#i want them dead and i want their bones to nourish the land

[ruthlesslistener]

The most disgusting fucking thing that zionists keep circling in response to palestinian suffering and people crying for an end to a genocide is the fucking cries about the thousand killed on october 7th

I don't care how many settlers died. I don't care. I don't care because 1,000 dead does not ever equate to 100,000 murdered and lost. It doesn't equate to all the horrendous suffering and the torture that Israel inflicts on innocents. It doesn't equate because human lives are not a fucking math equation and yet it becomes extremely fucking apparent that to these people it is because they view palestinian lives as so much lesser than those of the settlers that thousands of them cannot pay back the life of one colonizer

'Civilians shouldn't be killed' is the most neutral thing that can be said about a war and is IMPLICIT to saying that the Hamas attack on october 7th was poorly planned. But when israeli civilians are actively participating in the genocide of people they already were tormenting then it becomes really fucking hard to think of the people killed as innocents, and when they are being used as the justification to set military dogs on 4 year olds and to selectively target and destroy safe havens and ignore peace treaties then it is altogether. I dont care that nearly two thousand filthy fucking colonizers died because there is NO justification for the river of blood spilled in retribution, nor the painting of a race of people as terrorists despite only a scant handful of them being willing to bloody their hands in retribution for decades of torment

[llamagoddessofficial]

I saw the notes of that last post, the spiderweb thing... Sans looks lonely there, just watching..

Hweee.... idk why the Portal AU in particular is so inspiring for me. It just is. 

Warning: some Spicy Angst in here

--

... i feel nothing.

The majority of his consciousness acted like a net, a web of channels and thoughts and commands that stretched over vast areas of the underground laboratory, monitoring and checking and surveying trillions of times a second. Red was charged with the repairing and maintenance of the test chambers and inner workings of the facility, so Sans didn’t have as much to do as he once did alone... but he was still busy, still making his way through an infinite checklist. It remained his job to oversee everything, ensure that it was up to scratch, that not a hair was out of place...

... That he didn’t have time to think.

...

... A small part of him, the absolute core of his mind, remained in one spot. Not by choice. He was tied here- to the physical shell his consciousness had been unwillingly uploaded into all those years ago. Every part of him, no matter how far it reached, was forced to interconnect back to this single spot.

...

It resembled a skeleton, supported in a standing position by reinforced bars around its middle. What a cruel joke; putting him in a robotic mockery of his old biological body. Flawless white metallic bones interconnected with smooth navy wiring, pristine in a modern and ugly way- whichever scientist had designed it must’ve had an eye for brutalist aesthetics. It was a pity they didn’t have an eye for morality... it would’ve been interesting to ask them how they came up with the design they did. Too bad they were too busy being dead to entertain any of Sans’ questions.

... The body was placed in the centre of a large, dark cylindrical chamber, untouched and unentered since the day he took control and eagerly wiped out his tormentors. Protruding out of the body and connecting into the walls and ceiling were thousands upon thousands of black wires, thick and thin alike, like an ugly dark spider’s web with him at the centre. They had to fit a lab’s worth of connections to one human-sized figure, after all. They ejected from his spine, his shoulder blades, elbows, the back of his skull, like great masses of jet black string, 1900s telephone wires... so many came from his head, in fact, that part of his smooth white skull plate had been removed to better facilitate the connection. The upper quarter of his face, just connecting his right socket, was left with the black machinery bare to the world...

like someone had cracked his skull open. heh.

...

... He was immobile. The wires that held him in place, the chains, were ironically his life support. If even one disconnected it would cause any number of potentially fatal malfunctions that could do anything from wiping chunks of his memory to causing a complete reactor meltdown to just... killing him on the spot.

...

He wasn’t even sure why the scientists who’d made this body had given it the option to move if it was so obviously never going to. The spider at the centre of the web was choked by his own metallic silk. So he remained bound, he remained frozen... the only parts of him moving as years slipped by being the little white lights in his sockets and, rarely, the tips of his phalanges.

...

... It didn’t matter that he could single-handedly maintain a city-sized enrichment centre. That he could control a reactor core while manufacturing turrets and bots in the hundreds, while creating new tests and interacting with multiple subjects. Because in the end... he was still trapped.

...

He always told himself he had no cause for complaint. He could move the entire rest of the facility- every part of it was under his command. He was a God, down in the laboratory, he could create and destroy as he so pleased. So long as he was distracted elsewhere in the lab, so long as his eyes and ears were occupied and busy, he could pretend like nothing was even wrong.

...

...

It was why slow nights where everything was going well were the worst.

He had nothing to do. Nothing to concentrate on. Red was handling whatever needed to be done in the core and around the test rooms, no major faults could be found in the systems or supports. There was no sign of either the escaped subject H4 or that... monster wandering the lower levels. And so, naturally, his awareness had returned to the place where the core of his being was locked; the ugly mass of wiring in a sealed, pitch black chamber in the heart of the facility.

His facility. His world. His plaything. His home. 

His prison.

...

His eyelights glanced an inch off to the side, and a robotic arm rose up from the floor close by. It unfolded, revealing a screen that moved close to his stationary face and blinked into life, a sudden burst of light in the usually oppressively dark chamber. It illuminated his skull, his permanently smiling mouth, the tree of cables sprouting from his form casting bizarre and thin shadows across the walls.

... The screen flickered between several channels, before landing on the one he’d been searching for.

...

It was the live feed from the camera in your relaxation chamber. His eyelights dilated a fraction as they focused on your form, wrapped in blankets on your bed. In an instant, part of his awareness reached out to that relaxation chamber... it integrated itself into the system, the walls, the radio and speakers, even the lamp by your bedside... blanketing your room.

... Immediately, he began to bury himself in all the information he could about how you were at that moment. Your heartbeat and breathing were slow and regular, your eyelids were still, suggesting you were in the deep stage of sleep. heart rate 55 bpm. life signs: stable. brain activity low.

You were pretty tightly bound in the blankets, curled up a little, perhaps you were too cold? He increased the temperature of the room by a few degrees. 

core temperature 37c, 98.6f. body mass and nourishment sufficient; paler skin, more vitamin d required. consider supplement tablets or increased uv exposure.

... A supply bot was going to pass by the outside of your chamber in a few moments. He redirected it, in case it disturbed you.

i miss warmth. i miss sleeping.

...

You rolled over, some of the covers slipping away a little. He could see your shoulders, and neck.

... heart rate 54 bpm. life signs: stable. brain activity low.

...

... Your face was so peaceful.

...

it’s not fair. 

You nuzzled into the pillow a little.

i want to touch her. i want to touch her skin. i want to touch her hair.

Emotions that once would’ve translated into physical pains were instead restricted to only his mind, wreaking untold havoc on a consciousness that was, at its core, organic. 

why can’t i feel anything? why did they take that away from me? i never wanted this.

Secluded in an artificial body, forced into a state of constant mental deterioration... eternally collapsing in on itself, but never able to die.

why did they do this to me?

it’s not fair. she looks so warm. so soft. i can’t even remember what warm or soft feels like. i can’t remember what anything feels like anymore. i can’t remember. i can’t remember

He couldn’t even reach up to touch the screen. His eyelights remained zeroed in on your sleeping face.

please help me

With no ability to detect physical sensations on his skeletal body, Sans was unaware of the streaks of black dripping from his sockets, reflecting the flickering light of the screen.

h̸e̶l̴̬̉p̴ m̴e̷ ,

...

WARNING: Core instability detected. Emotional Sphere compromised. Commencing system refresh...

...

Reboot complete. Welcome back, Sans.

[sadoeuphemist]

Inside the whale, Jonah held fast to his principles “Let me die,” he prayed incessantly. “Let me be judged by a just and righteous God who punishes the wicked and defiant. No more of these bullshit second chances! When the men who conspired against Daniel were thrown into the lions’ den themselves, did the lions cradle them gently in their bellies until they repented? Of course not! So withdraw your mercy from me, Lord! Undo this miracle! And let this fish devour me!”

He continued ranting like this in the darkness and the damp, until finally the whale responded. Its voice rose up from all round him in a warm convulsion of air, vibrated through its bones, undulated the flesh beneath him.

“Um, actually,” it said, “I’m a vegetarian.”

---

As it turned out, the whale was ancient, from a time before the Flood when animals had not yet known to eat flesh. Despite its great size, the whale subsisted solely on plankton, and carried Jonah with an intestinal tranquility as it floated through the seas.  

“I was meant to go to Nineveh, that cesspit of a city,” Jonah told it, huddling in his wet clothes, “prophesying destruction for their wickedness. But you know what’ll happen if I do? Finally faced with the threat of consequence, they’ll all whimper and repent, and God in all his endless mercy will forgive them.” He shook his dripping locks. “I’d rather die. How can generations of wickedness be forgiven, just like that? Better that Nineveh be razed to the ground, and I die here in your belly for my defiance.” 

“Hmm, that’s an awful bloodthirsty creed you go by,” remarked the whale, its voice rumbling through him like distant thunder. “As I see it, if Nineveh repents, that’s only a good thing! The city’s huge, there’s over a hundred twenty thousand animals living there. You want them all to die?”

Jonah snorted. “Animals? Who cares about the animals?”

“Well, I do,” said the whale, “seeing as how I’m an animal myself.”

“Animals die all the time,” said Jonah. “They slaughter those animals in Nineveh, you know? That’s what they’re for! Even in nature, wolf eats sheep, lion eats gazelle, big fish eats littler fish and so on. It’s a bloodthirsty world! Which is why mercy for the wicked should have no place in it!” 

“Doesn’t have to be so bloodthirsty, is my point. You’re a prophet. Don’t you believe the prophesies? The wolf dwelling with the lamb, the lion with the calf, both chewing contentedly on straw. A better world is possible. I should know. I’ve seen it! We can have a green grazing world of harmony once again, if we work towards it.”

Jonah sat fuming. “Fat lot of good that does for all the innocents here and now,” he said. “Explain to me why I should be spared - why a voracious empire built on corpses like Nineveh should be spared - while some sinless sparrow gets torn apart by the hawk’s talons.” 

“Listen,” said the whale. “I understand well the cruelty of the world. At the end of my days I myself shall be eaten by the Leviathan. I’m terrified of that, of course. The terror of his teeth, his burning eyes the last thing I’ll ever see. But even in that carnage there’s the knowledge that at least I will have gone to feed something greater than myself - that my body will stoke the furnace of his belly and form the brightness of his scales, and that his tail will thrash on and his splendor will go on undiminished, proof of the glory of the Lord.

“But if Nineveh dies, and all the animals and men and women and little children in it, well, what will be nourished by that?” 

Jonah sat in sullen silence.

“We must believe that a better world is possible,” implored the whale. “I am living proof of it! I float through the flashing silver-scaled oceans of the world, harming nothing and no one, and all around me the good green clouds of plankton serve for food. You must imagine it, brother! Every bird of the sky and every creature that swims in the seas and crawls on the earth, dwelling together in harmony, and every plant yielding seed and every tree and its fruit and every green plant given up to us for food in abundance! What’s the point of believing in God, if you can’t believe in that?”

