#⭒✧ — eyes of vicious crimson » countenance

[inarretable]

[snkbld]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ"All you can think about is anger, hatred and even revenge. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤAnd no one can save you."

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒. maru, frustrated from battle, comes home after a long day and takes out his pent up anger on you. — drabble

i.・✦. *. ⋆

╰﹕ maru's exasperation

﹕ The heavy door to Orochimaru's hideout swung open with a violent creak, revealing a darkened chamber illuminated only by dim torchlight.

As the door slammed against the stone wall, Maru emerges, his normally composed countenance contorted with rage. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows on his face, emphasizing the intensity of his wrath.

His sharp eyes narrowed into menacing slits, and his lips curled into a snarl as he glared at you.

The air crackled with tension, and the serpent-themed motifs in the hideout seemed to writhe with a vicious energy, echoing his fury. “Get up.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his tongue dripping with saliva.

"Yes sir." you mumble under your breath as you follow his command. Maru's breath hitched, and his eyes narrowed at your submissiveness. But he makes no further response, just turning and striding to the opposite side of the chamber, where he stands brooding by one of the torches.

You can hear him taking deep, measured breaths as he tries to contain his anger. After a few moments, he finally speaks again, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you know what pisses me off the most?" You tilt your head questioningly.

He took a deep breath to settle his rage as he watched you approach. "Being underestimated." Orochimaru replies sharply, glaring at you from under his brow.

"People think they can do whatever they want with me, and get away with it. They think they can mess with my plans, try to control me, or push me around, and that I'll just sit there and take it. But they're wrong. I'm the one in charge here. I'm the one who makes the decisions." Maru's hand clenches into a fist as he says this, and you can feel the barely contained rage radiating from him.

As he stood before you, his height and imposing frame made you feel small. He regarded you with a mixture of coldness and intensity as his gaze travelled over your body.

There was something else beneath the surface, a deep sense of desire, a primal instinct to possess and dominate. Without notice, a slap stings your cheek, marking it with a sudden crimson welt. A wave of shock rips through you, and your heart races in surprise and confusion.

Orochimaru's gaze is cold and uncaring, devoid of guilt or remorse as he stares at you sternly, waiting for your reaction.

"Look at me." He orders you, voice sharp with anger as he grabs your face and turns it to face him. His fingers leave bruises on your cheeks where he grabs firmly, squeezing your face and leaving red streaks where his nails dig in.

Another slap comes, this one even harder than before, and you can feel the sharp sting of pain as your skin is marked once again. Tears fill your eyes, and your head spins as you struggle not to break down from the pain and humiliation. After a moment, Orochimaru lets go of your face, and you wince and turn away, face glowing pink from the swelling and mark.

Though the sting is still fresh on your face, a thrill runs through you as rage and fear mix with excitement at the thought of what will come next. This isn't the first time Orochimaru has treated you this way, and the intensity of his touch, the suddenness of his anger... it all makes you weak. Your heart is pounding, and your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your mind is on fire, and your body is tingling with anticipation.

His breath quickens, and you can tell with each passing minute, his anger is only growing stronger as he watches you quiver and wait for more. The urge to feel him touch you again grows more and more intense, and the thought of him using your body for his pleasure sends an electric jolt through you.

His hand slides down to your shoulder, slowly working its way down your neck and arms, then further along your waist. His other hand is working with equal deliberation, unbuttoning and undoing your clothes with care and methodical efficiency.

His hands move quickly and surely, stripping you of your clothes until you're completely naked without a moment wasted. Once your clothes are off, he steps back, taking in your slender body with a look of satisfaction, pleasure and delight.

You stand there, naked and exposed before him, unable to move, unable to even speak as your breath catches in your throat and your cheeks burn red from the heat of his gaze.

You feel vulnerable and foolish, but at the same time, a surge of adrenaline floods through you, heightening every sensation. There's a strange mixture of pleasure and fear, and your entire body seems to tremble with anticipation. You're torn between wanting to run and to stand there, completely at his mercy.

Maru seems to appreciate your reaction, and a cruel smile spreads over his lips as he takes in every inch of you, running his eyes over every curve, every inch of bare skin.

He takes a step closer to you once more, his breath hot and heavy on your neck, and you can feel the tension build and his desire grow as he draws near.

"You're mine," he growls, his voice low and hungry. As his hands roam over your body, you can feel the heat of his desire building and building, until it seems like it must explode.

As his body is pressed up against yours, you slightly grind yourself against his bulge. This act of slight defiance it only riles Maru up more.

He wraps his rigid hands around your throat, his nails piercing the back of your neck. He squeezes, forcing you to grasp for air as your hips buck. “Stupid mutt. What do you think you’re doing.”

Your lips curl into a bratty grin. “Use.. me..” you plead in between gasps.

His eyes flicker at your words. Almost immediately, he moves his other hand down to your cunt and teases you. “Is this what you want?” Inserting a finger, and then another, curling his fingers to feel your g-spot. “You’re filthy.” he scoffed.

Your moans filled the chamber as he takes advantage of your body. Pathetically enough, Maru merely fingering your cunnie is overwhelming for you. Watching you react to his harsh movements really gets him off.

He thrusts his fingers into you roughly. You moan as your back arches at his movements, hitting the wall of the cave.

Maru’s eyes narrow, his brows furrowing in concentration. He inserts a third finger, thrusting harder this time, stretching you wider. Your back arches, a mixture of pleasure and pain washes over you as you near your edge.

Noticing this, he pulls out of you quickly. “Not yet.” He hisses.

⤏ table of contents

[velniiias]

“DRINK!” (nothing ship related!! Just curious about such a verse!)

╳ ┆ ░L░E░T░T░E░R░ — ❞ ( OMINASAPPHIRUS )

send “DRINK!” for a vampire version of my muse to drink blood from yours!

Façade relinquished when his genuine vampiric persona unraveled promptly behind those close doors . Now that they are both alone in the tranquil & unlit dominion that belonged to the aristocrat , a notion befell him , to tease his food perhaps a tad . A warm up outlined for the small frame that soon to be his meal in order to incur an adrenaline rush to course through his elfin body where blood would taste at its finest . Just like a predator would prepare their prey before sinking their fangs into their bod . How foolish @ominasapphirus had been to blindly accept his overture , but there is no escaping now . Fangs made discernible as incessant of bloodlust deluged his exact accursed existence . Diabolical smirtle waltzed past his lips so cunningly , obsidian gloved hand raised to run his digits through his silky sleek pitch - black hair . Crimson orbs fastened its gaze unto the azure eyes with a potent thirst . Unhurriedly , he carved his treads towards the young male . ❝   —  Now then , which part of your body should I sink my fangs into ? ❞ He jested . Aha ! He halted in the middle , an amiable gesture raised albeit laced with malevolent & frisky intent . ❝   —  I will allow you to choose ! ❞ The vicious crooked movement of his lips enlightened his countenance . Before an answer was reciprocated , swiftly he fastened the proximity between them . Fangs buried thoroughly into the child ’ s flesh without a warning .

[the-wolf-who-kissed-the-moon]

• Lady Dimitrescu x female reader 💋

• Warnings ⚠️ : graphic depictions of violence, gore, blood, very strong horror elements, Stockholm Syndrome, mental anguish, character death.

glass angel, part XV.

Smoke took the shape of vile specters as it floated around your groggy head. Through its gray veil, brilliant yellow eyes peered at you with inhuman hunger whilst large drops of murky blood oozed from grinning mouths. Dark, tar-like lips would lean close, murmuring bone-chilling threats which you never truly deciphered. Your body felt sedated, heavy like lead, your voice muted as if you were trapped in a lucid nightmare.

To your distress, this wasn’t a dream.

Satin fingers caressed your navel lovingly, instantly drawing your attention to the woman of your heart's desire. Her features were so alluring in their wickedness, you’d fall for her again, had it not been for the palpable fear making your teeth chatter. You pushed your knees closed defiantly, struggling to free your arms from the daughters’ ruthless grips. Behind you, their sickening breaths of joy were like violent daggers, stabbing the back of your head, deafening and painful. You’ve heard those shrills late at night, in your dreams, even in the brightest hours of the day –

Play with us,

Come out, come out!

You managed to run and slip through their murderous fingers, only to end up caught in the web of their equally devilish mother.

“.. wh… why?...why-"

A quiet sob left you. Anguished tears threatened to spill from the corners of your eyes as you watched the graceful matriarch. Your heart shattered at the realization that she was the monster slithering behind the walls in the dark, moving beneath the bedsheets and stalking you from every haunted corner. She was the embodiment of your night terrors, and so very cruel for playing the part of a caring, gentle woman by day.

Alcina’s perfect countenance was void of emotion as she, almost tenderly, caressed the soft dips and curves of your chest. Her touch was agonizing as it neared your heart, strange and unfamiliar against your feverish skin. You could’ve sworn you caught a glimpse of regret in her beautiful eyes when she met your terrified look. The lady of the castle was a true enigma, one which you’ve never had the chance to unravel. Her cigarette died with a final inhale, and through the thick cloud of nicotine, her bewitching gaze flickered with carnivorous lust.

A smaller, vicious hand smacked over your lips, holding your head down when you begun to shake violently. Your throat swelled with involuntary screams as your legs were forced apart and pinned to the torture table, powerless. You tried to bite into the palm that muffled your panicked cries, yet your mouth filled with large, crawling bugs. Appalled, you struggled to spit the insects out and soothe your air-deprived lungs. A heavy taste of rot and blood melted the sweetness of your mouth, leaving you to choke on a deep feeling of disgust. Heavy swarms of buzzing flies suddenly flooded the ceiling, taking the lights out and throwing you in an endless pit of despair.

I don’t want to die… I don’t want to die…

You clenched your teeth painfully tight, convinced you’d drown either in foul water or those dreadful roaches. Large palms cupped the gentle curves of your nude body, a feeling that once made you arch in willing surrender. Now, the blinding thought of death occupied every corner of your mind, making you wail like a slaughtered lamb.

Massive jaws tore into your limbs deeply, canines scraping bone as they split your flesh apart. Blood flowed abundantly from the gaping wound, into the feral mouth latched onto your inner thigh. Small, crimson rivulets pooled beneath you on the table as Lady Dimitrescu suckled your raw flesh with greedy hunger, familiar tongue lapping at the gash almost sensually. The sound of warm meat crushing between teeth filled your throat with bitterness, bile ready to spill.

Delirious, you begun replaying moments of your life when you were happy, safe in the company of loved ones who would never do you harm – your life flashing before your eyes.

Somehow, in the midst of your horrid torture, bolts of euphoria rushed through your broken limbs, akin to the ones you’ve felt when your lady’s masterful tongue pleasured you. Was this your brain's laughable attempt to bring comfort in those harrowing moments? Alcina leered with unsated appetite whilst thick blood overflowed her flawless chin, pooling in between her large breasts.

The velvety feel of her smooth tongue was excruciating, blinding you with ripples of debilitating pain, only to forcefully draw sensual pleasure out of you the next moment. You suddenly climaxed, yet the orgasmic bliss was barely able to compensate for the agony of being eaten alive.

It was a never-ending dance of extremities which blurred the lines between good and evil, reality and dream. You floated in and out of consciousness as life was stolen from you, drained through vampiric indentations drilled into your still-living flesh. At times, you’d see swarms of darkness clouding the pristine ceiling and you were sure the daughters were feeding on you as well. But you soon realized they were only there to aid their mother in whatever unholy ritual she was subjecting you to. Scarlet lips savored your skin with sensual kisses, smearing your life essence from the throbbing injuries on your thighs to the vulnerable warmth in between. You fearfully anticipated another agonizing bite, yet it never came. Instead, pleasure pooled hotly in your core as she painted your flower red, brining you yet again to the heights of forbidden ecstasy.

“A Phoenix needs to be consumed by flames in order to be born anew.”

Alcina murmured sweetly, resting her large palm at the base of your throat, gentle thumb stroking your weak pulse. You wished you could’ve hated her for what she was doing, for what she’d done, yet only naive adoration filled your chest at the sight of her dazzling eyes. She pulled away from your burning flesh, swallowing deeply. Even freed, your limbs were useless as you watched her with unfocused, half-lidded eyes. Your senses were shutting down rapidly from the copious amount of blood loss, each strangled breath threatening to be your last.

The madam stood to her magnificent height, towering over you as she paced about the room and observed you closely. At times you swore you saw a concerned frown darkening her flawless features, and then she’d smile mischievously while threading long fingers through your hair, touching your cold forehead. When the door opened and her perfume dissipated, you finally let your heavy lids fall close.

