every spare ounce of fat. This is a time of starving, having calories to spare is a triumph that speaks for itself.

The bare body pressed up against her chest as she runs through the forest is giving and heavy, warmer than a fresh corpse. Did little Lúthien find her this tender, when she laid her down and stripped her cloak by force? Such thoughts can make even ancient ones go mad.

Instead she focuses on the path through the forest, following the scent of prey. 

Her sow is out hunting. Hibernation is a thing of the past now; no one has enough spare food to sleep away a winter. Instead they struggle, eat, survive.There have been no cubs for years now. This aging matriarch rules over a forest without children, the last born generation now starvling adolescents ekeing out survival and lashing out at anything else with a pulse. What a world the Elder King has wrought! The snake that eats its own tail draws closer and closer to glorious self-obliteration; this is death unchecked. It makes Thuringwethil’s heart race, for she is the last feeding frenzy before collapse. Some part of her, the bit made with foresight, wonders if a single cumulative orgy of violence ending in the destruction of all thinking life is actually as interesting as a prolonged experiment in existence. The other lordly ones were killjoys, yes, but they never actually stopped her or her kin from carving out their little niches of the Music.

Maybe that’s why she finds herself cradling a mortal martyr and slinking into a burnt forest glade where a grizzled bear is tearing into a wasted cervid corpse. The deer is an obscenity of sloughed flesh and grey gore. It died while it was still alive; this too is of Thuringwethil’s singing. She slings her gasping mortal over one shoulder and charges before the bear can turn. The first rule of fighting a predator is to attack first and attack hard. Stolen claws and teeth rake into scraggly fur and depleted fat—but that’s not the true attack. As her mouth latches over an open wound she sucks, draining blood and vitality from the beleaguered creature. It keeps fighting for several minutes, batting over its shoulders with massive knife-tipped paws, roaring plaintively. At one point it staggers towards a fir tree and Thuringwethil worries it will try to bash her off like a parasite. Being crushed between a bear and a hunk of half-dead wood would hardly hurt her… but it would spell the death of the woman still clutched against her side. 

Finally, blessedly, the old mother begins to topple. Missing her wings, Thuringwethil leaps back. Her cheeks are swollen with blood; she’s been trying not to swallow. If she’s to save her arsonist she’ll need all the flesh she can get. 

The woman is a breathing corpse, fur and dirt embedded in her sticky burnt flesh, her lungs rasping with smoke. That she still lives means she is unwilling to die. Of course, chutzpah can only drag these flesh-tethered children so far past the limits of their shells. Speed is key. 

Straddling the bear’s ribs, Thuringwethil cores it open, making a cavity, evicting unnecessary organs until there’s a human sized hole in its great mass. It’s gory work but no messier than little Lúthien was in her field dressing. If she could wear a stolen skin, why can’t another aftercomer? 

When she lifts up the charred mortal there’s a moment of fear. What pulse there was has vanished; the woman’s tired heart is still. But her blood is still warm, that much a vampire can tell. And even Thuringwethil, who is no expert on shades, knows the faint shuddering of a spirit not-yet fled. The hum of lingering is easy to detect when it’s pressed against her own heart. 

She buries the dead woman in bear meat, bear skin, tilts her chin up and fills her dry mouth with blood. 

Pinning a skin to someone else is different. What is instinct when dressing herself becomes fumbling when confronted with a stranger’s self. What these infants call magic is simply skillful working; but even the oldest craftsman can fumble in a new medium. Thuringwethil knits half-dead flesh to half-dead flesh, blood to blood, making a new thing out of two old ones. Like a cuckoo virule, inserting its own song and rewriting the music of its host, she undoes what this body was, turning it into a copy of herself instead. 

This is the secret to death–just like life it yearns for propagation. Thuringwethil, who is both at once, a permanent superstate, cannot be blamed for loneliness. Like every other predator she wants to make more of herself. Like all of her kin, she was conceived to reshape a corner of this faltering world in her image. When she smelled the oil and blood thick on her arsonist, she felt a pang of jealousy like nothing she’d ever known before. Next came a jolt of protective rage. 

How stupid to die for someone else’s story, even if the alternative is surviving in shadows! Don’t these mortals know how terrible it is to go scorched and skinless? 

The spell catches. She breathes out from lungs that aren’t really hers (matter is always a costume for creatures of her ilk) and sits back on the mouldering forest floor, amid the blood and gathering flies. She holds the edges of the chest wound closed and waits for the deathseeker to stumble back to life. It’s like watching mold grow across a piece of fruit. Coarse fur creeps over open injuries, the bubbling texture of a blister overtakes the raw red of exposed viscera. What was once a distinctly ursine skull distorts, muzzle shortening, skull rounding. 

Days pass in the woods. She wanders short distances, hunting the wild-eyed tree squirrels and a few ferrets the size of hunting dogs then returning quickly to her vigil. Thuringwethil hears some human ruckus far back where they came from but makes no particular note of it. The search parties that are sent out are brutish and oblivious, scraping past their little glen without incident. Why would they pause? To all mortal eyes this is a lion feasting on a dead bear; better to move along quickly and hope no other predators linger nearby.

On the third night after the fire a bear wakes up and takes a swing at her without rising from the ground. Having anticipated this outcome, if not the immediacy of the violence, Thuringwethil counters quickly. Were this fresh made creature at full strength she would not have been able to overpower her, for she has put her charge in the coat of a killer. Famine drained and newly returned from the precipice of death the bear bucks beneath her but cannot summon up the strength to throw her off. 