---

After three days and nights inside the whale, Jonah relented, and vowed to fulfill his duty. The whale coughed him up onto dry land, and Jonah made his way to Nineveh, for a full day walked through the thronging city calling out that in forty days would be their destruction. As he had foreseen, they repented. All the Ninevites in the city, young and old (including the more than one hundred and twenty thousand animals) covered themselves in sackcloth and called on God’s mercy and fasted.

Jonah threw up his hands and shrugged and made his way out of Nineveh to the wastes, and set up camp there waiting to see what would happen.

The sun beat down relentlessly. God made a green gourd plant grow, with slender stems that climbed like vines, shooting up from the earth to grow gracefully until they were taller than a man, with broad cooling leaves that shaded Jonah, and he sat in the green and sunshine-dappled shadow of the leaves, and for the first time in a long time he was happy. And then God sent a worm to gnaw away at the roots of the plant, and it died.

Jonah woke the next day to find the plant withered. The sun blazed down on his scalp. A scorching wind swept over him. The broad smooth leaves were shriveled and brown, the stem crumbling and twisted. A fat satisfied worm lay at its roots, all the life of the plant gone into it, and Jonah looked down at the bloated pale thing, and screamed and howled to match the scorching east wind.

“You’re mad?” God said to him. “Is it right that you’re this angry about a plant?”

“It is!” said Jonah. His blood beat in his ears and he felt as though he might pass out. “I’m so mad I wish I were dead!”

“So you care about this plant, though you did nothing to tend it or make it grow. It sprung from the ground overnight, and died overnight. And yet should I not spare the great city of Nineveh, with over a hundred and twenty thousand people still too young to tell their right hand from their left - and just as many animals!” said God, and then relented. “It was a pretty good plant. You’re not wrong about that.”

[the-silentium]

Bloodhound

Masterlist - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Fors is an Original planet. I do not give permission to people to use it for their own fics, the planet, the animals, the Nightmares, the lore or anything related to Fors. Thank you.

Pairing: Bad Batch x Reader

Words: 5172 words

Warnings: Blood, gore, curse, monsters, ANGST.

A/N: Yessss two chaps in two days!! Thanks to every single one of you who left comments and kuddos on the previous chap. You're all awesome 💜

**Also! Words in bold are words said in French, which means the clones can't understand it. I stopped writing the French in actual French for you guys, it'll be more useful in the future.**

Taglist:  @haloangel391​ / @lightning-wolffe​ / @cherrydemon5​ / @and-claudia​ / @clone-rambles​ / @mandaloriandin​ / @lackofhonor / @gaymasonjar

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

//25 minutes earlier//

"That's not him! Guys!" You yelled in the comlink you fished in your pocket in a haste, almost making yourself trip when you pulled on the fabric of your pants at the same time.

The gap separating you from them was increasing more and more with each step they took. Damn their long legs and commando training, you weren't made to chase this kind of prey!

"I know his voice Y/N! That's him!" Wrecker was too damn sure of himself, his confidence affecting his brothers' judgment as well. 

It didn't take long for rule number one to be thrown overboard and surprisingly it wasn't by the one you expected, no offense Techie. 

"Stay under the trees!"

This couldn't be happening. They were all running headfirst to their deaths. According to the lore, Venustes didn't affect more than one person at a time. You couldn't know for sure if the lore was reliable or if the other three were following out of concern for the fake 99, but they had to snap out of their own mind trap soon or else they would all be dragged down. 

"H-" A clawed hand appeared inches from your face, cutting short your attempt to call out for your sergeant. 

Instinctively, you threw your body to the ground to avoid getting grabbed by the head and ultimately being crushed like a berry in its grasp and crawled to continue running. Alas, the Algax wasn't as dumb as you thought, his other hand swiftly reached forward to stab your right thigh with one of its fingers, preventing you from escaping. 

Your screams of pain were muffled by the hand pinning your face to the dirt, waiting before your lungs were empty of any air to lace its long sharp digits around your torso. The feeling barely registered through the thick fog of pain coming from your thigh. 

Your first instinct was to yell at the top of your lungs for help, maybe your distress would get them out of their haze, saving their lives as well as yours, but you quickly found out that your lungs were empty and unable to expand to receive more oxygen. 

The lack of air in your system mixed with the agonizing pain from the retreating talon in your thigh almost knocked you unconscious. You could feel your blood escaping your wound to drip down your legs and nourish the ground under your suspended form. 

It leaned closer, a low crackling sound escaped the slits on its temples. With considerable efforts, your good leg moved up to push against its torso to keep its horrifying face away from yours, the up-close view causing more tears to gather in your eyes. 

Fear and the lack of oxygen quickly took over your body in the form of violent shivers shooking your whole frame. The building pressure encompassing you once more was excruciating, your bow laid on the ground out of reach while your arms were pinned down along your sides, keeping you from stabbing your way out of the situation. 

All you could do was scream in your head out of pain and fear, waiting until your bones gave up under the tightening grasp to pierce your organs and kill you slowly. The boys seemed way too entranced to come to your aid, leaving you to feel as miserable as when you were hunting for the village, without back up and entirely alone. If you were lucky, you'd die alone without another beast feasting on your still alive-but-unable-to-move self. This would be a nice death, as horrible as it sounded. 

You hoped the boys would survive though. Even if they apparently totally forgot that you were there. Not that this came to you as a surprise. People who gravitate around you for some time always tend to go away on their own, leaving you behind just like the clones. But you couldn't hate them for it, your heart already knew it was coming and had prepared itself for this right moment. 

After all, they had to lie to their chain of command and train a primitive idiot how to fly a ship, they were trapped on this infernal planet once again because you nearly died and they hadn't seen the Shinehorn sneaking its way into their ship, being too busy fussing over your comatose self. Oh and let's not forget that you ended an innocent's life right in front of them without warning. It was only a matter of time before they left. 

Plus, if they were so desperate to meet this 99, it surely meant that he was highly special to them whereas you were the newbie, so no you weren't mad. You merely wished you had someone who could make you forget everything around like this 99. It seemed nice to have someone that important.  

And finally, if you died maybe you would find a way to come back to haunt them. This could be fun, you could mess with Crosshair's rifle, disturb Tech while he was tweaking with his prototypes, pushing Wrecker around to your liking because he couldn't possibly defend himself against you anymore and most important of all, you could mess with Hunter by constantly untying his goddamn bandana. It would drive them all mad, you knew it. 

After some thoughts, you knew they would make it off this planet alive. Together they had a good chance. Hunter's acute senses along with their brains and elite commando training gave them an advantage the natives never had. Hopefully, they would stay in these parts of the jungle until daylight, where they knew how to deal with the monsters living around. 

Yeah... Good luck guys. 

Eyes closed, you waited for the inevitable snaps of your bones. It resonated between the trees, sickening and disgusting you to the core, but you weren't flooded under any more pain than the one radiating from your thigh. Instead, you felt nauseous for a whole second when you were once again thrown away, landing on the ground harshly. 

Your body rolled on the dirt, bouncing a couple of times under the force of impact. For as far as you remembered there wasn't a single time in your life when you've been thrown around as much as tonight. This was getting tiring and it’s been dark for only a bit more than two hours. Lucky you. 

Still laying on your back, you breathed erratically to provide the much-needed oxygen to your organs, watching upside down the Algax receiving a second arrow to the head, effectively scaring it away. 

A hunter. You were saved. You were fine. 

Huffing, your body went limp at the lack of imminent danger and talons menacing your life. Maybe you could rest-

"Shit. She's really alive?" A hunter you recognized as Farlan walked out of the shadows to slowly approach your form like you were a trapped animal. 

"So it's true then. It's your fault they're back." Another Hunter spat, literally, missing your face by an inch. Kerth never liked you, obviously. 

You would have liked to say that those were the hunters you desperately wanted to come and rescue you, but then it would be a lie. None of them appreciated your presence even slightly so they all meant the same thing. This will be a drag. 

"Now, who's back? And why is it always my fault?" You pushed on your forearm to sit straight, grunting at the pain in your right leg. 

Shit. The hole left by the talon wasn't big, approximately two inches wide, but it was bleeding profusely. It was sickening to be able to see the ground through your flesh so you opted to keep pressure on the wound with your hands, camouflaging the hole like it wasn't even there. If only the pain could disappear as easily...

"The nightmares. They're back because you're still alive." Kerth pulled a piece of gauze from a pocket on his belt, the sight of the medical supply pulled a relieved sigh out of you. 

Wait what?

"So the council wants a word." He said with so much venom that your heart skipped a beat. This wasn't good. At. All. 

Before you could react, the gauze found its way in your mouth, quickly followed by an irritating rope that despite your weak thrashing around got attached behind your head. 

You were brutally pushed onto your belly, hands pulled behind your back to be attached tightly with skillful fingers. A muffled scream escaped your mouth when a knee pressed onto your wounded thigh, tears joining your blood on the dirt. 

"Because of you, I've lost friends tonight. I'll make sure to pay you a visit once the council is done with your stupid ass." He growled in your ear. 

Oh, you were so dead. Your bet was on the council, but if by some miracle they weren't the one to put an end to your life, then Kerth was the next bet. Maybe you shouldn't have sabotaged his weapons the day of the hunt competition. Or put some poison ivy in his hunting clothes. Or laugh whole-heartedly when he got shit on by a Furant during his ceremonial speech in front of the whole village. Or… one of the numerous pranks you pulled on him for payback of his daily shitty attitude towards you.

Farlan was the one to pull you up and push you forward, leaving the job to spot the monsters to Kerth. The thought of running or fighting was completely futile. You wouldn't run very far with your untreated leg, there was the possibility that they would shoot you down out of spite too. They seemed very fed up at you for some reason. How could you be the cause of the nightmares reappearing? Also, they were gone? Since when?!

This was getting weirder and weirder. 

_________________

//Present - 10:48 pm//

"I got her position. She's close” The corners of Wrecker’s lips lifted slightly. They could track you, everything would be fine from here. You weren’t lost. “and unmoving." The whispered last words rang loud and clear in all the clones' ears.

Wrecker's breath wasn't the only one to abruptly stop. 

The smile quickly left his face, as well as a majority of his blood. You couldn’t be dead. This couldn’t be happening. 

“Where?” Hunter’s hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly around his blaster,

“700 meters that way.” He pointed deeper into the jungle, where they all came from. 

A weight fell on his stomach and he had to force a deep breath in. You hadn’t made it out of the jungle with them. They had outrun you and left you behind on your own. 

Without a word Hunter took the lead, Tech following right behind with Crosshair on his heels. Wrecker took a single second to gulp down his guilt and shake his arms lightly to regain feeling in his body and not worsen his wounds. He followed silently behind the group, squinting attentively to discern the shadows with his half working equipment.

“300 meters.”

You were resourceful. You knew your planet like the back of your hand. There was no way you were dead. 

“100.”

Please 99. Don’t let her be dead.

Crosshair stumbled on Tech as the brown-haired clone abruptly stopped, looking around like he was searching for something. With a step forward, Tech crouched to grab a small object on the ground to show it to the rest of them. 

“Kriff!” Hunter punched a nearby tree, exhausted by this succession of ill-fated events. There in Tech’s hand was your comlink, their only way of locating you on this living prison that was this planet. 

Wrecker held onto the last hope he had. There wasn’t any blood, you could still be fine. Maybe you’d dropped your comlink while running away. 