Her daughters gathered around you in her absence, eager to lap each precious trace of blood off your weak body. Their mouths were large, grotesque slugs, their fingers crawling insect legs, picking at your tender wounds. Feeling awful, you groaned and shifted with the last bits of strength you could muster. A sudden weight crushed your chest, making you heave as if you were about to vomit all the pain, the distress, the horror of being there.

Grisly faces loomed over you whilst you were carefully laid upon the floor on a single white bedsheet. Then, in the blink of an eye, the three macabre figures exploded into restless insects, taking away the chamber's light. In the overwhelming gloom, you heard the sound of your own sternum breaking, bone shards making a home into your dry flesh. Strangely, you didn’t feel a thing, as if you were naught but a corpse on the autopsy table, your soul damned to linger in its decaying shell. Something moved within you, slithering between your ribs and feeding on your heart, your lungs.

Dim candles came to life, revealing the charming image of Lady Dimitrescu kneeling over you, as beautiful as the moment you first saw her. She took your lips in a sensual kiss, and with it, your last breath.

-          To be continued...

*part XVI.

[savagesbonergarage]

The Beginning

Maul x reader x Savage

Prompt: "Howdy, it's the anon who requested the Exploring headcanons. May I request a short fic explaining how reader met the boys?"

(a/n: Based on these headcanons. I hope this isn't too long! I tend to get carried away with these really easy so I'm sorry if it's not short enough 😅 I enjoyed this one! I hope you like it! And sorry for the delay! Warnings: none, I think? Maybe slight harassment, idk.)

Secondhand smoke wafted through the dank air of the cantina while the music blared and cups clanked, though there was no particular reason for celebration other than having survived the previous job to work again another day. The local bounty hunters were hogging the transmitters as per usual, all of them extra rowdy and extra desperate for a job that paid enough credits; not that you weren't in the same boat.

Although bounty hunting wasn't your forté, being the navigator for those who did prefer to do the dirty work simply wasn't cutting it lately. More often than not, your piloting skills were robbed by getting these drunk idiots somewhere safe on a particularly bad night. It was your own fault for being foolish enough to do it - but then again, you always were a diplomat at heart. No one else was looking after these nobodies, and truth be told you'd grown fond of their antics. Their constant alcohol-fueled advancements, not so much.

"Baby, you're so *hic* good to me," a drunken weequay slurred as he tugged on your arm, "you gotta let me kiss ya, ya know, ta say thanks."

"You smell like a hutt's refresher, Chev." Your retort didn't seem to phase him, no matter how hard you rolled your eyes. In fact, it only seemed to encourage him.

"A Hutt! Am I a powerful Hutt, like *hic* Jabba? Will you do a little dance for me, baby?"

His reply earned some muffled laughs from many of the men that were listening in, the newbies among them intrigued to see what kind of woman you were, and the regulars in anticipation for what was to come. You even caught a glimpse of Asajj's temporary gaze from her seat in front of you as she seemed ready to lend a hand, knowing that no one with any sense would dare to mess with her. You shot a reassuring look her way, your smirk enlightening her to your intentions as you removed the weequay's grip.

"Tell you what, Chev," you began, a light of hope going off in his face, "If you can steadily walk three whole laps around the bar, I'll do it."

He practically lept out of his skin, spilling his drink all over Embo's anooba which elicited a barrage of vicious growls from the creature, though it's owner held it back.

"Really? You'll *hic* dance for me?!"

You leaned in closer, feigning a silkiness in your voice.

"I'll do more than that."

Chev darted back up onto his feet with all the determination and resolve in the galaxy and fixed his wonky hat.

"I won't disappoint you, m'lady!"

He didn't make it seven steps in before he tripped over his own boot and crashed into the ground. You almost felt bad for leading him on like that, but it was for his own good. One of his buddies bent over to check on him and confirmed that he was down for the count, but okay. Endo mumbled something in his native language about how Chev was as sloppy with his drink as he was with his kills and that if it weren't for you doting on the more pathetic hunters in the area, there would be more jobs to go around. You reminded him of the times you had to rescue his own ass, and he kept quiet.

Still, you couldn't help but ponder the truth of his words. This profession wasn't for people like you, especially not in the service of bounty hunters and the like. Your heart was a little too big for the world of dubious credit-earning, and sympathy wasn't going to keep your ship running.

Your train of thought was broken by the sudden exciting activity surrounding the main transmitter.

"Whoa! A million credits?! Who is this Savage Opress?"

Asajj wasted no time in taking the target for herself, and no one objected. You did manage to get a glimpse of the man the well-paying bounty listed, however - a black and gold-skinned zabrak, with a countenance full of hate and the eyes of a predator. You were intrigued to say the least, and curious as to what kind of wrongdoings occurred to have that large of a bounty placed on his head. There was a pull that tugged at your chest the longer you stared at the holoprojection, as though the force itself were trying to tell you something. You weren't even sure if you believed in the force, but whatever this feeling was, it gradually became overwhelming. The moment Asajj left the vicinity you rose from your seat, determined to find the answers you sought.

*

I might actually be losing my mind this time, you thought as you sat in the cockpit of your ship, watching earnestly as Asajj's ship disappeared from view into the atmosphere. You had strategically placed an untraceable tracker beneath it before she flew off and it seemed to remain undetected the longer you waited, forcing you to commit to your actions. You didn't even know what you were trying to do exactly - steal the bounty from her? Simply follow her to the destination and wait for another sign?

A sigh escaped your lips as the tracker revealed her ships course on your display screen, the far planet of Raydonia coming into view. To head out that far into the galaxy after an infamous bounty hunter chasing a mysterious and likely dangerous bounty was nothing short of insane, and yet you guided your ship into space anyway. You wondered if you would ever spend a night in that cantina again.

You carefully navigated into the belsmuth sector without detection, making sure to maintain plenty of distance between you and Ventress' transport. By the time the lush planet of Raydonia came into view, she had already made contact with the planets surface a few minutes beforehand. You debated on whether or not you should also land your craft, or remain off-world until you had a better idea of what you were even out there for. Settling for the latter, you shifted power to your ships cloaking device and waited. Whether you liked it or not, that overwhelming feeling was telling you that whatever you were seeking would be coming to you - and no, you didn't particularly like it.

I should turn back. I have no desire to cash in on this job, assuming I would even succeed at it. There is... darkness. Maliciousness.

You swallowed as you watched a large vessel that appeared to be a turtle tanker exit Raydonia's atmosphere and a sharp jolt plunged into your chest. It was there, whatever it was. Something sinister. Your survival instincts begged you to flee, to live to work another day and avoid the sure danger that was aboard that freighter, and yet...

The cockpit of the tanker was ejected from the main vessel into space, and you sensed that Asajj wasn't successful in collecting the bounty. Was it your turn? Were you actually going to risk your life for such a dangerous job that you had no chance in hell of surviving? Your nails dug so hard into your arms that painful little half-moons littered your skin and your teeth clenched in frustration. Did you want to die?

Why am I attracted to this darkness? This evil? Why am I here? Maybe it will kill me, but...I have to know.

Your hands seized your ships controls and you pushed forward to the freighter, unsure of what to expect, and even more unsure of what the maelstrom in your heart was made up of. Your little vessel was small enough to dock against the side of the turtle tanker, latching on without a hitch. Any sensible person would absolutely not have done that, let alone shut off all power depriving yourself of any defenses or means of escape. Hell, maybe you did want to die.

Suddenly, you felt it. They sensed you the moment your transport connected to theirs.

There's more than one?

A burning crimson saber penetrated through the durasteel frame, sending sparking embers of warning your way as you left your seat and stood exactly in harm's way with your hands behind your back. The blade was making quick work of the metal, nearly completing a makeshift doorway into the unknown, however you remained unafraid. Against all odds, fear wasn't holding you back; not even after the giant durasteel puck came crashing down to reveal what you had apparently come all this way to find.

The wielder of the saber was none other than the large black and gold zabrak you had glimpsed back at the cantina and beside him was another of his kind, only with vermilion skin that ended at his torso, with strong metal droid-like appendages serving as his legs. They were a sight to behold, fearsome and clearly dangerous, and that darkness...

You didn't have much time to think before the larger of the two zabraks threw you over his shoulder and brought you into the freighter's cargo hold, then threw you down against a pile of shipping containers. You winced in pain yet remained fairly calm, even with the tip of the vicious giant's saber at your neck. His gaze met yours, those luminous golden orbs filled with the beastial rage and hate that served as any predators message to their prey before they were killed. Strangely, it fascinated you. If what was in your heart was reflected in your own eyes, there was no acknowledgment of it in his.

"Savage, who is this?"

Your attention moved to the crimson zabrak at the sound of his surprisingly sultry voice as he moved closer, though it was laced with the intentions of a killer. The darkness enveloped him like a veil of blackness, as though he had been molded by it. For all you knew, maybe he had been. These men likely weren't going to let you leave this vessel alive. The man called Savage uttered a resounding growl, once again making you aware of the deadly weapon at your throat.

"I don't know, brother."

He dug his strong hand into your shoulder and pulled you closer to the hot blade, your skin burning in anticipation.

"Why are you here?"

Your voice was firm, but quiet.

"I wish I knew."

Your answer wasn't satisfactory enough, and Savage grabbed you by the throat and pressed you down onto the hard surface of a container. It was painful and you struggled to breathe, but you didn't lash around or try to pull his hand away when you wrapped your own around his massive wrist. His brother now stood to your side, his countenance displaying curiosity and interest more than anything.

"It seems she's being complacent, Savage. Allow her to speak freely."

He reluctantly released you from his grip, allowing you to slide your back against the cold container as you held and cleared your throat. His saber was still ignited and they both remained menacingly close, not that you were foolish enough to try anything. The red zabrak spoke again, this time asserting his dominance by handling the interrogation.

"How did you find us?"

You felt compelled to relay everything truthfully and without compromise, so you did exactly that.

"I tracked Ventress here. In all honesty, I have no idea what I sought or for what reasons, but I knew she would lead me to it."

Savage growled once more, pointing his saber in your direction.

"Are you a bounty hunter?"

"Only when necessary."

"Did you come here to collect?"

"I considered it. I knew I wouldn't be able to, nor did I think it would be wise to try."

"And yet here you are," Savage's brother interjected, a small smirk tugging at his lips, "Tell me, do you have any idea what we are?"

You analyzed them closely, the pull of the force fueling your answer.

"You're Sith."

He now smiled fully.

"Very observant. I sense that the force is present in you, little one. I assume you have no allegiance?"

You wanted to deny his claim, but deep down you knew he was right. How else would you have gotten yourself in this situation? Furthermore, you suspected if you weren't force-sensitive, you would have died a long time ago.

"Not particularly."

You sensed Savage's frustration before he spoke.

"Brother, we don't have time for this. We need to focus on our mission, not toy around with this girl. Let's dispose of her."

His words were unsettling, yet you still didn't feel afraid. You wondered if you did come here to die after all. His brother must have sensed this among your other winding thoughts, as he knelt down to be closer to you.

"Do you not fear death? Do you not fear us?"

Again, you answered honestly.

"I suppose I should, but no. I don't. I'm not sure why. You're powerful and strong and I sense the atrocities you've committed, but I don't fear it."

"If not fear or anything similar, what is it that you feel?"

You swallowed, part of you wanting to be ashamed, the other longing to admit your truth freely.

"I suppose if anything, I feel...admiration. Perhaps a longing to contribute to whatever cause ignites such passion. I have no desire for power necessarily, but I have a desire to-"

"-to serve?"

You felt so exposed at the realization of your own needs, especially under the watchful eyes of the two Sith Lords that invaded your space. You particularly didn't want to admit to something as submissive as servitude, yet there was no use in denying it. Your face flushed a little before your tone regained it's firmness.

"Kill me if you like. Whether or not I live or die, I won't be leaving this ship. If you do decide to end me, will you give me the satisfaction of knowing your goals beforehand? I want to know what marks the sith intend to make on the galaxy."

The red zabrak nearly chuckled, cupping your chin in his fingers.

"What is your name, little one?"

You relayed it to him, part of you melting after hearing it echo from his lips with that voice of his. He proceeded with his own introduction.

"I am Maul. I was apprentice to the most powerful being in the galaxy once, but a Jedi took all that away from me and more. I suffered for more than a decade with my injured body and mind, until Savage discovered me and I was restored. I have sworn revenge against that very same Jedi who has only just escaped here, and now it is certain that every Jedi will be seeking us."