“Calm yourself,” Thuringwethil caws. It has been years since she’s had cause to speak with voice and tongue. They feel brittle like bad tin. “You still exist inside of there. Find the focus to return.”

Bloodshot brown eyes bore into her. They lay there on the rot covered duff for a long time, next to the maggot-ridden slime that has become of the deer carcass. It’s nearly dawn (not Thuringwethil’s favorite time of day, though she doesn’t shrink from it as she did in the years first following her skinning) when the first change comes. 

It starts with the paws pinned beneath hers. Fleshy pads melt into firm, calloused fingertips as her hands lengthen, dextrous thumbs stretching out, dactile. The bargelike body Thuringwethil is perched upon shudders into a still sturdy but decidedly human shape. Tall, as many noblewomen are, fuller figured than any mortal she’s feasted on in years. The worst of the burns have faded, leaving only a rippling pattern of blisters, like the sea at a distance. Down her bare torso is a fresh, gnarled pink scab. The edges where Thuringwethil held her skin together for hours, batting away every insect that came to lay eggs in her fragile flesh, are just barely holding together. 

“If this is what comes after death then I have been lied to all my life,” says the gasping, squirming, alive woman. She is just as marred as Thuringwethil was in the aftermath of heer despoilation. Yet she breathes in borrowed skin.

“This is not that place which waits for your kind beyond the walls of the world,” Thuringwethil promises her. Idly, she laces her fingers through the human’s, marvelling at how similar the phalanges are to wing bones. When little Lúthien had her pinned and screaming she did much the same, held her hand as she stripped the flesh from her bones with a song. “Tell me, lady, what is your name and why do you seek your end so dearly?”

A small pink tongue, still wet, somehow, with blood, smears across the woman’s lips. There’s a predator’s stillness to her, a stony look in her eyes. “I am called Aerin. As for death–well.” She laughs.  “What else is left to me?”

This is what Thuringwethil has been waiting for. “Oh, plenty. Come, let me show you.”

[embersoftheorder]

What do they commonly misinterpret because of their own upbringing / environment / biases? How do they respond when realizing the misunderstanding? (For Eld)

The trees broke away in a rush as Beldwin hurtled forth from the forestland, the wild horse beneath him snorting out plumes of hot breath. There was no saddle for the gift of this ride and as much as he appreciated it, his lower extremities were less than happy. Adjusting himself his gaze would shoot down below into the small and the growing chaos set into motion.

On one side were the banners of the House Waycrest and their Alliance allies, brown and blue streaming in the unending sea breeze that whipped through the northwest hills of Drustvar. Their armor should have shone brightly in afternoon twilight, but the growing clouds of an evening storm it seemed fitting to dull everything. The knight's heart ached as past dreams of riding and serving with such a host was all he had ever dreamed of. On the opposite side of them stood the ragged encampment of tents, wagons, and wolves. This was the part he never imagined as a small band of would be pilgrims rallied to stand against the wave of steel.

The pilgrims of course had never been green before.

Beldwin grimaced hard, his heart torn for what he was about to do. On one hand, the orcs had ransacked and ruined so much in his people's lives. The sacking of Stormwind, the death of King Llane, the subsequent wars for what felt like a hundred years now. They deserved their ire for so much wanton death and destruction planted by the seeds of fel prophets and greedy lords. They knew the territories. They knew the lines that could not be crossed. These were Kul Tiran lands meant for Kul Tiran citizens and now those of the reforged alliance with the isle. Invasion was the last thing the cursed country needed in the form of red banners with all the supernatural horrors that plagued it still.

The other hand now became clearer to him as he looked down on the motley gathering of defenders. There were maybe fifteen of them, dressed in the leather and furs of a more tribal fashion than he had seen before. The Horde had always had a savage nature about them considering where they came from and how they lived. But his own experiences had always been met with heavy steel, red banners, and howls for battle. These creatures appeared more akin to hunters, travelers of the wild who lived harder and with less but also with pride and satisfaction. They bore bows, spears, and the occasional axe judging by the way they pooled together to stand for the spot they had latched too. There was nothing else they could do.

They were doomed.

How much must the people of Azeroth lose to appease the memory of the Horde and it's past of conquest of ambitions? How long were they to hold onto the old prejudices? Why did he need to be angry?

The gallant of Drustvar frowned even more as his heart was torn by past and present. Fight the Horde, slay the invaders. Halt the Alliance, betray your people. Save the pilgrims, stop the madness.

Beldwin slowly closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, trying his best to feel the presence of his lord and lady as they charged him to this task. There would be consequences, hard ones, with true ramifications for his place in the high country and whatever thought he might of returning to an old life. But they knew his heart. That was why they trusted him and he trusted them.

With the warmth of the stag and doe in his heart, Beldwin Storm would open his eyes again and gently pat the neck of the horse. "I'm ready."

The Green Son rode hard into battle, bearing no arms and only his heart.

@themadamelioness

(I know you had requested it for Eld, but I haven't written anything for Beld in awhile and this idea of a Mag'har tribe coming to Drustvar has been in my mind for some time. So I'm sorry I didn't follow exact directions, but I wanted to try and explore this idea more.)