“Hunter.” Crosshair’s voice was unsettling. His usual dry snarky self was replaced by a more small and scared tone that the soldier hadn’t heard in a while. “That’s a lot of blood.” 

And it was. The puddle was big enough and it looked like you'd struggled quite a bit in it too.

The world was spinning. He knew battalions lost men every time they went out on missions. It was a common occurrence for soldiers to die and the remaining ones had to suck it up ad continue the fight. But Wrecker wasn’t used to this. From the very beginning, they were the four of them, surviving each mission thrown their way to fight another day. He never got attached to anyone out of his Batch but you and losing his first comrade in the field hit him hard. 

Sure, the death of 99 left him in crumbles but with you it was different. He was supposed to have your back just like you had his. You saved his life and he didn’t save yours. 

As his eyes fell to the ground in shame, he noticed a small object at the tip of his boot. 

“Tech.” He called, as he raised back up with your earbud in hand.

“So we can’t contact her, she can’t contact us, she’s unarmed and wounded.” Crosshair resumed the situation, your bloody bow, and quiver in hand. "If she's not dead, she'll be soon." 

"There's no way she'd run deeper into the jungle wounded and without her bow. It's suicide." Hunter tore his gaze from the large puddle at his feet to follow sparse dark spots staining the grass to their right. "It could be a new critter that doesn't kill right away or she found someone or something else to protect her." 

So there was a possibility that you weren't dead. Wrecker felt relieved that his brother came to that conclusion, his own mind was working in slow motion, too distressed at his feelings to allow him to concentrate and think. 

"Whatever it is, we'll find her." 

Even if the words weren't meant to reassure him, Wrecker felt more at ease knowing that they had a way to track you and that you were possibly safe with someone or something. All he hoped now was that you were alive long enough for them to find you and that ultimately, you'd forgive him. 

Wrecker rushed behind his brothers who followed the trail, jogging at a steady rhythm, slow enough to be able to detect the monsters that might target them but fast enough that they would catch up to you at some point. 

It didn't take long for the first Algax to cut their road, the shy creature poking its terrifying head from behind a large trunk as soon as it heard them approach.

Wrecker tensed, already gripping the handle of his blaster with his left hand despite the knowledge that his weapon was useless against them. Having his blaster in hand, even if it wasn't the right one, gave him a sense of security. 

The dark blue creature didn't have time to lift its hand to reach for them that an arrow flew right into the trunk next to its head. The beast hissed, its long fingers hitting the arrow in anger before moving out of its hiding spot to engage the group. 

"Damn thing." Crosshair growled, at the bow in his hand or at the beast, Wrecker didn't know. All he knew was that he almost cheered when his brother managed to scare the beast away with two arrows piercing its chest. 

"Nice work." Tech approved, light sticks in hand instead of his blasters. 

"You were right. It is primitive." Crosshair growled, following Hunter who resumed the tracking of your blood on the ground. 

"I'm always right." He chirped, eyes scanning the shadows. 

"Debatable." His brother scoffed back. 

"Wrecker." Hunter called from the front, eyes quickly darting forward when he caught his brother's eyes. "Let your blaster. Take your blade." 

"Okay." Against his best instinct, the clone let go of his DC-17, letting it fall on the jungle floor to grab his vibroblade in a firm grip. The blade felt weird in his left hand but it would do. Knives worked on those things, he was still safe. 

The surroundings were calm for a while, and the more time they spent no crossing path with any monster, the more the tension built between them. Apprehension kept them on their toes, eating away at their nerves slowly. 

The next Algax they encountered stood tall in their way like he was challenging them to jump at it. Maybe they were used to being at the top of the food chain, just like the clones were used to being at the top of their game. Regrettably, the clones were in way over their head on this planet but they would make sure that they weren't the only ones.

Instead of slowing down, Hunter charged at the Algax, stopping only when the sharp metal of his vibroblade was deeply set into the monster's chest. 

Wrecker waited for a screech, for the creature to start thrashing around or flee like the one that fell down a tree with you. Seconds passed and the Algax lifted its arms like nothing happened, like there wasn't a long knife jabbed in its thorax and made a move to grab the sergeant who swiftly jumped away, blade still in hand. 

"What?!" Hunter exclaimed, facing the creature once again. 

An arrow in the head managed to get the desired effect, the tall beast running away in its signature hiss. 

"Why didn't it work? Her knife worked on them!" Hunter was getting more and more on edge. 

"Maybe it could be because our technology is too advanced or because our equipment is not native." Tech remarked. "It is logical in a sense. This planet created its own rules to protect itself from invaders, so it may have created a sort of protection against anything exterior to its own resources."

"It is possible?" Wrecker found it quite hard to believe. A planet controlling what could kill or not? Blasters could kill anything!

"The planet changes beliefs in the real thing. Yeah I think it's possible." He deadpanned with an eye roll.

Suddenly, the vibroblade in Wrecker's hand didn't provide the same sense of security as before. All their hope resided in Crosshair and Tech's hands. 7 arrows and 3 light sticks. Talk about limited resources. If only he had his backpack containing all his explosives, he could get something done. 

Too deep in thought, Wrecker didn't notice the wall of dirt right in front of them until he almost rammed into it. They were back to their landmark. 

"We missed each other." Hunter growled in frustration at the sight of the blood splatters leaving the safety of the trees to disappear under the waterfall. 

Wrecker understood immediately, his own frustration building in his chest. They entered the jungle and you got out of it. Maker knew Wrecker was used to bad timing but this was a new low. Fate was laughing right in their faces. 

Cautiously, they left the dense vegetation to venture into the open area where Wrecker almost became bird food. His eyes were fixed in the open sky, some stars were visible through the small clouds. The bright moon wasn't at its highest yet, Wrecker estimated that there was another hour before the satellite reached its peak. 

The provided light allowed him to relax the muscles around his eyes. He hasn't been squinting for long that the beginning of a headache started to form in his skull. 

As they neared the wet dirt, three sets of footprints were easily distinguishable in the wet dirt. The spacing told them that none of you were running. If nothing was chasing you, then why weren't you patched up?

"We have to find her quick." Crosshair spat what every brother thought quietly. 

If you were with people that didn't patch you up and had plenty of time to do so then they weren't on your side. Even without medical supplies, they should have been able to stop the bleeding one way or the other.

"Stay close." Hunter called, venturing closer to the waterfall where your blood disappeared. 

With each step forward, the sound of the waterfall hitting the river below became more and more deafening. The sound was assaulting his ears to a point where he almost ripped his helmet off to cover his ears. He managed to hold on, focussing instead on his leader who clearly had more problems than him. 

Hunter had removed his own helmet to pass it on to Tech in hope of covering some of the uproars with his hands. The relief must not have been enough for his arms began to shake, his hands pushing firmly against the sides of his head.  

If only he could reach for his brother and take some of his pain, Wrecker would do it in a heartbeat. 

"Let's make this quick." Crosshair took the front, his steps taking him behind the waterfall where a tin border of rocks formed a path to the other side.

Tech nodded his head towards Hunter, his hands already full with the sticks and the extra helmet. 

"Got him." Wrecker confirmed. His left hand reached for his brother's pauldron right after sheathing his blade. 

With practiced movements, Wrecker bent to carefully set his pain down, now wasn't the time to listen to his body. 

With slow steps the tank walked on the wet trail of rocks behind the roaring wall of water, his arm tightening slightly around the body on his shoulder. If Hunter reacted Wrecker couldn't hear it. 

The rocks were flat enough that he didn't slip once. The problem appeared on the other side, where the blood trail ended abruptly a couple of feet away from the bank.

"Where to now?" Wrecker asked, still supporting his limp brother. 

"No fucking idea." Crosshair grumbled, visor moving from right to left where the jungle extended as far as his eyes could see in both directions.

Hunter's feet returned to the ground when soft pats disturbed the tall clone carrying him, his hands were at his sides, fingers clenched into fists as he grounded himself through deep breaths. 

"Are you okay?" Wrecker dared to ask, his worry for his family finally escaping him. 

Hunter usually took more time to recover from an overwhelming episode like this one and it was apparent that he still needed time, but he opened his eyes nonetheless, ignoring Wrecker's question to grip onto Tech for support and deeply breathe in, brows furrowed in concentration. 

His head turned in a different direction as the three remaining clones scrutinized the line of trees for signs of a threat. 

"It's faint." Hunter whispered, still deep within himself. "Blood. That way." He pointed at their right before reaching for his helmet in the engineer's hands. 

"You're good to walk?" Tech questioned, watching his C.O. warily. His hands lifted slightly in apprehension that Hunter may faint under the pressure he was forcing on his body.

"Yes." It was weak but firm, leaving no place for discussion, not that either of them would have said anything. They knew what you meant to the sergeant so it was better for their sakes to not put themselves between you and him. 

Back in position, clone force 99 advanced through the trees, their pace building at each passing second. They were almost running when finally they stopped, their boots almost slipping under them in a sticky substance. 

"Karkin' fuck." Hunter cursed, his hands tightening around his vibroblade, eyes glued to the corpse lying at their feet. 

"That was you smelled?" Crosshair pushed the eviscerated loth wolf with the tip of his foot. 

"Ye-"

Screams resonated in the distance, cutting Hunter off. Wrecker's heartbeat loudly in his ears, almost covering the yells of pain under its incessant percussion against his ribcage.

Every single one of the soldiers breathed out in relief at the lack of a female scream. However, they tensed in apprehension as the screams faded and howls filled the air in their place. A new beast was around and they didn't have any idea of how to react to it. Run? Hide? Would the knife work this time? Or the bow? 

"There were two distinct voices. Males." Tech stopped his recon of the surroundings to catch his batch's eyes. "Maybe it's them." 

"Worth a shot." Hunter nodded, already moving in the direction of the screams, although this time he kept a slower pace, fully conscious that they were in unknown territory, charging at unknown beasts. 

The screams weren't too far, but they obviously came from the opposite direction Hunter initially pointed them to. Hopefully, they would find you there, wounded but alive, and he wouldn't beat himself too much for his mistake. 

Despite knowing that they were useless, Wrecker retrieved his vibroblade from its sheath. The need for a weapon in his hand was too great to ignore, every cell of his being felt the danger ahead and wanted to be prepared although he could never really be prepared for anything this planet threw at him. 

He cringed every time a twig broke under his boots, the soft sound resonating in his own ears like the grenades he liked to throw on the battlefield, resonating into the silent jungle to scream their position at anything that dared to listen. Maybe it was paranoïa slowly creeping its way into his brain, using the aftereffect of the corrupted hallucinations he suffered to play around with his senses. 

Just like right now, the more he concentrated to decipher the shadows with his half working helmet, the more strange the forms became. At first, it was spots from his constant squinting, then he saw small blue lights on the horizon, dancing haphazardly around. After a couple of blinks, the pale lights disappeared as fast as they arrived, leading the bald clone to shrug them off as his eyes playing tricks on him. The constant stress was definitely getting a toll on him, and let’s not talk about the two dives into a strong current. Once this night was over and they get back at the Marauder, he’ll sleep for two weeks straight. 

Softs whines could be heard over unnerving growls and occasional barks, quickly catching the group’s attention. 

“Blood.” Hunter informed them over comm, his whisper almost blending with the rustles of leaves in front of them. 