Revenge, huh? Yeah, that checks out.

Savage was still anxious to get this over with. You pondered Maul's words, your foolish heart finding any sympathy for the Jedi lacking. It already had been ever since the start of the clone war, however that pull once again drew your emotions in favor of the sith. You voiced your suggestions genuinely.

"If that's true, you'll need an army. Experience has shown me that if you have enough credits, bounty hunters will be loyal to anyone. There's no shortage of them among the pirates on Florrum. As for credits, the Meridian sector isn't far from here. I don't think there would be much stopping you from acquiring all that you would need."

Maul smiled. He rose up and offered his hand to you, the heat of his skin unexpected after you took it and got back onto your feet.

"It is the will of the Force. Savage, I believe we have our first recruit."

*

From that moment on, you became the beacon that guided the zabrak brothers across the galaxy. Your navigation and negotiation skills proved more useful than they ever could have imagined. Eventually they grew just as fond of you as you were of them, your relationships nearly bordering on casual romance at times; and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[langdxn]

infamy | outpost!michael x witch!reader

SUMMARY: It’s Michael’s birthday and you have a surprise for him. He has one of his own.

WARNINGS: Smut, fluff, breeding kink, daddy!Michael, vaginal sex, choking, sneaky Xavier reference, cockblocking David Bowie.

WORD COUNT: 2.3k (I am so sorry, I’m new to this smut thing)

You knocked gingerly on the colossal wooden door to Michael’s office, your heart catching in your throat with trepidation. Your previous attempts to dissuade Michael from his work were never 100% successful, it was a risky game that could end in either your clothes in tatters hanging from the ceiling or a terrifying threat to incinerate you and your soul.

You nervously fiddled with the hem of your mini dress, a skintight black velvet number reserved specifically for special occasions when Ms Venable’s purple regalia was not enforced.

As his incessant typing ceased abruptly, the door creaked open by itself. Your eyes lay upon Michael sat forward in his desk chair, his hands studiously clasped over his laptop which swiftly closed the second the door opened.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He grinned as your silhouette emerged lit by the roaring fire in his office furnace.

“It’s your birthday, Mr Langdon.” You sashayed agonisingly slowly toward his desk, making sure your stilettos made a satisfying clink with every choreographed step on the polished floorboards. Supermodels walk with less sass, you thought to yourself, but this wasn’t the time for half measures.

“You remembered, my little witch,” he beamed his signature sinister grin across a corner of his lips, touched by the fact that your stay in the Outpost hadn’t robbed you of your sense of time. His oceanic eyes pierced through yours as you perched on the edge of his desk beside him,

As he prepared to lift himself from his seat to join you, you placed your hands atop his. Instead, he reached out to touch your leg where your suspender stockings met your bare skin, but you swatted him away again.

“Not so fast, sir.”

With a blink of your eye, his laptop bellowed a familiar tune. You’d heard Michael playing David Bowie’s Fame in his office weeks ago, dismissing it at the time as an accidental email popup but the mental images of him strutting around his quarters was too good to pass up.

Despite flinching at the sound, Michael’s smile eked across his countenance as he recognised it, even further when he clocked the tone you were setting with the song choice. The groove made you involuntarily roll your hips towards Michael, seductively sliding across the table edge to line yourself up with Michael.

Looking you up and down, concentrating on the height of your skirt, his eyes coursed their way up to meet yours, burning with desire and equal resentment at not being allowed the freedom to touch you.

Fame, makes a man take things over…

Hitching your dress up to reveal a glimpse of your blood red lace panties, Michael’s pupils burst as he realised they were the same panties he gifted you on your birthday. You protested they weren’t necessary, that clothing barely lasted seconds on your person around him, but he assured you they would come in useful someday. They lay, unused and unloved, in your closet shelves for months.

Until today.

Fame, puts you there where things are hollow…

Planting one stiletto on the seat beside his leg, your skirt exposed your core flush against your panties, already damp from your arousal. Being so close to Michael without feeling his touch sent your hormones into overdrive, your arms were desperate to cling onto him and draw him between your legs.

Lowering your eyes to glare into his from under your eyebrows, you caught a low growl escape his lips as he took in the vision of you, his little witch, nothing he could do about it.

But there was always something he could do about it. He’d proved his powers were beyond yours on numerous occasions, overpowering your attempts to dominate him every time without even a flick of his wrist.

This time, he wanted you to control him - the only question was for how long.

Fame, what you like is in the limo…

You slipped the thin straps of your dress over your shoulder and let them drape down your arms as you clung the main body of the fabric to your chest with tightened elbows. A gasp thinly veiled as a moan poured from Michael, driving you to reach over and place a gentle yet demanding finger atop his lips. As you leaned forward, your dress pooled around your waist, completely exposing your naked breasts in a happy yet nonetheless accidental seduction.

Something compelled you to turn and check you’d closed the door behind you, knowing full well the rest of the Outpost shouldn’t see or hear what comes next. As you half-heartedly waved a hand to close it tight, a much stronger force swung it open again.

You snapped your head back to find Michael, his hand gesturing in the air and a painfully intentional azure wink hit you.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it Mr Langdon?"

You already knew he liked the rest of the Outpost discovering your antics with their one chance at salvation. Knowing that you were the Cooperative’s only priority in the underground sanctum, that you were the solitary owner of the one guaranteed place in the Sanctuary. Knowing that the formidable Mr Langdon was directly responsible for the vicious bruises and welts peppered across your skin on a daily basis. Knowing that the blood-curdling screams that echoed through Hawthorne’s halls were yours, brought on by his relentless late-night punishments on the Outpost inhabitant he referred to as his little witch.

His plan to annihilate all the witches was doomed to fail from the onset because he fell for you. The last survivor of your kind, the final remaining Robichaux legacy. Owning you and your existence was a dominance you accepted gladly, having metaphorically sold your soul to him the second you met at a school exchange. The Boy Wonder was yours instantly, you were part of his survival plan before you were even aware there was something to survive. Now he had initiated the apocalypse, all he had left was to make your connection official.

Fame, what you need you have to borrow…

“Fuck this,” Michael snarled as his hips shot forward to stand, both hands grabbing at your legs and wrapping them around his waist before you could flinch. His palms gravitated towards your breasts, kneading away at both simultaneously as he leaned in to plant a searing kiss on your lips.

As you opened your eyes, you saw Michael towering over you, his eyes bore down on you like a ruthless predator that could tear you limb from limb at any moment. Instead, he tugged at the waistband of your panties, snapping both sides of their restrictive fabric before you could raise your hips to remove them. Casting the lifeless lace into the air which lands in a heap across the room, Michael’s eyes darted to their landing spot.

“Ignis,” he spat as the panties burst into ferocious flames on the floor behind his desk, his eyes snapping into their pitch black form with a blink. You knew in that instant that once his eyes have descended, there was no time for foreplay.

You were his now.

Is it any wonder I reject you first?

Grappling to unbutton his dress pants, he unleashed his member from its velour incarceration, leaving you questioning how much magic it took to encase his hard length in fabric. As he lined up his cock with your entrance, you clocked his girth which seemed to increase every time you saw it, fleeting ideas passing your mind of how much pain you’ll be in after this session.

The one predictable action Michael committed every time you made love was his habit of clutching at your throat just as he entered you for the first time, ensuring you struggled to breathe as well as concentrate. As the tip of his cock neared your folds, you instinctively looked down at his hands, palming away at the beads of precum lacing the head as his signature statement rings glistened in the dim light.

Gazing at the slick black shirt covering his chest, you concentrated on its obstructive buttons and they disintegrated into pieces, then the seams popped on your command and within seconds, Michael was completely shirtless.

“No, little bitch,” he barked as you felt a force strike you across the jaw making you gasp sharply before it clenched around your throat, an invisible iron grip on your airways.

“S—sorry, daddy,” you pleaded as you fought for breath. You felt his member suddenly stretch your entrance with one hard thrust, your walls aching on contact while your eyes roll into the back of your skull.

Is it any wonder you are too cool to fool?

Michael rolled his hips deep into you as he deftly hit your g spot instantly, noticing your illicit moans of pleasure he tightened the force against your windpipe with a grunt and an accompanying grin spread across his cheeks. His hands trailed determinedly from the base of his cock up your thighs and spread them open as wide as you could take, the burn of your inside leg muscles mirroring the scolding heat inside you as Michael’s thrusts intensified.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned as he let go of the force on your throat and poured every inch into you, his own eyes journeying to the ceiling as he bottomed out inside you.

Regaining control of his sight, he wrapped your legs back around his waist and grabbed the back of your neck with both hands, pulling you in to crash your lips against his. This kiss was not his average dismissive clinch to remind you who you belonged to; this was a meaningful, deep connection that told you he needed you.

Got to get a rain check on pain…

Tearing his lips away from yours and leaving you whimpering at the loss, he looked you square in the eyes and caught his breath, his trademark red eyeshadow transforming into a burning crimson in the light.

“Sweetheart, I think daddy needs to fill you up,” he slammed further into you, “more,” again, “than,” again, “this.”

You knew exactly what he was getting at, but it pained you to leave the exact words unspoken in such a passionate encounter across his weary Outpost desk.

“What do you mean, Mr Langdon?” You questioned feigning innocence, tightening your walls around him and reaching out to dig your nails down his back in anticipation. Michael growled and pulled you closer.

“You didn’t think you were the only one coming here with a surprise tonight, did you?” he emphasised by pounding into you as if it were punctuation. “Daddy needs to fuck a baby into you, little witch."

“I thought you’d never ask, Michael,” you cried breathlessly, your voice firing up decibels and your back arching as Michael hit your cervix. You’d been impatiently waiting for him to finally bind your relationship and further his father’s plan.

“Oh I think you’re mistaken baby,” he hummed under his breath, towering over you like every word you said made him a foot taller. “I wasn’t asking.”

He plunged every inch of his cock inside you harder than before, if that were even possible. Your walls constricted around him and you felt the familiar ticking time bomb about to explode inside you.

“I can’t wait to see you growing with our baby, watch you swell with our new life, everything my father planned for us.” He held his palm flat on your stomach suggestively. “The whole Outpost will see you every day, blossoming with our child, knowing that I did this to you.”

His words poured into your ears like petrol on the fire burning inside you, both in your heart and your womb.

“G-gonna cum daddy, fuck,” you exhaled, scratching his back so deep you could feel the skin ripping beneath your fingertips, your personal time bomb almost at implosion and white spots dancing across your eyes.

“Go on little witch, cum for me,” he commanded, wrapping his arms around you tightly and protectively as you shook and writhed uncontrollably in his embrace. “I’ve got you baby, I’ve got you.”

With another thrust against your walls, Michael came undone with his own orgasm, releasing his cum right up against your cervix.

His eyes slowly returned to their gorgeous cerulean, gazing into your soul through your own irises. He kept his length deep inside you as he leaned forward to plant a haunting kiss on your lips.

“What the hell, daddy?” You chuckled, pressing your forehead against his as you waited for the erotic haze across your vision to dissipate.

“I want you to carry our baby, Y/N. The apocalypse has come, we need to repopulate, also it’s about time the rest of this pathetic Outpost realised you belong to Mr Langdon.”

You weakly nodded in agreement, too exhausted to form a more coherent response. Michael’s cock slipped gently out of you, pouring the wetness from your combined orgasms through your swollen folds and pooling onto his desk.

“Every year on this day, I’m going to get you pregnant. Right here on this desk, just like that,” he detailed as he buttoned himself back into his dress pants as if no further explanation was required. “Any objections, little witch?”

“None at all, Mr Langdon,” you obeyed as he gently pulled up your dress for you, planting the shoulder straps carefully in their rightful places. Michael stared down at his torso bewildered at his loss of shirt, before a quick transmutation to reach into his closet in his quarters across the hall swiftly rectified it.

“Funny, I didn’t notice the music had stopped,” you laughed under your breath, desperate to fill the silence as you composed yourselves.

As you took to your feet to pull your dress down, you stood flush against Michael, now fully clothed, his gentle breath grazing your cheek. A soft peck fell upon your lips as he gently placed his palm over your velvet-clad abdomen, examining his work.

“So… same time next year?”