The group halted in their tracks as Hunter raised his fist, Crosshair already had the bow cranked, ready to shoot at whatever alerted their leader. Carefully peeking over Tech’s shoulder, Wrecker craned his neck to the side to see what was happening around the boulder they used as cover.

He could see the posterior of a large animal, jerking successively like it was pulling at something. Disturbing yelps filled the air and the animal fell backward with its prize tightly encased between its teeth. It rolled near their position but was too preoccupied with the bloody arm in its possession to detect the clones observing it. 

Wrecker knew Tech was recording, there was no way he wasn’t. Not when the monster before them had no skin whatsoever to cover its bones. The canine-like monstrosity easily reached Tech’s waist, had no external skin, leaving its bones to shine under the green tint of their night vision, muscles were observable between the ribs and along the joints, but that was it. No skin. 

"If only we could capture one." He muttered to which Hunter answered with a glare under his helmet. 

As it ate, Tech’s appreciative whispers filled the comm, muttering about the extra smaller ribs that circled the abdomen of the monster, keeping its intestines from falling all over the ground and marveling about the movement of each muscle, totally bare for his curious eyes to see and analyze at will. 

"Fine fine. We won't be getting one of those perfect study specimens." He grumbled, reporting his gaze to the organism that crunched the humerus with only moderate difficulty. "Fascinating." 

"No, it's not." Crosshair elbowed Hunter who redirected his gaze to a hollow tree where a figure was shivering, hidden in the darkness. 

"That's her." He confirmed, the sniper's impeccable sight was not to be doubted.

"Why aren't they attacking her?" Wrecker questioned, puzzled. 

Two other beasts were walking only steps away from your poor hiding spot, ignoring you totally despite acknowledging your presence with occasional glances towards you.

"I have some theories but they are all shots in the dark." Tech answered when he realized that they were all waiting for his highlights. 

"That's just perfect." Crosshair growled. 

The tall clone counted 4 of them, walking between two bodies to tear at the flesh and stain their white skulls with fresh blood. 

He wondered if his brute strength would be enough to smash their bones if needed when he noticed you slowly standing up, hands behind your body to steady yourself against the trunk. 

"Maybe she could come here instead of us going there." Wrecker pointed out. If only he could catch your attention without catching theirs. "Tech. Do you still have your laser?" 

The toy they kept around to annoy Crosshair whenever he was too relaxed on leave could be more useful than its original purpose.

Wrecker was amazed at how unafraid of the canines you were, standing next to one of them to pull at the bow on one of the beheaded corpses with your foot.

"Good idea." Tech walked to the other side of the rock where he could have a clear view of your limping form, slowly making your way toward one of the dead bodies. 

"She's tied up." Remarked Hunter, his voice merely above a whisper but frightening nonetheless. Your aggressors should be glad that the dogs got them first.

Crosshair had the creature in his aim, an arrow already pointed at its head if it dared to make a move in your direction. 

At one point the bow got stuck, the snapping mouth of the monster next to you was deeply buried into the open chest of what once was a man, blocking your progression toward the shoulders.

Wrecker's breath blocked in his throat and Crosshair cursed under his breath as they saw you tentatively poke the skull of the monster with a very shaky foot before almost falling on your ass with a muffled yelp at how quickly you moved it back when the big bony dog jerked its head up to look at you. 

Your wide eyes stared back at it until it lost interest and moved further down the body to nib at some abdominal organs. Quickly you pulled out the bow with your foot, head tilted down to your chest to look at your work.

Tech used this moment to point the red laser at your chest, immediately catching your attention by moving it from side to side. Wrecker grinned as your head lifted in their direction, eyes wide in surprise. You spotted them in seconds, maybe because Wrecker was waving. 

Words were muffled by the rope around your mouth, but the wild shaking of your head was clear. Even with only a half functioning helmet, Wrecker could read the fear in your gaze. 

Tech couldn't close the light fast enough. One skull turned at the source of the small brightness. As soon as it spotted them, earsplitting yaps covered the snarls of the feasting animals, catching the pack’s attention simultaneously. Soon 4 pairs of predatory red eyes stared at them, their maws chattering in anticipation.

[hothian-snow]

Worldbuilding: Sith Magic (WIP)

An update to my original post.

I want to theorize about what magic may have been commonplace during the times of the Sith Pureblood, before they became influenced by the Dark Jedi. Some beliefs and practice may have evolved into what we know today, but many traditions will have likely died down, lost to time and to cultural colonisation. These are my headcanons, inspired by some headcanons others have made plus my own understanding of traditional witchcraft and Ancient Greek magic.

1) Magic of the Sun

Korriban is one of the original homes of the Sith Pureblood, and presumably the most prominent one. What could be seen the moment you step onto Korriban is the rocky red ending desert and the blistering sun. Magic from many cultures around our world are rooted in the land, and I believe Sith magic should be no different. In this case, their magic will be drawn from the sun, the bones that lie beneath the sands.

In the real world Greek Magical Papyri, a record of Greco-Egyptian magic spells, the sun god Helios is called upon in various rites ranging from consecration to restraining anger to bringing victory. In that same manner, I believe the sun may be called by the Sith to perform magical acts. In a lot of POC traditions, planets are also deified to be gods (something like astrolatry in Thailand etc), and so the Sith - who in my views are POC-coded - may revere the sun as a central religious figure (which makes it ironic that the concept of the Dark Side of the Force was later made to be the enemy of the Light). The sun nourishes, but it also burns. The light allows you to see, but too much can blind. It is the sun’s heat that rot corpses, freeing flesh from bones, rushing forth decomposition. The sun is life and the sun is death.

Just as Ancient Greek witches could be identified as descendants of Helios due to their flashing eyes, it is also possible that the Sith Pureblood may view themselves to be descendants of the sun. After all, their fiery eyes are like two miniature suns and their distinctive red skin are like the blood-red dawn. 

2) Magic of the Bones

In many ways, the Force is similar to the real-world belief of animism. Inside everything is something that is alive and powerful. In the bones, buried beneath the sands, are a vault of memories. Through feeding the bones - feeding the spirits within the bones - one can cultivate a relationship with the dead. One can redden the bones with flowers from cactus mixed with drops of blood, or blacken them with roots and soot. Incense smoke can be like food to the soul. This works for both animal and Sith bones.

Once awakened, bones can be your teachers, or used both as an offensive and defensive tool. The empty eye sockets of skulls can be placed in strategic places, eternally watching guard. Fangs and claws can be turned into magical talismans, to protect their masters and shred their enemies to pieces. Bones may whisper their wisdom to you. Learn from the tuk’ata how to protect and defend. Learn from the K’lor’slugs how to poison and strike.

3) Necromancy

With the talks of bones, we cannot avoid the topic of necromancy. In a lot of POC cultures, ancestor veneration plays an integral part of bringing families together. As the Sith Purebloods are POC-coded, and because we have seen in-game that ghosts of ancestors (Lord Kallig) may wish to help their descendants (the Sith Inquisitor), I believe ancestor veneration would have a prominent role in Sith culture. Ancestors may send you dreams for you to be prepared for upcoming threats. Ancestors may work their magic from beyond the grave to influence situations in the living world.

Aside from having a ghost literally show up, transmission of knowledge through dreams is one way that tradition can be passed down, in spite of the Sith Genocide that occured. Children may have been made orphans, but it does not mean that their parents can’t speak through them in an oneiric vision. Texts may have been burnt, cultural artifacts may have been destroyed, but magic prevails. History finds a way to be remembered.

Dream incubation can be used to receive information that would be otherwise unknown. Trances can be used to induce visions from the dead and from higher powers. Ointments made from poisonous herbs, smeared onto the body, can be used to induce the liminal state required for a person to get in touch with the otherworld.

There is also canonical evidence that necromancy was practiced among the Sith before the Dark Jedi colonised them: Dathka Graush, a Sith King of Korriban active in the decades prior to the arrival of the Dark Jedi Exiles in 6900 BBY, was among the earliest practitioners of Sith necromancy. Necromancy can be as dramatic as raising zombies using occult incantations, reanimating the freshly dead and the buried skeletons. However, I also want to go for a different approach.

Inspired by Ancient Greek necromancy, I believe the dead can be split into many types. Perhaps there are the restless dead, like the Greek aōroi, the spirits who could be appeased and channeled to wreak havoc. Perhaps there are the mighty dead, (war) heroes who have been elevated to the point where they are venerated and prayed to for strength and miracles. The dead can be called upon to glean prophecies, and deals can be made with them, pacts sealed in blood. The dead can teach you secrets and grant you powers, and you can send them forth to haunt your enemies until they are maddened. A Sith may ask the ravenous dead to feed upon their enemy, and pray that the power of the tomb claims the rest.

Some parts of the current Sith cultural beliefs may have been influenced by the beliefs of the Sith Pureblood (pre-Dark Jedi arrival), but twisted into a reactionary belief in response to the Jedi code. For example, the Jedi seems to have an accepting attitude towards death (“there is no death, there is only the Force”) while the current Sith seems to wish to overcome death, whether through having a long-lasting legacy or through occult means (like Darth Zash or Emperor Vitiate). This is why a Sith like Darth Marr who are not scared to die are viewed as being terrifying. I believe this culture of immense fear towards death is a new thing.

In my headcanon, the Sith Pureblood originally viewed death as something to respect and fear, but also understood it to be a necessity - and in some cases, a beautiful part of life. Through death, grapes are transformed into wine. There is sacredness in the sweet and cloying rot, a holiness to decay and entropy. Because of this, there may be a field of magic that focuses not just on reanimating corpses, but on hastening (or temporary slowing- with consequences) the way and speed at which something decomposes. Imagine a Sith gripping their enemies with their bare hands, and from that touch comes a death sentence: bodies begin to bloat, festering sickness seeping into muscles and bones, flesh turning necrotic before death consumes them.

4) Potions and Poisons

The art of pharmakeia and veneficium is something that came up in the Sith Inquisitor storyline. Zash makes offhand remarks about poisoning her foes, and the ghost that taught the Sith Inquisitor how to Force Walk requires the Inquisitor to drink a cup of poison first. Poison can both kill and teach. In the real world, many traditional witches who walk the poison path have made allies of their poison plants. In Greek myth and religion, Circe uses potions to transmute men into pigs, and transforms women into monsters by poisoning water with drugs.

Ziost, which became capital of the Ancient Sith Empire after the reign of the Sith Overlord Adas came to an end, was described to be a planet of dark forests and barren tundra. With forests comes plants, and with plants comes poison. Perhaps dirt from graveyards and places of bloodshed can be mixed with foul herbs, along with powdered molts of poison insects, and then infused into oil to be made into a tool for cursing enemies. Should a hair or piece of armor from one’s rival be found, one could powder that and mix the blend into a poppet, enabling a Sith to feed their enemy poison from a distance.

The flipside of poison is medicine. Healers may have been as abundant as poisoners, or perhaps healers were poisoners and poisoners were healers, for the difference between killing and treating is just application and dosage. Potions may also be made to bless and enhance the abilities of someone - something like how stims are used in the current setting - and washes and ritual baths may be used to free someone from unwanted afflictions.

5) Force Lightning

I believe Force lightning has always been used by the Sith Pureblood, but its prestige and popularity only has sky-rocketted once Vitiate became Emperor. Dromund Kaas’ constant lightning and perpetual thunderstorms may have been “a result of the Sith Emperor's experiments in arcane and forbidden uses of the dark side of the Force”. Hence, it may be possible that the usage of Force lightning became a symbol of power due to Vitiate’s influence.

6) Sith Artifacts and Tools

The most well-known artifact of the Sith is the Sith holocron. I am not certain but I believe the oldest Sith holocron may be the Telos Holocron, and one of the earliest contributors to the Telos Holocron was Ajunta Pall who was a Dark Jedi. The holocron’s purpose in storing information and passing down the legacy of a Sith Lord is linked to my view that it is the Dark Jedi who want to be immortalized and are afraid of death, not the original Sith Pureblood. Thus, I infer that the Sith holocrons are made by the Dark Jedi who colonized the Sith, which makes sense considering that it just looks like an alternative version of the Jedi holocron.

However, one clear power of the Sith holocrons is how they are able to ‘corrupt’ its user to the Dark Side. This made me wonder if the Sith Pureblood may have had artifacts and fetishes that served similar purposes in corrupting, influencing and swaying their enemies. If knowledge could be passed down through ghosts and dreams, then there is no need to spend time crafting the perfect holocron and effort could instead be focused upon creating tools of defense and offense.

It would have been very practical to create an artifact out of roots and bones, place it in places of ruin, death and grief such as places of murders, and enchant it to soak in the horrific sympathetic energies of the locales it was placed at until it becomes full, brimming with misery and torment. It could then be buried on the plot of land that a Sith’s enemy lived on, hence bringing suffering to their home and family. Something like that - something folk-ish, something requiring only skill, cunning and determination, not fanciful ceremonial rituals like the ones we see the current Siths doing - is what I believe defined the practice of the original Sith Pureblood.

[dailydianakko]

Withered Flowers

Okay, I personally really hate this one. I feel like its not that cohesive. I wish I could write this a little better, but alas I have NO time to do anything anymore. Since I won’t be participating in Diakko week, please take this humble offering instead. Check out my AO3 here.

Chains scraped the rock with Akko’s every movement, however small. The shackles on her wrists pinched and tugged at her skin as she slowly etched another line into the stone. The overhang was littered with the numerous white gashes. Each one had been carefully carved with her claws. She pulled her hand back and blew the dust away, not even bothering to flinch at the grating sound of iron on stone. She had become all too used to the noise over the years. After all, today marked the hundredth year of her imprisonment. 

Akko turned away from the rock and listlessly looked out at the forest around her. Dead trees littered a barren landscape. Grey stone on rotting wood as far as her eyes could see. The only sign of life that could be seen was a single flower, peeking from the cracks in the rock by her feet. She leaned back and closed her eyes. Akko could remember when the forest had been full of life. Birds had filled the treetops with song during the day and the raucous calls of foxes had filled the night. Since her imprisonment, the forest had waned drastically.

Shifting slightly, Akko flexed her toes in a futile attempt to ward off the weariness  in her limbs. The unpleasant tingle was always present. A side effect from her years trapped in this rocky hollow. In an effort to stave off the numbness that was creeping up her legs, Akko turned her thoughts inward. It had been long enough. Had they written legends about her? Had stories of a sealed Oni of destruction begun to be woven beside the hearth fires at night? Did tales of a monster who lived by absorbing the life force of others creep into children’s nightmares? Would mothers warn their children not to come into the cursed forest, lest the meat fall from their bones, and they rot away?

She snorted to herself quietly. Akko only lived as others did, consuming life to nourish her own. The only difference is that her method was more direct. And more chaotic, a bitter voice in the back of her mind whispered. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the day that she had been sealed here. Akko had been so small, so young. The red headed wandering hero Akok had admired did not hesitate to trick Akko into her manacles. Akko had been told it was for her own safety; that left unchecked she would destroy the world. Akko would have rather her hero killed her.

She had been told that “death was a part of living, and you have just as much right to life as the rest of us.” The words hadn’t been for Akko;that she knew now. It had been said merely to ease the conscience of her captor. Her hero had lied and betrayed her. Left Akko to rot for all time, while she enjoyed wandering the world. Akko let out a bitter laugh. Human lifespans were short, and Akko had obviously been forgotten. Left to gaze out at the ruined forest. There would be no hero to save her, the villain in this tale.

“Why are you laughing?” Akko froze at the sound of someone else speaking. She whipped around to identify the speaker and flinched, startled from the deafening clatter of the chains striking the ground. A human woman stood before her. Her blonde hair had green highlights; almost as if it were stained with chlorophyll, and her beautiful blue eyes sparkled with merriment. Her clothes were like nothing Akko had seen before, pale blue robes that folded over in on itself. She looked like she was wearing a flower. So caught up in her thoughts, Akko failed to respond to the stranger.

“Well? Can you speak?” The stranger cocked her head and placed her hands on her hips. A small tapping noise filled the hollow as she tapped her foot in impatience. “It is rude to keep someone waiting.”

“I can speak.” Akko’s voice sounded harsh with disuse. “Who are you?” She glared distrustfully at the woman. The last contact she had with a human ended in her bound in chains. If her luck ran the same way with this one, she would probably end up with a knife in her back. Death, while an escape from her prison, was something Akko would rather confront on her own terms. After all, she still wanted what had been denied to her all these years. To travel the world herself and see what it had to offer.

“I am a traveler, you may call me Diana.” Diana said with a curtsey. “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” Diana straightened up and smiled expectantly at Akko.

“I’m Akko, the Oni who was sealed here one hundred years ago.” Akko said while she scrubbed at her eyes with her hand. She couldn’t believe a human had wondered their way into this forest. Had she been forgotten after all these years?

“Oh I know,” Diana responded, rocking on her heels. “I came to bring you stories.”

“Stories?” Akko said with a huff. She’d rather have her freedom and learn of the world herself, firsthand. Besides, why would humanity offer her news now? It had been a hundred years since anyone last visited her prison. Akko felt her claws click against her chains absentmindedly. Perhaps this human could offer information, as well as a way to free Akko from her chains. “I would like to hear them.”

Diana let out a bright laugh. It was full of life and joy, and Akko was enchanted. “Very well. What would you like to hear first?”

“Tell me of the ocean” Akko demanded. News of the cities could wait, after all had never seen the ocean before. All she knew from tales told to her as a child was that it was water that stretched onwards without end. She felt a spark of excitement light in her chest. It had been ages since she felt like this. Caught up in the moment, Akko scooted forwards until her chains gently tugged her back in recoil. She quickly settled herself down and looked at Diana expectantly.

“Well,” Diana began, sitting gently down on the ground and crossing her legs. “The ocean stretches far beyond the horizon. The shore is awash in treasures, and the water tastes sweet. Every night it spits out the moon and swallows the sun.”

“Does it? Does it really?” Akko’s hand closed tight around her shackles, and her knuckles went white from the pressure. She felt a gnawing urge to see the ocean and to taste the sweet water. She only knew the taste of the bitter rainwater that collected into the pools around her prison, and a faded memory of the clear taste of the water from the village well.

“Yes. The ocean is gentle and is as placid as could be. The fish have scales of gold and silver. All I speak is the truth.” Diana said as she made grand sweeping gestures with her hand. She paused and met Akko’s eyes. The Oni couldn’t sense any deceit in her words. Akko felt her heart beat faster in desire. She too wanted to see the fish flicker in the calm water, and to pick up rare treasure off the shoreline. She listened to Diana speak more about the sea and what it had to offer. As Diana spoke, the shadows slowly grew longer. Night was falling.

When Diana slowly moved to get up, Akko let out a cry of despair. “Will you come again tomorrow?” The brunette’s eyes flickered anxiously. She couldn’t let Diana leave. She needed to know more. She hungered to know about the world she had been denied.

“Of course, I will be here awhile yet. When I visit again tomorrow, I shall tell you of life in the capitol.” Diana said with a small wave. Akko closed her eyes and heaved a sigh of relief. The human would come back. When she opened them, Diana had already left the area. With a sigh, the Oni settled down for a restless night, thoughts of the ocean and capitol flitting through her mind.

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

When Akko woke up from her restless sleep, Diana was already there. Her clothes looked a little duller than they had the day before, but it was probably due to the weak morning sun peeking up over the horizon. Akko stretched and settled back down. Her legs trembled in impatience. “Tell me of the capitol, please.” She said with her eyes trained on Diana.

Akko stiffened with anticipation when Diana gave her an impish grin. “Well, the streets are paved with marble.” Diana began as she gestured low. Akko closed her eyes and tried to imagine it. “Fountains inlaid with gold line the square, and the water is clean and cool. Along the streets there are many vendors, each one with more beautiful wares than the last.”

“I can see it.” Akko murmured. In her mind’s eye she could practically hear the bustle of people and the smell of food carts. She saw golden trinkets and rolls of silk. She could feel the spray of marble fountains beveled with gold and see the reflection of the shining water on the street.

“The palace is made of carved gemstones, and the floors are polished pearl. At the front gate are statues of the grand witch Chariot. They stand tall and people offer sacrifices of wheat and wine to honor her, and pray to her spirit for protection.”

Akko held her tongue at the mention of her once-revered hero. Of course they would honour the hero who saved them from calamity. The brave traveler who chained her to this desolate rock. She clenched her teeth in rage. She had to know what the people were saying about her. If the stories told of Chariot’s true feat of chaining a mere child to a rock and leaving her to rot.

“Tell me, Diana. Do they tell stories about me?” Akko looked down at the stone. She had memorized the surface long ago. She had watched the wind wear the once sharp nicks in the stone smooth over time. One hundred years was enough to change the surface of rock. It surely was enough time for people to change a shameful story into one of glory.

“They do.”Diana said, her voice dropping low.  “The legends tell of a terrible monster. An ugly ogre who roamed the land and vowed to destroy all life. It is said that Chariot sealed it away out of pity instead of giving it the judgment it deserved.”

“Do you think I’m terrible?” Akko asked. Her eyes reluctantly met Diana’s. She was afraid of what she would see. Would there be dark and deep loathing that directed at Akko for being a frightening monster? Would watery pity be reflected back? What about shame, for the sin that a fellow human inflicted on Akko.

“No.” Diana spoke slowly. Her eyes looked into Akko’s. A calm blue gazing into a tumultuous red. “I think you’re quite strange.”

“Strange?” Akko’s head cocked to the side, her anger replaced with confusion.

“Would you say I’m beautiful?” Diana asked as she gently ran her finger through the dirt.

“...Yes.” Akko answered reluctantly. Her cheeks tinged with red. An uncomfortable warm feeling had risen in her chest, and she quickly shook her head in an effort to disperse the feeling.

“What makes you say that?”

Akko couldn’t answer. Obviously Diana was beautiful, she was bright and colorful. She was just like a flower in full bloom. But what makes a flower beautiful? Is it the color, the scent? Is it the silky feel of the petals? Akko’s mouth dropped open as the answer struck her.  A flower is only beautiful because others think it to be. Anything has the ability to be beautiful, since beauty was something assigned by others. Akko wondered if she too could be considered beautiful.