[scrrface]

@redemptioninterlude​   sent   :   ⭐ ( faye, because he's injured and she's waiting for someone to come for him )

he’s   seen   the   deafening   impact   ,   thunderous   and   yet   muted      –––      left   with   the   ringing   of   blood   in   his   ears   and   the   blinking   brightness   of   what   gates   to   purgatory   may   look   like      ;      similar   to   the   god   rays   of   divine   lumen   that   burned   his   skin   would   he   dare   to   crouch   beneath   it   too   long   .      deadly   ,   is   the   warmth   that   slipped   through   into   his   bones      –––      blinding   above   all   .      eyes   close   shut   just  to   force   themselves   open   once   ,   twice      ;         the   blonde   has   seen   it   all   before   .   torn   body   beneath   torn   soul   ,   pulsating   and   spilling   into   the   fool’s   large   palms   mercilessly   as   if   to   never   quench   .      loud   is   the   sigh   that   male   fails   to   suppress   for   he   is   tired   against   the   nocturnal   sight   that   rips   and   blurs   his   edges   once   anew      –––      so   frequently   dear   ,   old   acquaintance   death   scratched   at   his   door   numerous   times   and   uncountable   is   the   amount   of   incidents   in   which’s   midst   the   blonde   had   raised   his   foot   over   such   lecherous   doorstep   ,   ready   to   take   him   into      (      dearly      missed      )      arms   ,   has   he   not   prayed   for   such      ?      has   he   not   ,   amongst   the   drums   ,   chanting   of   sutras      ;      he   wishes   to   depart      !      a   pattern   of   guilt   soaked   thinking   that   had   come   to   haunt   the   elder   now   beneath   the   world   that   is   his   ,   built   and   sculpted   by   his   violent   hands      –––      labyrinth   made   cage   that   takes  him   alike   a   tide      ;      hits   against   the   breakers   that   threaten   to   punch   the   air   out   of   his   lungs   until  he   would   sink   submitting      –––      albeit   swaying   into   unbelievable   heights   ,   summon   storms      ––      be   the   wind   in   his   back   ,   make   him   never   question   past   that   had   weighted   him   down   towards   pits   of   hell   he   ever   so   continued   to   descend   into   .      high   ,   are   the   bitter   prices   he   comes   to   pay   to   walk   on   such   sinful   ,   wretched   path      ––      laced   with   crimson   ,   a   throne   of   bones   .      suffocating   as   muscles   cramp      ;      until   violent   cough   erupts   ,   entire   frame   trembling   under   the   heavy   contraction      ––      sharply   does   it   hit   him   ,   without   mercy   or   benevolence   and   eyes   press   themselves   shut   ,   crinkle   the   edges   of   scarred   skin   .      torn   soul   in   a   fragile   shell      ;      albeit   had   he   not   outlasted   them   all      ?      survived   over   and   over   again      ?

        by   now   do   mirages   tug   on   the   male’s   conscious   ,   damp   forehead   as   he   notices   fingers   linking   themselves   through   ,   stroke   across   silken   crown   and   hues   are   forced   open   by   no   other   than   his   humble   self   to   behold   .         out   of   them   all   ,   is   her   sight   a   less   expected   one      ––      had   his   side   not   always   been   a   rather   abandoned   and   lonely   absence   inherited  by   the   sole   conviction   that   nobody   else   was   needed   ,   no   ,   the   blonde   does   not   recall   yearning   for   someone   to   hold   his   hand   or   soothe   the   insomnium   bitten   soul      !      the   poor   fool   had   never   been  particularly   skilled   with   verbal   communication   regarding   anything   but   business   ,   as   does   void   gaze   lay   itself   upon   their   countenance   in   enigmatic   absence   of   verbosity   ,   absence   of   light   within   pupils   as   if   having   been   swallowed   ,   parched      ––      body   on   the   verge   of   giving   into   the   brutal   wounding   .      seconds   pass   ,   with   mere   eyes   darting   up   and   down   their   expressions      ;      indeed   has   he   registered   the   faint   touch   of   blonde   strands   being   combed   back   by   lithe   fingers   .   a   gesture   he   struggles   to   label   accordingly   ,   crease   in   midst   of   brows   visibly   painted   on   distorted   features   of   a   pale   grown   face   ,   a   light   frown      ––      whether   for   the   stinging   pain   suffocating   the   male   or   for   own   confusion   regarding   certain   behaviour   remains   unknown   .      never   had   the   blonde   imagined   to   find   himself   in   such  peculiar   ,   eminent   danger      –––      with   such   severe   injuries   that   cling   onto   life   forces   of   a   spirit   that   just   does   not   depart   from   this   world      ––      as   he   is   bound   to   be   reborn   in   vicious   cycle   of   divine   intervention   he   does   not   find   himself   to   be   aware   of   .   now   that   lips   do   not   clamp   on   each   other  any   longer   ,   left   agape   as   if   difference   made      –––         does   male   realise   the   immense   strength   and   doubt   laces   prior   intent   ,   leaves   lips   frozen   .      how   shameful   .   such   awful   ,   pathetic   state      ––      wounded   like   an   animal   at   the   ground   .      at   the   mercy   of   whoever   left   .      iris   trembles   ,   the   male’s  hues   speak   and   express   more   than   any   hushed   whisper   ever   could   have      ––         despite   such  threatening   condition   ,   quiet   does   he   remain   ,   as   if   calmly   accepting   .      he’s   dreamed   this   before      ––      letting   himself   go   ,   disappearing   in   midst   of   mighty   sea   whom   called   for   him   .         “      go      .   .   .         already      .   .   .         “         ,         breathing   pattern   irregular   ,   heavy   and   voice   a   weak   croak      ,         “      don’t      wait      .         “            .      crimson   has   painted   his   countenance   bloody   ,   choked   are   his   coughs   coating   his   mouth   with   the   disgusting   liquid   .      too   tired   ,   to   speak   any   further   .      are   those   not   calls   ,   in   the   distance      ?      by   his   name   .   .   .      waiting   by   the   mighty   abyss   he   stares   right  into   .

[tsarisfanfiction]

Price (Tales From The Heart)

Fandom: One Piece Rating: Teen Warnings: None Characters: Shachi, Law, Penguin, Bepo, Heart Pirates, Kuzan

There were many perks to their captain being a Shichibukai. The frozen bounties were one although, with so few members of the crew with a price on their heads at all thanks to their preference to work in the shadows where Doflamingo's strings didn't reach (the lack of Marine presence was just an added bonus), it largely made no difference to their lives. Civilians still fled at the sight of their grinning Jolly Roger, and other pirates still wanted them dead. Unlike most of the Shichibukai, Law had not laid claim to an island as a base, and the Polar Tang was still undeniably home.

Another perk was access to information. While he in no way had full clearance, Law could get at some files unavailable to the general public (and certainly unavailable to pirates). That was how the crew came to learn of the existence of Punk Hazard, and Law quickly put together the puzzle to realise that it was a keystone to Doflamingo's influence. Clearly, they needed to get there to investigate the links properly, but therein lay an issue. While Law had clearance to learn of the island's existence, there was absolutely nothing about where the island was located.

Asking anyone in the Marines would have been stupid. Neither Marines or pirates were permitted onto the poisoned, half frozen and half molten island, and an inquiry in the wrong place could have disastrous consequences. The kindest would likely be an expulsion from the Shichibukai, but with Akainu in charge, the kindest option was rarely the one taken. A trip to Impel Down was not high on their list of things to do.

There was one man that might be convinced to tell them. Aokiji, now known solely as Kuzan, was no longer bound by any code of conduct the Marines were, and indeed if the rumours were to be true had affiliated himself with a pirate (and not just any pirate, but the new Yonkou). It was a long shot, but it was also their only avenue and Law – they – needed the information. Tracking the man had been no easy feat. After his defeat and defection from the Marines he had obviously gained an impressive bounty of his own and like any sensible individual with a high bounty (a rare group of people, all things considered) had chosen to lie low.

However, months of determination had paid off, and they had finally caught up with the man. In a gesture of peace, Law had declared that he would go to speak to the man alone, leaving his anxious crew to wait on board the Tang, praying that Kuzan wasn't interested in a confrontation and would give the knowledge away without much of a fuss.

"I don't like this," Shachi said, not for the first, or even fifth time since Law had firmly ordered them to stay put and disembarked with only Kikoku for company as he went to find the elusive man on the island. Reports implied that he'd be found on the beachy coast, so of course Law had chosen to dock the Tang on the opposite side of the island. He'd been gone half an hour by that point, and tempers were wearing thin.

"None of us like it," Penguin snapped, vigorously cleaning his spear and cursing as his hand slipped, earning itself a shallow gash from the bladed edge. "Stop whining."

"Captain will be fine," Bepo said firmly, his pinned back ears and excessive fidgeting betraying his own reservations. Shachi pushed himself off of the railing he'd been slouching over, his momentum first leading him to fall heavily into a sitting position on the deck, and then toppling him over backwards to stare at the sky forlornly.

"That's not what my gut says," the ginger grumbled, earning himself a vicious whack with the butt of Penguin's spear.

"Shut. Up," the older growled. Whatever retort Shachi started was drowned out by a pained howl from inside the submarine, and the crew's heads all turned simultaneously as Clione burst out of the door, from where he'd been on communications duty, waiting by their den den mushi in case Law made contact.

His frantic countenance prompted everyone to start speaking at the same time, demanding answers and overlapping everyone else's voices until there was nothing but a single cacophony of sound.

"Enough!" Jean Bart rumbled, his voice carrying clearly over the noise. His tone expected total obedience and received it, a throw back to his days as a captain himself. "Clione, talk."

Clione didn't say a word, instead mutely holding up a burning piece of paper. No-one needed to be told what it was as shock descended over the crew, freezing them all in place.

Shachi was the first to speak, shattering the stillness as he hefted his katana onto his shoulder, letting the sheath clatter to the deck.

"What are we waiting for?" he demanded, words clipped short. "Let's go."

With a war cry, he launched himself off of the Tang, landing on the ground lightly before sprinting for the beach. The others followed him, their booted feet thumping against the ground and producing a quiet rumble. Getting closer, Shachi's observation haki confirmed their captain's location, and that his companion was indeed the former Marine Admiral.

"It's nothing personal," Kuzan's unmistakable laid-back voice drawled as they entered earshot. "Although your escape from my Ice Age at Marineford was a nuisance. But I'm afraid I have no interest in aiding you in your search." Law made no reply, and as they crossed the final ridge between them and their captain, it was clear to see why.

Law resembled an ice sculpture far more than he did a living breathing human. His limbs were frozen in place, left hand extended in the familiar position he used when summoning a Room and right preparing to draw Kikoku from her sheath while his legs were secured to the sandy beach below. His chest rose and fell heavily, not yet encased in ice, and only the lower part of his face was frozen, rendering him unable to talk but still conscious as his golden eyes bored into Kuzan with thinly veiled frustration. No fear, because Trafalgar Law never showed fear, even as the former admiral gestured with a hand, ice streaming towards the Shichibukai to complete the job.

Jean Bart got there first, planting his body firmly between the attack and his captain, unflinching as the ice collided with his back and the impact forced blood from his lips, crimson drops landing on Law's hat. The shorter man's eyes widened, and the previously-absent fear blossomed at the sight of his crew charging Kuzan, only for another wave of the man's hand to freeze half of them in their tracks. Barring Penguin and Bepo, who had diverted towards their captain's side and therefore fell under the protection of Jean Bart's bulk, only those of the crew with awakened observation haki managed to avoid their feet being frozen to the ground.

Shachi's katana swung out as the ginger landed from his evasive manoeuvre, slashing straight through the ice man. Unsurprisingly, it passed straight through him, the ginger's armament haki too weak to negate the logia powers. It worked to catch Kuzan's attention, however, and those of the crew still able to move crowded around their captain as Penguin and Bepo carefully detached him from the ground.

"Retreat!" Shachi ordered, briefly disappearing as ice crashed over where he'd been standing before reappearing next to it. The command was repeated by Penguin as the crew hesitated, seeing their captain now safe in Bepo's arms but Shachi now the target of the former admiral's attacks instead as he dodged, ducked and rolled away from ice, occasionally managing to bring his sword up in time to make another ineffectual slash.

A third rumble of the word from Jean Bart, who managed to shift himself with a gargantuan effort – none of the attacks that had hit him had been tailored for him, so where a smaller, weaker man may have been subdued he was only hindered – got them moving, picking up those of their nakama who couldn't move and bolting for the Tang.

"You're not going too?" Kuzan asked Shachi as the others fled. The ginger grinned humourlessly, slipping sideways in the blink of an eye and slashing apart the ice as it hurtled towards him.