“Well,” Diana said looking up at the sky. “It appears you have your answer. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll tell you whatever you wish.” With that, Diana walked off into the morning mist. 

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

The next day it was raining. The cold water poured from the sky and dripped through the cracks in the stone. The hollows in the rock had filled with water, almost to the point of overflowing.

Akko sat huddled in a corner completely drenched. She had curled in on herself in an attempt to keep warm. Unfortunately, the cold metal manacles on her wrists and ankles sapped away at the warmth in her body. At least she wouldn’t be thirsty for quite some time. She would be able to drink from the puddles for quite some time.

When Diana appeared before her out of the rainy mist, Akko gave a startled jump. The sound of the water must have disguised Diana’s footsteps. The weather must have been affecting Diana as well. She looked a little faded, and there were brown streaks along the hem of her clothes. A result of the mud, no doubt. Akko watched as Diana sat on the sodden earth without a care.

“What would you like to hear about today, Akko?” Diana asked, as if completely unbothered by the rain. 

“Aren’t you cold?” Akko said with a sniffle. Humans were much more delicate than Oni. Akko couldn’t believe Diana was even out in this weather. She wasn’t even shivering.

“I quite like the rain,” Diana said with a smile as she tilted her palms to the sky. “It makes the earth smell fresh.”

“I guess.” Akko grumbled. She tucked her arms around her waist a little tighter, staving off a shiver. She blinked as a drop of water fell onto her nose. Akko couldn’t fathom why Diana would rather sit completely unprotected outside of the overhang. She could only reach halfway across, so Diana couldn’t be scared of being attacked. “Why don’t you come inside at least? I don’t want you getting sick.”

Diana’s gentle smile turned a little strained at Akko’s question. “I would, but I have been forbidden from doing so. Shall I tell you about the great forest?”

Akko nodded. It obviously looked like it was something Diana didn’t want to do. The cold feeling that came with the thought of possibly losing Diana was unpleasant. Akko didn’t want to chase her one friend off by prying too deeply. There would be time. After all, Akko wasn’t going anywhere. Unless she was freed, she would be here for the rest of eternity. Akko gave a shiver and focused her attention once more on Diana. She wanted to hear about the Forest of Ancients.

With a small smile she listened as Diana wove a tale about trees as tall as giants. As she closed her eyes, images of a forest filled with flowers made of colored glass and clear streams began to fill her mind. The rain was slowly drowned out by the sound of trees whispering to her tales from before the days of mankind. She could smell the loamy soil and see strange woodland creatures. Deer made from living wood, tigers the size of elephants with sharpened tusks, and frogs that sang intricate melodies. As Diana finished her story, she paused for a moment. 

“Akko,” Diana said as Akko slowly fell out of the daydream. “If I were to die, would you be sad?” 

Akko didn’t quite know how to respond. “I’d miss your stories,” She said after a moment. “I’d miss learning about the world.” It was the truth. Diana was useful to Akko. She was a source of stories and a buffer against loneliness.

“But would you miss me?” Diana asked again insistently.

Akko said nothing, still deep in thought. She was thinking about Diana and the light that she had brought to her prison.

Diana looked up at the sky. “I’d like it if you were to miss me. But don’t forget me. Think about me sometimes, and the time we spent together. After all, I was born for this kind of purpose.”

“You won’t die.” Akko said, suddenly feeling anxiety claw at her heart. “You never stay long enough for my power to affect you. You’ll be here for a while yet.” She reached out desperately at Diana. Akko could taste the bile on her tongue and hear her heartbeat. She couldn’t lose Diana, or her stories.

“I wonder.” Diana said with a gentle smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes, and looked more sad than happy. Akko watched as Diana sifted the wet dirt through her fingers for a brief moment. She had to bite her tongue when the rain stopped and Diana finally stood up to go. Without the rain interfering with her sight, Akko could see Diana fully.

The ends of her cloak looked frayed, and her eyes were tired. Diana still had that same smile on her face, but it looked more strained. “Will you be back?” Akko said. Her voice was barely a whisper, and she turned her eyes to the stone. She didn’t want to see Diana look like that. Like she was sickly and worn.

“Maybe.” Akko heard Diana say. When she looked up to gaze one last time at Diana, she was gone. Akko grit her teeth and held her chains tightly in her hands. Diana would be back. She had no reason to leave. She would be fine and she’d visit Akko again, and tell her more stories about the world around her.

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

When morning rose once more, Akko waited for Diana to come back. She sat straining her ears to hear footsteps or the brush of cloth on stone. She waited until the shadows grew long and covered the hollow she was imprisoned in. Finally wreathed in darkness, Akko sobbed. When the sun pierced the shadows in the morning, Akko looked about once more with tear stained eyes. Diana was nowhere in sight. There was no bright blue among the dead trees. No sight of her strange streaked hair among the gray stone.There was nothing in Akko’s hollow indicating Diana had been there. The only thing that remained in Akko’s prison were her chains and a small withered flower.

[lunarhold]

─ pairing: rob lucci/reader ─ au: witch ─ warnings: smut, very mild blood & violence ─ words: 12.8k

─ summary: a stranger washes up on shore, and suddenly you find yourself with company. you aren’t sure you’ll survive for a year.

─ a/n: i wrote this in present tense, which i’ve never done before, so i’m hoping it’s decent. also, this didn’t go in the direction i wanted it to, but i just don’t have the motivation to edit it 600x, so this is pretty much pwp

It’s been a few days since the island’s been back in the Grand Line-- or that’s where you always assume it to be-- and it’s been raining the entire time. You’ve spent much of your time sitting by the window, curled up under a blanket watching the waves roll across the sand. 

The horizon is a blank, empty sea in shades of grey. Half of you hopes someone will show up this time, the other half tells you you want the peace maintained.

It’s later in the day, the sun starting to set in the distance, when the magic of the island ripples, an alert that a living creature has landed on the shore. You set off immediately, allowing the island to lead you further down the beach. It’s several minutes before you finally get there and you’re soaked and chilled to the bone when you do. A cursory scan of the beach reveals nothing, and for a moment you think they’ve moved on already. But upon a second, slower inspection, you spy something.

In the water, sprawled on a piece of ragged driftwood, is a man.

As you wander up to him, you fear he might already be dead. The waxy, water-logged paleness of his skin makes him look like a corpse, and it takes a moment for you to finally make out the faint rise and fall of his chest. His breathing is rapid, uneven, and shallow and you worry he won’t make it through the next ten minutes, let alone the night. 

As you set about preparing to move him, a soft, unfamiliar cooing sounds in your ears, just before a pigeon settles on your shoulder.

“We don’t have pigeons here,” you ponder aloud, pausing in your ministrations for a moment to examine the bird. “Did you come with him?” you ask, gesturing to the unconscious man.

In an unsettling imitation of a human, he cocks his head and nods.

You hum once before turning back to your strange new patient. It takes only a few minutes and a wave of your hand to get him into the house. It’s already expanded inside, a new room appearing adjoining the living room without your input into it.

Settling your guest in bed, you begin to gather the items necessary to heal his wounds. Other than the massive scar on his back, his injuries are minimal. At worst, he had been battered by the sea, sustaining multiple contusions and numerous cuts and scratches. He was one lucky bastard to have avoided any broken bones.

Throughout the entire    time you’re treating the man, the pigeon sits upon your shoulder without a peep, and doesn’t seem inclined to give you any information on either himself or his master.

This set off alarm bells in the back of your mind, but you push it down. At worst, you would need to kick him out of your home, still injured and let him fend for himself. It wouldn’t be the first time that you had taken care of an injured person only to have them turn around and attack you. More often than not, you kicked them flat off the island. 

The alternative wasn’t something you liked to consider.

As you stare down at the handsome stranger, you hope that isn’t the case this time.

In the days that follow, you keep a watchful eye on your patient, waiting for any sign that he’s going to wake up. After a week, you begin to fret that it isn’t going to happen. His complexion is much healthier, and his breathing is even and steady. 

By all accounts, he should be awake by now. 

In fact, he should have been awake a week ago.

There’s another problem as well: the island has already jumped from his plane into its own. Looking out the window, towards where the water should be, reveals a thick fog. If one were to step off into that fog, they would simply find themselves on the other side of the island.

This posed a problem of safety, since you don’t know what type of person he is. If he attacked you, defending yourself wouldn’t be enough anymore.

There’s a soft stirring behind you and the pigeon, who’s barely moved from your shoulder since the first day, cooes loudly and takes off, cuffing your face with his feathers in his excitement.

You spin around at the sound of a man’s voice, deep and rich and groggy, saying, “Hattori.”

He’s standing, and it strikes you just how tall he really is. He towers at least a foot over you, giving you a once over that could have made your skin shrivel. 

“Who are you and where am I?” His eyes never leave you, liquid silver over cold steel, and you shiver.

“I’m _____. You washed up on my island over a week ago, half-dead,” you say, moving over to your kitchen sink. More than anything, you want to examine his wounds now that he’s moving, but the chill radiating from him tells you not to even think it, let alone mention it. 

Instead, you fill a glass of water and hold it out to him. While he had been unconscious, it had been nearly impossible to get him any type of nourishment. You had risked water, but food wasn’t an option. It had come down to small amounts of broth and hope that he would wake before he died of starvation.

His frown deepens, but he takes the cup anyway and almost inhales it, then holds it back out. After he drinks his fill, he pulls on a shirt that you had laid out beside his bed and gives you a curt nod. He doesn’t say anything about food, and you hesitate to offer. The aura he’s giving off is almost terrifying, as if drawing his attention would put you in a crosshair.

“Thank you, but I need to be on my way,” he says as he heads to the door.

“Be my guest,” you say with a shrug, following him at a safe distance out onto the porch. “But I won’t be here when you come back.”

Your words, said in amusement, catch him off guard, and he glares at you with suspicion. “What does that mean?”

“You’ll see,” you say, waving your fingers. When he reaches the grass at the foot of the stairs, your house rises to its feet. “There are dangerous animals on the island,” you call as it begins to walk away, swaying from side to side. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

The stranger watches the even stranger house disappear into the woods in stunned silence.

Only when it’s fully disappeared and the sound of creaking wood has ceased does Lucci turn to survey his surroundings. It looked like a typical forest, but there’s something that raises the hair on the back of his neck. 

He picks a random direction and begins to walk, knowing he’ll reach shore soon enough.

                                                      _____

It takes longer than you expect for him to find you again, though you aren’t sure if it’s because he’s stubborn or because of your ever changing location. Regardless, it’s a few weeks before he shows up again, disgruntled and filthy.

“Well, hello again,” you say from your porch swing. The house eases down to its knees, tucking them underneath the rest of itself until it looks just like a regular house. “Find what you were looking for?” you ask, barely containing the amusement.

He glares at you as he climbs the steps, coming to a stop right in front of you. “Care to explain why I am unable to leave?”

You cock your head to the side, still gently pushing the swing back and forth. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more clear.”

A snarl escapes the man and he leans forward, grabbing the chains in either hand and snatching the swing to a halt. With his lips curled up and his teeth bared, he commands, “Explain, before I decide to set this island alight.” His words, dangerous though they are, are said in such a deep, calm manner that it sends shivers down your spine. It’s clear to you that he can only take so much teasing, and you grow serious, much as you want to have just a little more fun at his expense, you can tell he isn’t joking. “This island only appears in your plane once a year, for approximately seven days. You were unfortunate enough to have washed ashore…” You pause to think for a moment.”...three days before it disappeared back here. You were unconscious for seven in total.”