"If I go too, who's going to stop you following?" he asked, panting lightly. His stamina was hardly poor, but the constant high-speed evasion was tiring, and despite himself he couldn't stop the trickle of cold sweat down his back.

This was not a fight he could win. He'd known it before he'd jumped in. If Law had been neutralised so quickly, then it was only a matter of time he succumbed to either exhaustion or the ice – or both – and became little more than melting icy rubble on the beach. To save his nakama, his captain, it was a price he'd gladly pay. That didn't make the prospect any less terrifying.

"Your observation haki is impressive," Kuzan commented as Shachi once again evaded, although he felt himself already slowing down; the ice had barely missed him that time. The ginger's only response was a pained chuckle, sorely regretting his incompetence with armament haki, before he pressed in for another attack. In the back of his mind he wondered why Kuzan hadn't just slammed him with a large-scale attack he couldn't dodge before going after his retreating nakama, but the thought only lasted a split second. He couldn't afford any distractions if he wanted to buy as much time as he could.

Every second he bought them they used to get further and further away, hobbling along as best they could. With ice cubes for feet, more than half of the crew needed supporting by their nakama. Jean Bart, his back frozen with icy tendrils reaching down his legs and up his neck, needed three people to help keep him upright, even as he charged along with the rest of them. In Bepo's arms, Law's eyes had slipped closed as tears slowly gathered in the corners before starting to trickle down his face. He wasn't the only one; Penguin's cap was pulled low over his face and his mouth was set in a stony line as he stumbled along, despite being uninjured, and the general air hanging over the crew was a solemn one.

They made it back to the Tang without further incident, Kuzan yet to follow them. How well that boded for Shachi was questionable, but the crew forced it from their minds for the moment. Many of them, and especially their captain, needed defrosting and so they made their way en mass to the bathroom where Law was given pride of place directly under a lukewarm shower. Jean Bart stood by him awkwardly, unable to sit until the ice retreated, so that the water caught his back on the way down. The other afflicted members of the crew situated themselves as near as possible, crammed together in the too-small area.

Those who had escaped the ice gathered on the deck in a nervous huddle, continuously glancing back at the direction they'd come as they debated what to do next.

They should set sail. It was a miracle Kuzan hadn't pursued them yet, and there was a very likely possibility that he was freezing the sea so they couldn't leave the island, but setting sail meant admitting they'd lost Shachi. Penguin's hat was in his hands, wrung so tightly it was a wonder the stitches weren't breaking, as he stared at the horizon, unblinking.

"Penguin?" Ikkaku asked, because he was the most senior member of the crew active. He dashed glistening tears from his eyes with his sleeve, only for them to return almost instantly. They had to set sail. He knew that. He knew that if they didn't, they'd lose more than just Shachi. But it was Shachi, his best friend, his brother, and he slowly sank to his knees, quivering as he clutched his hat to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he gulped, the tears beginning to fall freely. "I-I can't."

A large paw landed on his shoulder, Bepo tugging him against his side.

"Why do we have to leave him?" the mink asked. "Let's go."

Penguin looked up at him, eyes wet.

"But-" he started, torn between his responsibility to the crew, to get them all out alive, and the childish belief that somehow Shachi was okay, because he had to be, never mind that he'd been facing down a former admiral that had taken down their captain in seconds. Shachi had to be okay, because he was all had Penguin had left, and it felt so cruel to think that when several of his nakama were surrounding him.

"Go get him," Uni said, clapping Penguin on the back hard enough that he rocked forwards. "We'll get the Tang ready to leave." Bepo slipped his paws underneath his arms and hauled him to his feet before dragging him off of the ship, and back the way they'd come.

"You should stay with the ship," Penguin protested when he found his voice past the lump in his throat. "I… I should do this myself." The mink shook his head as they ran.

"You're not doing this by yourself," he said firmly, and secretly Penguin was grateful, selfishly so. The mink should be helping to get the ship ready to go. As the navigator, they couldn't set sail without him. The log poses in the New World weren't as simple to use as in Paradise. But they were probably running towards a corpse, and Penguin didn't think he had the strength to face that alone.

The silence that persisted, beyond their own frantic breathing, as they headed for the final ridge once again, did nothing to dispel his fears. The added uncertainty of Kuzan's location forced him to slow and look around, Bepo doing the same beside him.

"He's gone," the mink said after a moment, puzzled. Penguin didn't ask after Shachi and Bepo didn't volunteer the information as they picked up their pace again, cresting the ridge to see what was in store for them.

Shachi was still in one piece. Sadly, that was where the good news ended. Penguin slipped in his haste to reach him, sliding down the slight incline to the beach on his backside before clumsily floundering to his feet and stumbling over himself as he approached the beautiful ice statue that was once his best friend.

The ginger's face held a triumphant expression, that cocky grin Penguin knew all too well, and he wondered how much of it had been an act to throw off Kuzan, and how much of it had been pride at holding out however long he had. The rest of his body held no hesitation, frozen in a headlong charge with his katana slashing through the air. If it was just a copy of him, it would have been perfect. As it was…

"Shachi," Penguin said, his voice cracking as he laid a gentle hand on his cheek. There was no warmth at all under his palm. If he didn't know this was Kuzan's power, the ability to turn flesh to ice, he would never have thought it was a real body. "Shachi." The tears came back, Penguin once again falling to his knees. His hand dragged down, from cheek to neck to shoulder to chest.

"Penguin!" Bepo said, and it sounded urgent, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from Shachi. "Penguin, look." A paw thrust a piece of paper in front of his face, and he blinked a few times to readjust his focus.

It was a map. A crudely drawn map clearly scribbled as an afterthought, depicting several islands. Penguin knew the names of one or two. Raijin Island. That was that lightning fuelled one that had tried to fry the Tang. And then, another name.

Punk Hazard.

This… this was what they'd come for. This was why Law had met with Kuzan in the first place. Anger surged through Penguin. If Kuzan was willing to give them the information, why didn't he do it earlier, before he turned Shachi into a fleeting work of art? Why did they have to lose Shachi to gain it?

"Why..?" he asked, his voice thick with grief. "Why would he do this? Wasn't he a Marine? Why did he have to ki-" He couldn't say the word, and flinched when Bepo tapped his shoulder insistently.

"Look at the bottom," the mink said, and Penguin didn't want to, didn't know what else they'd had to sacrifice Shachi for to get out of the former admiral. But he did, because Bepo sounded almost keen, which sounded so wrong in their current situation.

Ice Time does not kill immediately. If you found him in time he can be defrosted. He's an interesting one.

Penguin stared at the words, uncomprehending their meaning for several long seconds, before it struck and he leapt back to his feet, reaching for Shachi. If there was a chance, any chance at all…

Like he had done with Law, Bepo picked him up, cradling him in his arms as if the ice could shatter at any time – and maybe it could – before the two of them set a fast but steady pace back to the Tang. The crew on deck, multiplied from when they'd left as some of those with only minor freezing had seemingly finished defrosting in the shower, made noises of fear and sadness as they got on board, Bepo careful not to jostle his burden at all. They made a beeline for the bathroom, pushing everyone except Law further from the centre so Shachi could rest there.

They were going to be totally out of water by the time their last nakama defrosted, but it was a small price to pay. Most of the crew had graduated to massaging their feet, the ice all but gone, leaving just Jean Bart, Law, and now Shachi, under the running water.

"Shachi," Law said quietly, the same break in his voice that Penguin had had. "You idiot. You total, utter, idiot." He didn't move anything except his head, which rested on Shachi's frozen shoulder lightly.

"Kuzan's gone," Penguin reported, seeing that his captain was at least in a condition to respond, even if he was still mostly immobile. Law sighed.

"I see," he said. "I'm sorry, this didn't work." Penguin shook his head.

"It worked," he said, and Law's eyes snapped to him. "Kuzan left a map to Punk Hazard behind." It was still stowed in his pocket, but he didn't dare bring it out in such a humid room. The price had almost been too high.

He refused to consider the idea that they'd been too late to save Shachi.

The tension seemed to drain from Law as he slumped under the running water. Bepo slipped in to support him, beginning to rub at the thawed limbs gently.

"We did it," their captain breathed, sounding torn between regret and excitement. From the way his eyes flickered to Shachi again, the source of regret wasn't hard to identify.

Penguin left the room only long enough to place the precious map safely with Bepo's other things, before returning to the bathroom to wait out Shachi's fate. Law had just finished defrosting when the colour returned to Shachi's cheeks, and Penguin lunged for him, almost knocking his captain over in the process, to feel for a pulse.

He cried when he found one.

[inarretable]

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[sasorikigai]

" look at me, look! it was a nightmare! not real, okay? you... hey... i've got you. it's alright... " (( Dreamer to Kuai Liang! ))

words of comfort prompts || @drecmcrcfters || accepting

❄️ || Vivid memories, a sprawling palace of smoked glass windows, doors that he doesn’t ever need to break down, and places he has never been; how does he make sense of them? Kuai Liang has to let go over, and over, and over, and he doesn’t know if it will ever stop. What he feels is not expressible, and that pains him deeply. The fact that people will never gain experiential knowledge of what he portends through proper healing as there are names, events, years, and even centuries that remain dark that are recorded in some folio of some archive waiting for some memory to rescue them or some storyteller bring them back to life. 

Like a tooth breaking out of a gum, bloody and bruising, as Kuai Liang will continue to bite into the sweet and the sour, the rancid and the savory, his growth will never become a linear path. As the Lin Kuei’s history is strewn with surprises, contradictions, abysses, deaths, and resurrections. All Sub-Zero wants is to grow like an ancient tree expanding in the soil, enriching its roots, throwing a permanent anchor in the ground so that no storms and hurricanes can rip it out. The ruinous rubble of his trauma and tribulations had been something irreplaceable, and yet - the growing pains of Kuai Liang’s betterment would manifest as bloody and bruising, enriching and anchoring, lest he writhes in excruciating suffering and dance moribund choreography as he would be engaged in multitudes of mortal kombat. 

Such distraught smile of woe briefly etches through the cracked veil of Kuai Liang’s creased countenance, as the light begins to bloom at the dark sea of clouds of the familiarity of his suffering. The illuminations would sparkle throughout the sky as the scorching tears come streaming down from his eye. The ringing in his ear would grow stronger as the circulating machinery exploding the malleable clay of macerated human flesh against the restless cleaving as bone fragments splatter and scatter to coat the earth, while the rippling wind carries the incessant ferrous air, nausea-inducing, rendering his sharp attentiveness and resilient will to collapse beneath the threaded, taut tension. 

Beneath the penetrating state of the ungodly hour, where howling snowstorm batters against the walls as the pale olive of his flesh emanates the equilibrium of the cold mist, spreading through as the ache of his voice becomes palpable. All the vivid memories, a sprawling palace of smoked glass windows splattered with viscera and brain matter may play with a vicious intent to break Kuai Liang’s unconquerable heart and brain, but he’s much stronger and resilient than the parasitic manifestations of all the darkness he’d known and intimately experienced. “I know, you always have helped me calm my raucous and thunderous thoughts and put leash on my inner demons. They may leer with a knife in their teeth with hungry eyes crazed, with the promise of tomorrow being masses of carnage and encircling threat to drown me in crimson torrent, but no matter. I will always be with the gelid wind, ready for fight with my being all prepared and poised in perfect practice.” ❄️ ||  

[hyperionswrath--archived]

@onepartbrave

Residue impatience rocked Squall’s frame as he waited for the seemingly bewildered blond to follow his demands. Then again, perhaps urging his former rival into motion wasn’t the best take. Seifer was as stubborn as they came, more so than him at times, so pushing rarely worked. Although, combined with confusion, at least he stood more of a chance. The fact alcohol raged through both their systems assisted, too. Boldly conveying impetuosity, he half-turned on his heel to face the man while he seemingly stumbled over words and what action to perform next. Strange a sight as it was, seeing Seifer flustering was enjoyable. Amusing, even.

Although, his disorientation sounded genuine, like he hadn’t the foggiest one where Squall directed he be lead. That made sense… the guy hadn’t checked his phone after taking it back and he hadn’t expressed where. Faltering momentarily on how to elaborate on such without revealing his snooping, Seifer beat him to it by gaining clarity and pinning him with an accusatory stare. …That’s fair. I shouldn’t’ve snooped. Having the modesty to blush and funnel a smidgen of remorse to his countenance, the presumption faded from his body language and he felt mildly rebuked. Not that Seifer was annoyed; if the light laughter was any implication, he was mirthful.

…Odd ball.

A disapproving scowl was his response to Seifer’s jesting. “No.” Stubborn defiance laced the single word, indicating exactly how poorly he felt about that idea. “Not my type.”

Finally, they were on their way. Mindlessly mumbling a “thanks” when the door was held open, the instant he stepped out into the night air, a vicious chill swept through him. Holy fuck, it’s cold! Shivering inherently, he hugged his upper body tightly and tried staving off the worst of the breezy air by becoming a smaller target. Hell, it’d work wonders if Seifer took the proper lead and Squall could crouch behind him as they walked, effectively becoming one big buffer. A perk of being bult like a goddamn building, the shelter that came from cowing behind it.

Contemplating how offended the man would be if he asked for him to become a personal wind-guard, he got snapped from his head when a coat was thrust his way. Blinking in surprise, yet not taking a step back like he normally would, clueless grey-blues frowned at the attire held aloft for him to obviously take to the one holding it. But it’s yours, stuck fast in his throat and for once, he was happy he hadn’t spoke. The gesture was entirely sweet and unlike Seifer, so Squall was rendered slightly dumbstruck. Fortunately, he didn’t forget his manners and grabbed the offering a moment later, gaze dropping and head inclining in bashful (ugh) gratitude. “Thank you.”

Attention honing in on the jacket, he manoeuvred it around properly so he could pull one arm in, and then the other without requiring aid. It was big—too big for him—but warm. Cosy, and… it smelled nice. Earthy, almost, but riddled with something that made his fingertips tingle as they struggled to poke out the end of the sleeves. …Why’s he gotta be so big? Sighing to himself, he grabbed each side of the open jacket and wrapped them tight around his slimmer frame, knowing any zipper would be useless for him. Nodding once when satisfied, he gazed back up at Seifer and tilted his head curiously.

“So? Let’s go. You’ll freeze otherwise.”

Inexplicably restless, he started off in a direction he hoped was correct. The longer they lingered, the colder it would be. The last he needed was the Glaive getting frostbite or pneumonia.

One of these days he'd hopefully get used to the endearing blush on those high cheeks that made him unreasonably smitten, but today was definitely not the day. And the mere thought of how much that flush would deepen once Squall would register what he had gotten himself into was enough to make him smirk with a devilish grin.

It had been his first idea after all to take the guy to one of these types of clubs, he just really hadn't thought he'd be able to actually do it. "Then what is?", he asked before he could stop himself, teasing tone betraying his amusement. Would he get an answer to that? He was curious about what Squall considered his type after all. Little ravenhaired princesses for one, that much he knew.

Shoulders sliding up as he felt a freezing gust of wind, it took him but a moment to adjust to the drop of temperatures before his body heat seemed to be enough to warm him. At least he wasn't shivering like the small twig of a man next to him. Watching how Squall slipped into the coat, the tall blond had to muffle a burst of laughter behind his hand, pretending to cough. Shit, this night really was surreal. After everything that had happened the brunet had the audacity to look adorable, of all things?! He couldn't help it. With a slight shake of his head, he chuckled, brushing the back of the other to get him to move and also holding his arm out for support, should it still be needed to prevent stumbling. "Who knew the famed Lion could look so adorable?", he muttered, eyes staring ahead to avoid the surely following death glare of the other man. "And don't mention it, princess," he retorted to the offering of gratitude. Which reminded him.

While walking, he once more fingered his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and tapping onto the screen for a while before storing it back where it belonged. "I don't freeze easily. Had my share of practice around icicles." A smirk playing his lips, jade-greens glanced down to the other before the very one tries taking the lead. Seifer let him, for the time being, as they have to follow the alley back the way they came, onto the livelier streets. From there, he stepped up to walk ahead, steering his footfalls across a street and along another one, before they turned the corner to what could be called an amusement district.

Countless bars, brothels, gambling joints, and other establishments lined up with bright lights and colorful posters, wanting to lure potential customers in. Observing Squall from the corner of his eyes, the tall blond wondered if the man already questioned his decision and if he might have an idea where they were going. They steered clear of all the lower class clubs, and if one was to take in their surroundings, they would see that at the end of the amusement mile there stood a tall, pristine building made entirely of glass it seemed. Presenting itself like the ice crystal summoned by Shiva's breath herself, the 'Diamond Dust' towered over all other buildings like a monument to innocence in all it's crystalline and white glory.

A set of steps led up to the entrance, most guests that approached were clothed in fine garments, fur coats and the like, covering them against the cold. Seifer stopped when they reached the entrance, one hand touching Squall's shoulder to make him wait up so he could reach into one of his coat's inner pockets and retrieve a silver card which he showed to the bouncer (who looked more like a muscular gentleman than anything you would usually see in such an area of expertise). A nod from the man followed and he held the door open for the two of them to enter. Inside, white marble covered the floor and crimson velvet drapes adorned the walls, exuding nothing short of luxury. In the far corner, there was a coat check and if Squall didn't know what this building was, he'd soon come to grips with it. For the ladies and gentleman leaving their outside attire with the personnel there were usually dressed in very telling outfits. As fun as it might be to watch the reactions unfold on Squall's face - and he would take all the time in the world so he could enjoy it - he also placed a protective hand on the small of the other one's back, signaling that he was with the tall blond.

[spectral-musette]

The Worthy Partner

Set in an AU in which Duchess Satine Kryze asks Obi-Wan Kenobi to stay on Mandalore with her (before TPM). The couple attends an official function on Satine’s homeworld a few months after their marriage.

~ 3000 words

I used a little Mando’a (based on the dictionary at Mandoa.org), but the meanings of the words and phrases hopefully should be clear from the context. A couple of endnotes are included as intended translation notes in case I messed up, though.

Cross-posted on AO3

(Written when I got carried away working on a sketch of the scenario.)

*     *     *     *     *

           “How are you enjoying the meal?”

           Satine glared down her officious host, the Minister of Arts and Culture of Kalevala, but Obi-Wan merely nodded. “Your spices are extremely flavorful,” he complimented.

           “Be sure to try the tiingilar with the sauce.”

           He obligingly took a spoonful from the serving dish onto his plate. Satine tried to cast a warning glance in his direction and refilled his goblet with the cold ulik milk from the pitcher.

           She watched his face turn crimson as he tried a bite, but he smiled pleasantly. “Thank you for pointing it out.”

           He did, however, empty his goblet quickly.

           “Are you all right?” she whispered, leaning close as the Minister moved to the next table of dignitaries. “That stuff will peel the paint off a starship hull.”

           “No harm done. Hazing the Offworlder is to be expected, isn’t it?”

           She let out a hiss of disapproval. “They’re deliberately trying to humiliate you.”

           “Let them. I’ve had far less palatable meals than overspiced Mandalorian cuisine.” He dipped his bread into the offending sauce and smiled his most charming smile at their host, who was glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously to observe Obi-Wan’s response to the spicy delicacy.

           “I know. I’ve eaten Qui-Gon’s cooking too.”

           A wistful shadow passed over Obi-Wan’s handsome countenance, and they gripped each other’s hands under the table.

           “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I miss him too. He promised to visit soon.”

           “No doubt the Council is keeping him busy.”

           Though she hadn’t managed to get him to talk about it, she suspected that there were moments when Obi-Wan felt miserably homesick, not just for his former Master, but all his friends and mentors and for the community of the Jedi Temple. This was not the time to try to discuss it, though. “Just don’t let the Minister goad you into gulping the tihaar,” she warned, changing the subject and trying to distract him from falling into introspective melancholy.

           “Don’t think I can stomach it?”

           “No, I just hate the stuff, and I don’t want to taste it on you later.”

           “Fair enough,” he replied, laughing softly and squeezing her hand before releasing it.

           Perhaps not that much later, depending on how long etiquette demanded they remain at the Minister’s gala. She and Obi-Wan had been husband and wife for a few months now, and the touch of his hand and light of a smile in his eyes still made her heart quicken – as she happily suspected they always would.

           The Minister stood from his table, raising his arms to announce his intention to address the guests. The room quieted as everyone put down their flatware to listen attentively.

           “Before dessert is served, I wonder if the Duchess would be so kind as to grace our company with the performance of a traditional dance.”

           The orchestra struck up the opening measures of a familiar tune, and Satine’s heart sank.

           Ruusaanyc Riduur, the Worthy Partner.

           She hated this dance. She remembered learning it as a girl, practicing with her sister until they knew the complex steps by heart. But the childhood memories were overshadowed by the few times she had been asked to dance it publicly with a would-be suitor, under her father’s watchful gaze. The young warriors who’d courted her in those not-so-distant days had been ambitious, vicious men, interested only in clan alliances and winning her father’s favor. And after her father’s death…

           For a moment, the orchestra seemed to thin to a badly tuned mandoviol drunkenly meandering through the notes, the elegant hall to dim to the ramshackle camp where she’d once been held prisoner by a warlord with aspirations bigger than his arsenal, a boy no older than herself, stinking of tihaar as he held her by the chin.

           You might be dar’manda, but you’re almost pretty enough for it not to matter. Bet your clan would be grateful if I’d lower myself to marry you.

           Satine tried to banish the unpleasant memory as well as the sickening one of the Protectors’ retaliation when they had rescued her shortly thereafter. She took a deep breath, rallying her wits to counter the Minister’s latest onslaught of social warfare.

           “Perhaps,” he pressed, taking advantage of her brief silence, “if your consort is not familiar with the steps, I might find you another partner.”

           Before she could voice her outrage at the suggestion that a married woman perform this particular dance at an official function with anyone but her own spouse, Obi-Wan stood, grasping her hand and leading her from the table to the open floor at the center of the hall.

           For a moment she thought he was leading her out, refusing to put up with further insult – the implication was plain, that if her consort did not participate in the traditional dance, he was not a worthy partner – but he stopped in front of the Minister’s table.

           “Don’t try to bluff your way through this,” she warned quietly, a heavy knot of dread in her stomach. Performing it badly might be worse than refusing to participate.

           “I won’t,” he promised, the hint of a dimple creasing his cheek. “Trust me.”

           Of course, she always did.

           And he might’ve been a little stiff and nervous, held her hands a little too tightly, but he trod the steps precisely, even catching the subtle shift in the way they clasped their hands to indicate that the dancers were vowed to each other rather than merely courting.

           “How…” she breathed in wonderment when he briefly grasped her close.

           “In the usual way. Took lessons.” He broke his concentration a moment to favor her with a smile, and she cursed his dimples for almost making her trip. “I’d hoped to surprise you under rather better circumstances.”

           “I didn’t know you could dance at all,” she confessed.

           “How do you suppose they start teaching us saber forms in the Temple? Let a bunch of toddlers loose with laser swords?”

           “When you put it like that…”

           More couples began to fill the floor, and Obi-Wan relaxed a little as they were no longer the center of attention.

           Satine took a moment to admire him, graceful and lithe as he gained confidence in the movements of the dance. Most days he wore his simplified version of the Royal Guard’s uniform, but she’d managed to coax him into a few bits of finery for the occasion – please don’t make it easier for them to pretend to mistake you for my bodyguard this time. He looked very dashing in a tunic of fine-spun silk instead of his preferred coarse linen, with a smart half cape over one shoulder, a pair of bright silver vambraces, and a wide belt of intricately tooled leather.

           She was also feeling rather grateful for his cool temper under the current trying circumstances. Her Mandalorian disposition was apt to spit fire when delivered insults and slights. He tolerated them with such grace that it left her enemies baffled most of the time. He had a way of making them aware that he was on to their game and refusing to engage in it. She knew some of them were foolish enough to doubt his courage, but the wiser ones never did; if a Mandalorian worth his beskar knew anything at all, it was how to size up a fellow warrior.

           And that was the final irony of her choice of a husband: she’s sworn she’d never marry a warrior, and yet here he was. He might not wear the beskar’gam, he certainly didn’t share certain hard-headed Mando perspectives, and she knew that he abhorred violence in his heart, but he still dealt it out with skill and cunning when he had no other choice. Her eyes went to the lightsaber at his belt, and she thought of the would-be assassin he’d apprehended mere weeks ago, now in custody on Coruscant waiting for his trial. Someday, she hoped, that last resort would stop being necessary quite so often.

           The music slowed to a halt, and Obi-Wan brought her hand to his lips, bestowing a light, courtly kiss on her knuckles as he met her gaze. He could be difficult to read sometimes, so she always felt a swell of affection when he let her see his heart in his eyes: his eagerness to please and impress her, his unabashed devotion, and the ember-glow of his desire, no doubt brightly mirrored in her own eyes. They would both be very glad indeed to leave the party.