He curses and pins you with a glare cold enough to freeze water. It’s evident that he’s a man used to getting his way through fear and intimidation. Unfortunately for him, that was going to get him nowhere this time. 

“So there’s no way off.”

“Not for another year,” you tell him, letting your eyes travel over the tree line. Like the coast, most of the island was covered in thin wisps of fog, not quite as thick as at the edge. Here, it was always damp and cold. If there was a sun, you had never seen it.

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you with derisive confusion. When you finally look at him again, he frowns. “You said, ‘your plane’. Are you not human?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the ‘p’ with a smile. “Your world is no longer my home. I can’t leave this island.”

The man’s frown deepens, but he deigns to sit beside you. His huge frame barely fits on the swing, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “That’s why you kept me here?” 

Though he posed it as a question, it sounds like a statement. At first, he had been angry that he was trapped here, but the more he explored, the more he understood that the island was far from normal.

You nod, drawing your legs up underneath you as your companion takes over pushing the swing. You wonder if it’s unconscious, and smile. “That and you would have died had I sent you off. You washed up unconscious, and didn’t wake up for almost a week.” You look over at him, meeting his gaze. “Honestly, I was afraid you might anyway. You didn’t eat anything with me.”

All you get in response is a hum.  There’s some curiosity about how he survived, but you feel it might be a bit too rude to ask.

He’s staring out into the woods now and you lapse into silence, allowing him to gather his thoughts. It had been an infinitely long time since anyone had found your island, and no one had ever actually been stuck on it with you. It was a dangerous gamble, given you knew nothing about him. But you would have felt far too guilty sending him off to his death, so you had cast your lot.

Speaking of which… 

“What’s your name, by the way? If you’re going to be here for a while, I’m going to need to call you by something.”

He turns around to regard you, and the smile he gives is wolfish, the change in his demeanor enough to give you whiplash. 

His eyes glint with danger as he leans in closer. Chills shoot up your spine as his warm breath ghosts over your ear, and they don’t stem from fear.

“Rob Lucci.”

It’s going to be interesting, having him here.

                                                      _____

As it turns out, having Lucci around is both a blessing and a curse. He’s strong, far stronger than you, allowing him to take over a lot of the manual labor you had been using magic to complete before. In this way, he avoids being in the house as much as possible, and you begin to wonder if he’s avoiding more than just the house. In his defense though, he tended to get irritable if he sat around too much, so you never say a word about it.

The missing shingles on the roof, the noisy door-hinges, the faucet constantly leaking in the kitchen, all of those are fixed without a word and in record time. Unfortunately, your magic couldn’t make up for your total lack of handiness, and it showed when things broke again after a few weeks. But he took care of it better than you could have dreamed.

His favorite past-time, though, is clearly wood cutting, evidenced by the overflowing pile of logs on the porch. It’s a wonder how he managed to do so much in a single day, but it’s hard to complain about his efficiency. On the other hand…

“There’s no more room on the pile,” he says from behind you.

Next to the window, you had set up a second bird stand for Hattori. You turn from feeding Hattori to look at him, biting your lip as your eyes land on the waistband of his pants and drag slowly up his naked torso. Even in the coolness of the evening, on top of the natural chill of the island, he’s dripping from the exertion of cutting wood. It’s almost impossible to tear your eyes away from the delectable sight, but it’s even harder to meet his eyes when you finally do. 

You would swear he did it on purpose.

He’s wearing that predatory grin again as he watches you watch him. There’s something more to it this time though, like he’s daring you to make a move. He’s only been here a week and yet he seems hellbent on breaking you. It’s impossible for you to pinpoint, but ever since he had moved in, you felt like a fire had been lit for him. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, willing your over enthusiastic heart to calm down. It becomes too hard to think the longer you hold his gaze, so you pick a point just over his shoulder to lock onto. From there, you can see his shoulders rise and fall in laughter as he slips his shirt back on.

“Well, there really isn’t anywhere else to put it,” you say, sounding more hoarse and unsure than you would have liked. He makes you feel like a rabbit, trapped in the den of a wolf and he’s just playing with you before he pounces.

And he was. Lucci was bored, and in the few days he’s been there, he’s come to realize how long it’s been since you’ve had company and therefore how easy it is to rile you up. By the same token, though, something about your shy attraction is appealing to him. 

He’s just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“I suppose I’ll just have to find something else to do to occupy myself,” he says, picking up an apple from the table before heading back outside. On the way by, he makes sure to pass as close as he can by you, just shy of brushing against you.

Why did that sound so very much like a threat?

                                                      _____

One of your favorite past times is gardening. 

While you have a rather large section on the island dedicated to plants grown for consuming, you have another area, attached to the house, that’s reserved for the more delicate plants. 

The plants here are what people generally think of when they think of witch’s herbs. Spindly, long vines that hang down from the ceiling and thread through your hair as you walk underneath them, screaming mandrakes that could kill you when fully grown, and prickly, pale, glowing flowers are just a few of the more interesting specimens that reside here. Each of them needs their own special attention, have their own special requirements, and this is where it’s all met.

The air inside is humid, walking into it is like walking into a sauna. Your clothes stick to you the instant that you enter, and you’re quick to shed anything nonessential. In addition to all of that, the room is very heavily magically charged, both due to the plants themselves as well as the magic you constantly sustained to keep the room acceptable to the conditions the plants needed to thrive.

Lucci had yet to be inside this room, and it was the one place you hoped he wouldn’t enter, largely because you didn’t think he would let you past him without teasing you endlessly. Plus the state of your clothes was just asking for trouble from him, and you couldn’t be sure that you had the willpower to resist him. 

It was like he was a magnet and, as much as you like to attribute it to the idea that you hadn’t been around anyone in years, you felt it was more than that. No one you had met before had such a strong presence, nor had anyone attracted you as much as he did.

On this particular day, though, it seemed your luck had run out. Previously, he had watched you disappear into the greenhouse with nothing more than a smirk, not even curiosity in his eyes as he headed out the front door. 

Today, it seemed, he was curious, or bored, and so when you hear the door open and close somewhere further down the room, you freeze, eyes scanning the dimly lit rows for a sign of the intruder. But you can’t see anyone, and suddenly it feels less like an intrusion and more like a hunt. Where had he gone?

You begin to creep in the opposite direction of the door, since that’s the closest way to the next aisle over. Keeping your ears peeled, you hear...nothing. In fact, you aren’t even sure he was ever actually in the room. Maybe he had simply opened the door, peeked in, and left again.

Your heart beat slows at last, as do your steps, and you look around one last time. Still nothing, so you make your way back to the previous plant you had been tending, losing yourself in it. Several minutes pass, and you’re fully absorbed in your work once more, when a whisper of sound catches your attention a half-second before strong, lithe hands slide over your sides, squeezing lightly before pulling you backwards.

You actually scream out loud, unable to hold it back in your surprise. Heat immediately floods your cheeks, and you fight against Lucci, though the only headway you make is in turning to face him. 

He looms over you, a wicked, amused grin on his face as you begin to smack his chest. 

At least he’s wearing a shirt, you think faintly as your hand finally lays still over his chest. It flexes underneath your palm as he laughs, sounding far too pleased with himself.

The heat of the room, the scare, and the proximity to him is too much for you, and your head begins to spin. You lean forward, resting your head on his chest and willing it to stop long enough for you to escape.

“Can’t handle me, _____?” he asks, a deadly whisper in your ear.

Your face flushes further, which doesn’t help your head any, and you begin to fear your legs might collapse. 

You’re unable to understand his fixation with you. Is he just so bored that he can’t help himself? Is this how he is in his everyday life? 

Considering how he acted when he first showed up, cold and intimidating and ready to fight you, you doubt it’s the latter. Then again, it could have just been nerves. You have no idea, not knowing anything about him other than his name.

And that you’re dangerously attracted to him. You open your eyes to look up at him, unable to really focus in your current state, but you catch the glint of his eyes in the dim light. They look almost feral, as if he’s enjoying what’s going on right now and would have no issues giving you anything you desire, if you only ask. 

And it was so tempting to take everything he had to offer you. 

“Lucci,” you murmur, your fists clenching in his shirt, just before your legs buckle.

He’s quick to catch you, hoisting you up in his arms with a satisfied chuckle, although it wasn’t completely. He enjoyed messing with you, because you’re so easy to rile up. But he’s also aware that the attraction isn’t one sided, though he’s faring better in his own than you are. 

You aren’t even aware of what you do to him whenever he catches you staring at him, your eyes widening as he approaches, the small steps back away from him until you can go no further. 

Not that you tried too hard to get away; the flicker of hope in your eyes told him that much.

The door creaks as it opens and a rush of cool air clears your head almost immediately. As soon as you begin to struggle, Lucci releases you, keeping an arm around your waist in case you stumble. But you don’t, and push away from him with a glare. 

“You’re an ass,” you hiss, weaving around the couch towards your bedroom. You aren’t sure if you’re really mad, or just extremely flustered that you had passed out in his arms, but you know that it’s because of him that it happened, and you aren’t going to let him get away with it. 

He laughs behind you, and you can just imagine the smirk he’s wearing. “I don’t recall doing anything but coming in to find you, _____. You’re the one that collapsed. What would you have done if I wasn’t there?”

Well first off, you wouldn’t have gotten flustered and overheated. 

But he’s finally slipped, even if he doesn’t realize it. You had recognized the bulge against your back when he had come up and pressed himself against you. His trick had done a good job of scaring you, but it had backfired on him. 

You’re sure he can play the game better than you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t play at all.

His eyes narrow, zeroing in on your hips as they sashay back and forth. He’s sure you were doing that on purpose, and wonders if you’ve finally caught on. The door shuts behind you without another word, but he swears he felt a shift in the air, like things are about to get interesting.

And you’ll be sure to lock that damn door behind you from now on.

                                                        _____

As it turns out, you don’t have to do a whole lot of anything to entice him further. A new sway to your hips and refusing to give him the time of day is doing wonders to his ego. More than once, he’s come in dripping sweat and wearing his shirt over his shoulder, but you had given him a once over and never looked at him again. 

After the first few times, he starts to grow annoyed, and considers the odds that you’ve lost interest. 

But he can still catch the flush of your cheeks and the sweat on the back of your neck.

When he ghosts his fingers across your back as he passes behind you, you barely suppress a shiver and arch away. And yet, you hardly glance his way. 

He doesn’t like being ignored.

That night, after he gets out of the shower, he decides to push you just a little further, to punish you for your childish antics.

The sound of Lucci’s bedroom door opening catches your attention, and you absentmindedly look up only to nearly choke as he steps out into the living room, sans a shirt and wearing a pair of sweats slung so low on his hips it’s a miracle they’re staying up.

God, had you realized having him around would be so hard on your nerves, you’d have sent him floating back out to sea.

Then again, as you watch him saunter closer, his sharp eyes locking with yours and his lips turning up in a knowing smirk, you probably wouldn’t have. And, being honest with yourself, a larger part of you than you’re willing to acknowledge likes it.