           “I’m sorry your plan was spoiled,” she said, smiling at the charming thought of him plotting a romantic setting for her, with music and dancing.

           “You were surprised,” he conceded, grinning.

           “Very pleasantly. I admit it’s not a favorite of mine, so perhaps it’s better this way,” she said, lacing their fingers together as they headed back to their table. The crowd on the dance floor was moving slowly, a particularly large man Satine recognized as one of the Minister’s aides blocking their path. He glanced over his shoulder at them, and turned to give her a polite nod.

           “Dal’alor.[i]”

           Apparently someone had been serving the tihaar already, judging from the fumes on his breath and his odd choice of the rather archaic Mando’a translation of her title. She decided not to take issue with the way his slurred speech had shifted dal towards dar –“former” – changing the honorific into a rather ominious threat of deposition. However, it did put her on edge.

           “Gar veriduur redalur jate,[ii]” he continued.

           Satine froze.

           It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard be’jetii veriduur – Jedi’s whore – flung at her before, but she hadn’t been expecting such crass invective in this ostensibly civilized setting, least of all under the guise of a compliment.

           “Perhaps your Mando’a is rusty,” he said, feigning surprise at her outraged expression. “I said your young husband dances well.”

           Another subtle shift in pronunciation, vaar to ver, plausible given his drunken state, but a stretch. Nor was simply “young” a very accurate translation of vaar, carrying more of an implication of wanting size and maturity, as evidenced by the way the man was looming over Obi-Wan with a rather unpleasant smile.

           “You did not,” she spat back.

           “Vaar, I may be,” Obi-Wan replied, assessing the man coolly, “but wise enough to know it’s not always a disadvantage.”

           Satine let out a slow breath. Rely on Obi-Wan to handle the situation with diplomacy.

           “Unlike inebriation, which generally is,” he added.

           Also rely on Obi-Wan to be too damn glib for his own good. She squeezed his hand and rolled her eyes.

           But then, perhaps Obi-Wan had read the situation correctly, as the jibe seemed to shift the big man’s drunken state to good humor rather than belligerence.

           “They said you were mir’sheb.” He landed a playful punch on Obi-Wan’s shoulder with one large hand. True enough, though Satine wouldn’t have put it in quite those terms – the linguistic connection between quick-wittedness and the anatomical region where the Mand’alor met the throne, as it were, had always mystified her.

           “More like mesh’sheb[iii],” someone muttered in passing. Satine spun in the direction of the voice, but the floor was clearing out, making it impossible to tell who had delivered the rather crass compliment - also not untrue, Satine had to admit, and patently obvious given the tailored fit of his trousers.

           “Did you follow all that?” she asked Obi-Wan as he pulled out her chair for her back at their table.

           “I think so. Vague threat to your sovereignty, calling me your prostitute – which is a change, I suppose we can give him points for that – backpedaling and saying he meant to call me puny, and finally that I am apparently known to be a smart-ass, to use the Basic vernacular.” He ticked off the items on his fingers.

           “Oh, did you miss that last anonymous expression of admiration?”

           “Your admiration is the only sort that interests me,” he countered, grinning.

           “Consider it bestowed.”

           “Likewise. In all things, my love,” he told her sweetly, kissing her hand again.

           “I’m looking forward to expressing it more emphatically.”

           “I’m not sure how much emphasis this particular setting can tolerate.”

           “I daresay not much. Do you suppose we can leave yet?”

           “You’d know better than I.”

           By now, the guests were milling around the dessert tables and the wait staff was distributing alcohol freely.

           “Let’s risk it,” Satine said decidedly, running her fingertips over the back of his hand. “We’ve made more daring escapes.”

           “Better wait for the Royal Guards to make it to the dessert table, at least, or I won’t hear the end of it,” he advised with an apologetic, lop-sided smile.

           “An acceptable concession.”

           Fortunately, there was not much that would keep the Royal Guards from uj cake, so the retinue was contentedly stuffed with the beloved confection and ready to leave in short order.

           While many in the government and the population at large remained dubious about her husband, it comforted Satine that Obi-Wan had at least found his footing with the group of Protectors who formed the Royal Guard. Juvenile as it seemed, after he’d shown them all up in swordplay and marksmanship, it had taken finding a martial art at which at least some of them could trounce him – Mandalorian kick-boxing – before they softened towards him. The captain had carefully reassigned anyone who was really hostile due to old prejudices, and those remaining formed a tight-knit group that treated Obi-Wan with respect and a kind of fondness. Despite leaving the Order, he was still jetii, but he was their jetii. These days, they didn’t insult him any less, but it was done in much better humor.

           “A goddamned piece of cake is not so much to ask, after all, is it?” the captain inquired, helmet not quite concealing his amused expression.

           “We waited,” Satine protested. They must have been making quite a habit of leaving events early if this was an ongoing source of ribbing.

           “Never mind the captain,” his lieutenant chimed in, holding the heavy door to the hangar. “When cake is involved, he thinks with his stomach and forgets what it means to be young and in love and think with your…”

           Obi-Wan cleared his throat loudly and cast a stern glance at the guard.

           “Your heart,” he concluded defensively.

           “No doubt with the sweet looks they’ve been casting at each other all night, uj cake seems bland by comparison,” the captain agreed.

           Satine felt her cheeks go a little hot at the guards’ teasing and glanced appreciatively at the adorable blush painted across Obi-Wan’s face as well. Even at the risk of further commentary, she couldn’t resist leaning close to press a kiss against his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his flushed skin against her lips. The guards’ chuckles were not too high a price to pay for their security, and though Obi-Wan had certainly proven himself an able bodyguard on countless occasions, there were times that she required his undivided attention.

           One of which was fast approaching, as the guards boarded their starfighters and she and Obi-Wan made their way to their shuttle. It would be a long journey back to Sundari at sublight speed, as the two habitable sister planets in the Mandalore system were at far points in their orbits and intrasystem hyperspace jumps were needlessly risky.

           Obi-Wan headed for the shuttle cockpit, but she wrapped her arms around him from behind, tugging him back into the passengers’ quarters. He stumbled back against the bulkhead, resting his hands lightly at her elbows while she nuzzled eager kisses along his neck and jaw.

           “At least let me set the autopilot,” he pleaded with a breathless laugh.

           “That’s probably for the best,” she agreed reluctantly.

           He started to draw away, and then he caught her glance, his eyes bright and his dimpled smile affectionate. Shaking his head a little, he stepped close again to cup her cheek in his hand and kiss her, soft, lingering, and tasting sweetly of familiar spices, until her knees were weak. He broke the kiss too soon, tearing himself away to go attend to the shuttle controls, and she sank down onto the soft couch to catch her breath. The shuttle lifted from the ground, and Satine caught a glimpse of the familiar constellations of the world where she was born through the viewport. Nothing about Kalevala had felt like home for a long time, but perhaps some lingering sense of nostalgia brought the tune of the old folksong, Ruusaanyc Riduur, back into her mind. And this time, she didn’t think of being forced to dance to it with suitors she despised or enemies she feared, but choosing to dance with her own worthy partner. Their life together was like the dance, careful steps around unseen obstacles and the loving support of each other’s hands. There were words to the song, but she only recalled them in snatches – return to my arms… together, we are home. She was singing it softly, without words, by the time Obi-Wan returned to hers, and he joined her, sitting beside her on the couch and clasping their hands together in the particular attitude of the dance. She felt the vibration of his sweet, clear voice in his chest, his breath on her hair as he pulled her against him, resting his other hand at her waist.

           “I thought you didn’t like it,” he pointed out, kissing her temple as she finished the last phrase of music in a soft hum.

           “I changed my mind,” she declared, tugging him into a kiss, slow and deep, as the music replayed in her mind.

           Together, we are home.

 *     *     *     *     *

[i] I put this together from “dala”/woman and “alor”/ruler to be something like “milady”, “queen”, etc.

 [ii] I’m sure the grammar is a nightmare here, but I don’t know how to conjugate verbs in Mando’a. Literally “Your hired-spouse dance good”, but the speaker is very drunk, so…

 [iii] Won’t find this one in the Mando’a dictionary either, smooshed together from related words as “possessing a pleasing posterior” more or less.

[domina-noctisim-archive]

@frenziedhound uttered:

[ guard ] //probably for before y!0 majima knows her secret ;) ( from  nonverbal memes || NOT ACCEPTING!)

ღ꧁ღ╭⊱ꕥ Beyond the horizon, apollo illumined the glimmering haze of pollution. In the far distance, a contour of the skyline penetrated through the sympathetic radiance like an irregular mountain ridge. Millions of lights caused the dense mass of skyscrapers gleam. People were needle points and automobiles were serum cells moving through the city’s veins. Feral and idyllic pulchritude contemplated her own silhouette in the mirror, setting the ultimate techniques on the vermilion makeup that comprised her audacious black attire and hypnotic presence. After putting on the adornments, Ai settled on her coat and left the residence. 

The club was near her environs. Heels hit the tarmac, pavement, conquering the alertness of some people who happened to pass by, some could barely look away from her. Majima had earned a gold deposit! In her first month, the profit increased considerably. Many were those who sought her company. She easily lured customers with her enchantment and incited acrimony in her co-workers. Some alleged that the sovereign was Goro’s protégé, utterly succumbed to her bewitcheries, seduced by her enigmatic gaze. Ai was just doing her job, bestowing loyalty and gratitude. Thanks to Majima she was managing to lead a more or less conventional life, adapting herself to society. However, appetite was becoming increasingly difficult to dominate. She couldn’t remember the last time she had ingested hemoglobin. Denial of her primary demands could have vicious and pernicious consequences. How long was she going to be able to conceal her nature from him? She hated lying, but for now, it was the only option.

Instead of adhering to the conventional passage, she opted for a dimly lit alternative that’d take her straight to the workplace. What kind of patrons she’d get besides the common ones? Every night she met new people, socialized with the ambiguous part of human society. Widowers, bachelors, espoused, gangsters, courtesans aching to get some of her company, paying well for courteous words or a sympathetic touch. ❝Perfume.❞ Thought, taking a petite bottle from her handbag and spraying her collar promptly. As if her natural fragrance wasn’t irresistible enough. Her trail was obstructed by two men who emerged from the umbrae, visages dimly lit by luminescence. Vampiress didn’t know who they were, but their idiosyncrasies and appearance implied that they were delinquents. She tried to get past them, but once again her way was hindered. An opportunity to absorb fresh serum? 

❝Let me through, please.❞ Whispered courteously, not wanting to get into superfluous antagonisms. Ai didn’t want to be late or leave Goro concerned about her absenteeism. ❝No. First, I need you to answer some questions.❞ A raucous voice pronounced, perilous stare solidified on hers. They seemed to know who she was. ❝Do you work for Majima Goro? Are you his new bitch? Bloody rose?❞ Bloody Rose was how she was becoming perceived due to her peculiar appearance. A rose with an enthralling fragrance and full of thorns, imperceptible to some. ❝It’s not your business.❞ Acknowledged in a sour, antagonistic timbre, showing no fear. Did they know her boss? And why the sudden interest in her? A homicidal hand grasps her delicate neck and thrusts her against the wall without empathy. They’d use violence, she could exhale the blood upon his crust. ❝Answer me before I break your gorgeous face.❞

A rather sadistic grin surfaced upon her supernal countenance, almost as if she were defying him, motivating, supporting the violator to hit her immaculate surface. ❝I’m already late. Let me go. And I don’t know anyone.❞ Repeated with the same accent, crimson hues exhibiting her menace. The pure-blood wasn’t going to reveal what they wished. Protecting Goro was one of her priorities, even though he didn’t need any kind of surveillance. ❝I’ll teach you a lesson bitch.❞ Available hand appeared to wander her waist abruptly. She had only two prospects: Give in or annihilate them both in the blink of an eye. The assailant was going to lower his palm when a punch hit him, freeing the vampiress. How did he get there without her perceiving his presence? ❝———— M-Majima-san.❞ She was gazing at him in wonder, inhaling the blood’s redolence that spluttered out. He had arrived at the perfect moment...

❝I’ll kill you later Majima. First this bitch.❞ Grabbing a pocket knife, he decided to assault. Ai due to her metaphysical velocity, successfully deflected his attempts of a massacre, almost as if she were hovering around him. ❝Is my comely head a premium?❞ Inquired nearing Goro. Both would be safe if they sojourned close to each other. Evidently, he was there to protect Ai from peril and she was going to do exactly the same. ❝I’ll murder both of you.❞ The other’s partner finally declared with a revolver in his hand, pointing at them. Without faltering, he hurled a bullet that, according to the vampire’s prognosis, would hit her esteemed manager.

❝You wish…❞ Pallid palm was elevated, forming a telekinetic sphere and causing the bullet to annul its course, piercing its owner’s torso. With a groan, he collapsed and blood began to appear upon the platform, staining it. Initial aggressor, consumed by panic ran to impale the knife in the immortal’s abdomen, which without great difficulty, neutralized him twisting her arm. ❝He’s untouchable——❞ Ai slashes his esophagus with the sharp blade, gushing blood over herself. After all, who had protected whom?

❝I’m sorry. You behold such brutality.❞ Bloody palm tenderly grabs his hand. Princess was trembling due to the epinephrine infusion provided by that upheaval. ❝I should erase some of your remembrances but that would be improper.❞ Probably he was disoriented. ❝I can’t lie anymore, can I?❞ Almost by magic, she turned the cadavers into ashes. ❝They know who am I and who you’re. Dark times are approaching us.❞ A wistful smile ensued upon her seraphic physiognomy. ❝I appreciate your protection. Arigatou for coming.❞ Blessed, sympathetic digits caressing his grimace in a resilient form. ❝Demo, I think we’ll need to protect each other.❞

Tune:  5 Seconds Of Summer - Youngblood

[stirringwinds]

Ooh but I think Yao and Arthur’s interactions during the Opium Wars would be hella interesting. What are your thoughts on their relationship at this time??

have this brief snapshot:

Peking, 1860

The seal of the Qing Empire is a crimson square inlaid with stylised Chinese characters, bold and red against the white of the treaty paper.

Red, for joy and good luck, Yao had casually explained to him once, when he had been in Peking during the Lunar New Year. Red, for fire.

Like the flames that had consumed the Old Summer Palace, kindled by his very own soldiers.

Next to the young prince standing in for the emperor, the elder nation is a cold and silent shadow garbed in the customary dark blue silk of a court official, his hair pulled back into the traditional Manchu-style braid favoured by his rulers. 

His face is carefully schooled into one of blank neutrality, but Arthur can see the baleful resentment that stirs in his dark eyes. 

“I am pleased that our outstanding issues have now been resolved diplomatically.” Arthur keeps his voice mild. No need to create a scene, after all, as the victor. Still, he feels a childish, vicious sense of satisfaction at the flash of anger that remark ignites in the other man’s gaze.

So, he doesn’t expect the chuckle. Yao’s smile is wide, all teeth. Arthur thinks of the maw of the serpentine stone dragon that decorates the imperial gardens. 

When the older nation finally speaks, his English is accented but correct and precise.

“You know, I still remember the very old times. With Daqin.” Great Qin. Rome, Yao means. But his countenance is more contemplative than nostalgic. “Once, I remarked to him that it was a good thing that we were both far apart enough that the boundaries of empires did not meet. Or that I would soon have to cut his throat—or he, mine.” 

“As is the way of our world.” He thinks of Francis. “Proximity lends itself to no friendships.”

“Indeed. And now, Daqin is long gone.” In that moment, Yao’s eyes are jarringly ancient against the youth of his face. Dark irony dances in them. “Whereas I have endured long enough for one of his bastard sons to fulfil that destiny.”

Bastard. It doesn’t really sting anymore. He has grown used to it. His siblings had hurled it at him often enough. The cuckoo child, the changeling, they’d sneered. Idly, he wonders whether Rome had ever spoken to his contemporary of his most distant province all that time ago. 

For that was what the elder nation was. He thinks of Kiku’s descriptions of the man who had forged together a vast empire that stretched from the Pacific to the Central Asian steppes with both the sword and the relentless tedium of bureaucracy. The same man who nows stands defeated before him. 

He thinks also of the charred remains of the Old Palace in the present. Of London before it was London, eighteen hundred years ago. Of fire. 

“My very own mother razed the cities Rome built on my land. Swore vengeance against him for the blood of all before me that he spilled. I would not exactly consider him my father.” 

There are dark circles under his eyes, but Yao’s stare is sharp and calculating.

“And yet you have moulded yourself in his image,” the older nation observes. “A vast maritime empire all across the known world, that Daqin had only dreamed of.”

[divinitybreathed]

@g-viirus liked !

              no betrayal of expression, a web of neutrality and blankness woven open countenance, revealing little in the way of thought. the mojave heat is cruel, vicious in her assault against their bodies. he’s already lost one to dehydration. it he had the capacity to feel pity, perhaps it would have replaced the contempt for a fool’s error. it’s suffocating beneath the mongrel’s hood, and he sweeps it down with an unspoken casualness to it. 

                 too casual, for a man with boots painted in deep crimson and the sickness of brutality staining his hands. they found her in one of the old buildings, blending into the disastrous remains of a forgotten world. he’d watched, then, as his men had dragged her into the light, presented her like the spoils of war. what to do with her was all that remained to be seen. head canted, white - blonde tuffs of hair clinging to his scalp. waiting, eyes hidden behind the cover of tinted goggles. 

[atomic-lexa]

Ummm can I request a follow up to the Maxson/bad bitch sole bc that pairing gives me life. We love a flustered elder. I need them to be together. Ugh.

I’ll admit I’m not super happy with how the first part turned out😕Nothing wrong with a lil self-indulgent fic, but I just don’t feel like I really delved into the depths that I feel in Arthur’s character. So IF I am to turn this into a series- even just a two-parter it will NOT be half-assed one!! So I’ve revamped this one. Okay thank you te amo a todos and enjoy!!

Part One: Not Your Soldier

Ad Gloria

(Arthur Maxson/Sole Survivor)

Mornings were easy enough to get through, with some coffee and lots of internal monologue fit to inspire masses. Maxson’s mind buzzed with the sights and sounds of the ship. Boots scuffing metal, and the persistent hum of the moving parts within the heart of the Prydwen. Quiet, serious conversations mumbled low between senior officers, and enthused banter among recruits over breakfast. The ever-present stream of new hearts and mind into his military was a soothing enough thought. The paperwork was a bitch, but nevertheless. Some new initiates fell in seamlessly, adorning their files with flowery notes from their sponsors, while others maintained their enigmatism. The Elder’s natural attraction to solitude made these certain trainees appeal to him. The urge to sate a curiosity, of sorts- even if he dismissed it as merely keeping an eye on them.

He had to admit, his curiosity was noxious when it came to Sole. Maxson was experienced in cloaking his demeanor in apathy, but there was something captivating about the Django-Jane before him. Some equilibrium between explosive, and never making a move too soon that she seemed adept at. The pernicious met the pedantic when she boarded his ship. Clad in Brotherhood armor and a discontent expression, she had a character he wanted to call childish, but settled on valiant. It all suited her well. Every interaction beyond debriefings and day-time acknowledgements in passing were matched by less on-the-books exchanges between the two of them- typically in shadowed corridors where the murmur of ship’s aliveness blanketed their own conversations. He never could seem to slip past that armor and discontent expression.

Following a series of scoldings and disciplinary actions he’d recycled from vexatious Squires, Maxson promised himself he was constantly on the brink of stripping Sole of her rank and earning himself rebuking rights against the Paladin. However, with every mission she wiped from his roster, he found her to be an increasingly indispensable asset. This worried him. Like it or not, she had a foot in the door, which pissed him off endlessly. In her company, though, he was nothing more than somewhat frustrated, allowing her the reigns for whatever controversial dialogue she decided to ignite that day. 

This night, however, she’d returned from her detail with Danse without so much as a sarcastic comment passed to Proctor Quinlan. He was alerted by a young Knight that she was on the flight deck. It wasn’t necessarily uncommon for a soldier who’d seen something horrific in battle to threaten flinging themselves from the rails to an anticlimactic death on the airport’s grounds. Maxson took a sip of his black coffee, and set aside his files- preparing himself to go to her captivated, and walk away from her prideless. Her eyes were clouded, not the glazed napalm he’d come to know. Something familiar to him took shape in her posture, leaned against the railing of the Prydwen’s chest. She was worn, and scarred, to be sure, but no more defeated by the avaricious expanses of the wasteland below them. Sarah Lyons had the same look about her. Certainly, someone like that only appeared once in a life time. Vicious and virtuous in their own right, subservient to the cause, but master of only themselves. His former mentor’s Sentinel-quality of taking the gnashing teeth of the Capital Wasteland into her own two hands before coming home to teach him all she’d learned. He wondered what Sole could have learned in the slow and unforgiving cruelty of her life. It was daunting, even for him. Especially for him. With the valiant, came their tragic heroism. Subsequently, their death. 

So, yes. Perhaps he would rather brave the insubordination of the woman before him in stead of seeing her flame extinguished.

At a lazy tempo, he made his way over to her, in attempt to warn her of his being there. If she took notice, she didn’t make it known. “It seems you do make a habit of wandering my ship at night.” To match her, he rested his eyes on the blackness of the poisoned ocean. It reached vastly from the light of the Prydwen, into a cold and uninviting night.

“I do.” She replied, seeming focused on something he couldn’t see. She was still covered in blood, from whatever she had battled earlier in the day. It shown dark and crimson on her skin, and the ballistic fiber of her suit.

‘”And why is it you do that?” He tried to make it sound rhetorical.

“Why is it you don’t act your age?” She remarked dryly. At least she hadn’t lost her aptitude for being difficult. Any other moment he would have insisted she watch her tone. But the jarring reality of seeing Sarah in her had been admittedly disarming.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know, actually. Too exhausted, I suppose.”

Sole’s gaze pulled from the obsidian sky and found its way to him. The heaviness of the view before him was the only thing on his mind. He would forgo telling her she was the thing that exhausted him, for the tiredness on her own countenance. “That’s almost as depressing as the food in this boat.” She muttered under her breath. With that, he laughed. Such wasn’t a mercy he knew very often. She tilted her head, a bit of suspicion on her features.

“I’ve been preoccupied with the showering situation.” He responded. Maybe it was her persistent apathy that had him throwing away the stakes and tucking away all the fucks he was supposed to give in the revealing daylight.

“Yeah, that shit show too.” Sole said. Silence settled, before she turned her head to him again. “You know,” She added. “When I first met you I thought you were a prick.”

He raised his eyebrows at the unadulterated abrasiveness. “Yes. I concluded that much.”

“Well. You’re not that much of a prick. You’re just rigid as fuck.” She said with the finality of a doctor diagnosing her patient. He wanted to laugh again, but he settled for a small grin.

And you’re absolutely unmanageable. Forbearant as ever, he kept the words behind his teeth. He sighed, leaning on the railing beside her. Sole’s wrists were exposed from the rolled-up sleeves of her jumpsuit, and he studied the goosebumps that dappled them. If she hadn’t caught some sickness from ground-zero, she certainly would by morning. Taking a step back, he tugged his coat off his shoulders; her watching him the whole time. He placed it around her frame and trusted it wouldn’t be uncomfortably heavy.

“You remind me of someone I knew, once.” He said, without knowing why he did, re-settling against the cold steel.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” She said, the statement, following his actions, seeming to throw her off.

He shrugged. “It’s admirable. If rather mutinous.”

“You cope better than Danse, then, if admirable’s how you put it.” He was painfully mindful of the modest inches she had closed between them.

He smiled again, understatedly. “Hm. I imagine you’ve given him a migraine or two.”

Now, it was her turn to laugh. Despite her apt for comedy, her laugh had never rung in his ears prior to this moment. He felt more relaxed to view their exchange as less of the struggle it usually was. He found it shockingly easy to seep into her way of flowy banter, rather than being, well, rigid as fuck.

“You can say that again. I haven’t given you any migraines, have I, Sir?” She offered, disarmingly sweet, her face close to his, eyes searching his own. Looking for what, he didn’t know.

“Perpetually, actually. Since you came. I suppose I’m just forgiving, in that regard.” He replied.

“Can I make it up to you?” She smiled, nose moving ever-closer to his. 

“Perhaps. How many more details do you intend to apply for?”

“I told you,” She smirked. “I’m not a soldier. But if you let me keep the coat, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Ad Victoriam, then, Knight.”

“Ad Gloria, Commander.”

So as to say that victory was not enough for her hungry mind. It sparked like matches in his chest. Maybe that was what it was to act his age- the aspect of glory, and freedom from the shackles of responsibility. It was too tantalizing- and all took form in this obstreperous woman. It was too easy to fall into her lips, in the vast blackness of the uninviting night.