“Feel better?” you ask, and you wince at how brittle your voice sounds in your own ears. It’s a fight to turn away from him, and you keep taking glances from the corner of your eye, watching him approach. 

He knows you’re watching— it’s hard to miss the flicker of your eyes as you fight to focus on the dishes— and strolls up behind you, leaning down over your shoulder so his head is right next to yours. He watches your eyes widen and dart to him before back down to the dishes, and the way your mouth tightens at the corners just a little. There isn’t much more of a reaction than that though, at least not until he spoke directly into your ear, just barely above a whisper, “I do now.”

His fingers skim up your sides, tugging the edges up just enough to expose skin before letting it fall again, his hands planting on your hips. 

You freeze, closing your eyes and fighting the urge to tilt your head to the side and expose your neck to him. Your breathing deepens, the beat of your heart picking up furiously, but just like that, he moves away with a sadistic, satisfied chuckle.

There’s an almost crushing disappointment when he does, but you don’t say a word, just going back to your dishes as if you were completely unphased. That isn’t to say it isn’t difficult, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he got under your skin.

Based on the way he continues to laugh though, it doesn’t work. 

It makes you feel better nonetheless.

                                                      _____

One night a few weeks later, you’ve curled up outside on the porch swing with a steaming cup of tea, mulling over the last few weeks. 

It’s hard to say for sure, but to you it felt like it might be warmer than the previous day. Of course, there’s just as much chance that it’s wishful thinking. Still you sit, a light blanket thrown over your legs as you watch bats and fireflies flutter in the shadows. It isn’t one of the more exciting ways to pass the time, but it is relaxing, which is something you desperately needed. 

More often than not, when Lucci was actually inside, the air around the house shifted. It may have just been reacting to you, because you’re sure anyone could tell you were attracted to him.

But you’re also afraid of him. He hasn’t done anything, besides displaying a freakish strength, and there have been no outward signs of...well, anything. It was the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. It was dark and predatory and it made your heart race just thinking about it. The aura around him-- it screamed danger, like you would be a fool to get too close.

And yet, you know you’re already trapped, in more ways than one.

Relief is tempered by disappointment that he spends so much time away. When he’s gone, you almost miss the palpable tension between the two of you, miss the way he would tease you to the point you needed to leave the room. But you don’t know if you could survive that tension all the time.

You’re startled out of your thoughts by the creak of the door opening, Lucci’s already immense shadow growing further in the light spilling out. He doesn’t say a word as he closes it behind him and takes the open seat next to you, immediately beginning a gentle swing. Not that he can help it, those long legs aren’t meant to be curled up underneath him. One leg is carefully crossed over the other, his arm coming to rest along the back of the swing, his fingertips just barely grazing the back of your neck as it passes.

The hairs there raise, followed by the ones on your arms, and you look up at him in wonder.

The smirk is there, that knowing look in his eyes as well, saying I know what I do to you. But you wonder if he’s doing it purely to tease you or if he could possibly want more. 

Thinking about it like that makes you nervous, because you aren’t sure if you want more. 

You aren’t stupid. He was leaving the first chance he got. You’re already more attached to him than you want to be, the overwhelming tension not doing you any favors whatsoever. You aren’t sure you want the lingering feelings you would have once he left.

“It’s cold out here,” he says, once more breaking you out of your thoughts. It’s a simple observation, but the way he says it makes it sound like it’s detrimental to your health. 

Somehow you don’t think it’s the problem here.

Doing your best to appear unconcerned, you shrug, throwing your head back as if to look up at the sky, but all you can see is the porch ceiling. “It’s not that bad. Besides, it’s a great place to think.”

He quirks one of his eyebrows at you, the corners of his lips curling up that little bit more as he asks, “About?”

You. Me. Us. You. 

Your face heats up at the thoughts and what could come of them if they slip from your lips. Instead, you shrug again, letting your eyes linger on his for a half-second before they find the darkness behind him. “How you got here. I never did ask, you know. Too busy saving your life and all. So what did happen?”

The smirk flickers and his eyes darken. For a second, you think he might get up and walk away, he looks so angry. But then his face smooths out and he says, “There was a storm. My boat was capsized, destroyed by the waves, I suppose. I don’t recall much after falling into the water. Luck seems to have put me on that piece of wood and carried me to your island.”

You hum, nodding. You had seen the storm clouds quite a ways in the distance that day almost black against the constant grey, but they never reached you, instead heading in the opposite direction.

“That is quite lucky,” you say, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. An awkward silence falls after that, punctuated only by the sound of fluttering wings and the occasional owl hoot. It morphs slowly from awkward to just silent, and that’s comfortable enough for you to drift back into your thoughts, but Lucci breaks it with a question of his own.

“How did you come to be on this island by yourself?” It’s the first time you can remember hearing anything in his voice other than ire or mischief, and it’s surprising the things it did to your stomach.

You grin fondly as you remember the long series of events that had led you here. “I was young, 18 and ready for adventure. I wanted to leave my island and go sailing, to get away from my greedy family, who tried to make me stay and marry into another wealthy family.” 

You could still remember the man they picked for you. At the time, he couldn’t have been more repugnant. Simpering and spineless is what you had assumed, bending to his family’s wishes without argument. Looking back on it years later, you had realized that you had simply been pushing off your own insecurities onto a stranger and that there had been nothing wrong with what he had done. Or his face.

As quick as a flash, Lucci’s image, a predatory smile on his face as he loomed over you, filled your head, and you shook it like a dog with water in its ears. 

Lucci wore the mirror image of your vision, like he could read your mind. You feel his fingers ghost over your shoulder for just a moment, then it’s gone and you wonder if you had imagined it.

“Anyway,” you continue, trying to put your mind back on track. It would do you no good to lose yourself in fantasies, especially not with the object of them right next to you. “Anyway, I didn’t want to, so one night I snuck out. Stole a boat and sailed off.”

At that, he laughed. It sounded derogatory, like he couldn’t picture you off on your own at that age. You frown and lightly punch his arm. He stops laughing almost immediately and pins you with a look somewhere between intrigued and daring you to do it again.

Instead, you turn your nose up to him and continue your story. He only laughs again.

“I was sailing for almost seven years when I stumbled upon this island. The log pose never pointed to it, but I was curious, so I stopped. The witch at the time, Mirabelle, greeted me. It seemed so strange, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Lucci cuts you off then, asking, “Did you not hear stories about this island from other sailors? Even I heard about something similar. ‘Islands that appear and disappear at will, there one minute and gone the next’. Pirates were always spewing that nonsense. Most never mentioned a witch though.” He leans closer then, pushing a lock of hair from your cheek.

You shiver, locking eyes with him. He doesn’t move back, instead remaining close enough that you can feel his breath ghosting across your cheek. Neither of you move, each trying to wait the other out.

You break first, looking down at your lap and moving back as far as the swing would allow. Breathy and unsure, you carry on, now speaking to your legs. You would swear you hear him huff and, maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you would swear it’s in irritation. “Over the week, we shared stories of our childhood, and I told her about my adventures in the Grand Line. Maybe that was what did it, but on the last day she brought up giving her powers up to me. I had thought she wouldn’t actually want to, that she was just venting. But she brought out a contract and everything. Funnily enough, she left out quite a few of the more important details.”

Even after all these years, you still felt the sting every time you thought about how easily you had been tricked. This time, you’re sure you feel Lucci’s touch on the back of your neck, his fingertips or his knuckles dragging down your spine as if to comfort you. 

You ignore it, finishing your story. 

“Obviously, I signed it. As soon as I lifted the pen from the paper, she began to laugh, running out towards the shore. I chased after her, trying to stop her from climbing into my boat. I screamed after her, asking her why she was taking it. She turned and looked at me and I’ll never forget how she looked at me.” It was a cross between cold pity and sheer, unadulterated happiness. “‘You won’t need it,’ she said. I tried to follow her, right up until my feet couldn’t touch the bottom, but couldn’t go any further because the current was too strong.”

An arm curls around your shoulders, Lucci’s fingers digging into your shoulder as if that would comfort you, but he refrained from pulling you close, for which you’re grateful. You don’t want his pity. Don’t need it, either.

He’s silent as you stew. It had long since surpassed anger at her trickery, or even anger at your having fallen for it so easily. You had begun to understand shortly after the island returned to its plane what would have driven her to do something so underhanded. “I was upset at first, because she hadn’t told me the full story about what would happen, but honestly, it hasn’t been so bad.”

“Why didn’t you do what she did? It wouldn’t have been hard,” he answers, watching you carefully. All this time, he had thought you were here unwillingly, but the way you’re speaking, it no longer sounded like that was the case. 

“Honestly, I thought it would be lonely. And, don’t get me wrong, it is. But there’s no expectations here. I don’t have to defend myself from marauding pirates or Marines. I saw a lot of things I didn’t like in the world and, well…” Your head rolls back, resting on your shoulder to look at him.

In the depths of your eyes, he can see warmth tempered by sadness, happiness tempered by loneliness, and want tempered by wariness. 

“Anyway, no one washed up on shore for several years. The island shows up randomly, not always near civilization. I’ve gone a decade without seeing anyone, more than once. It was almost that long before I finally saw someone else, and when he explained that he was on his way back to his family after five years at sea, I realized I didn’t want to leave, or subject someone else to this. I may not always be happy, but I’m content.”

For the third time, silence falls. Punctuating it this time is the warm weight of his arm across your shoulders, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the sweater you’re wearing. Giving into the temptation, you lean over to rest your head on his shoulder. He had long since stopped wearing his suit jacket, leaving him in only his button down. You had thought his shoulder would be hard from the muscles, but relaxed as he is, it isn’t uncomfortable. 

His head snaps down to look at you, a ghost of a triumphant smile crossing his face, before his arm wraps tighter, forcing you to press fully against him. You go willingly enough, curling your knees up and allowing them to rest against his thighs. Your fingers grab onto his shirt, crumpling the fabric in your fist as your head tucks against his neck.

Suddenly, you realize just how cold it really is out, wrapped up in the warmth he exudes. A flicker of panic, your brain trying to warn you of the danger of being so close to Lucci, flares up, before it’s washed away by the stronger feeling of comfort it brings.

You’re in serious danger of falling asleep like that when he shifts, his free arm looping under your knees. Before he can get much further, you jerk up, pulling away from him.

You smile, hoping to hide your anxiety from him as you stand up on your own. “Ah, ah, I’m not that far gone,” you say, backing away from him. The further you get from him, the clearer you begin to think, and the more embarrassed you begin to feel for giving into him.

He watches you go with an almost unfathomable expression, his face a blank slate; even his usually sharp eyes are like stone. It makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong, like you should have allowed him to whisk you off your feet. But that was dangerous, especially when you already feel so vulnerable in his presence. 

You can only imagine what would happen if you allowed him to get so comfortable handling you like that.

“Goodnight, Lucci,” you say, turning and walking inside, leaving him alone on the porch. Every bone in your body screams at you to go back to him, but you force yourself to continue to your bedroom, shutting the door on your racing heart.

                                                       _____

It seemed like every time you took one step forward, something was thrown into your path and you were knocked three backs. This became obvious to you when you found out a rather big secret that Lucci was keeping.

It wasn’t so much the fact that he was hiding it, because it was his to tell, and more what the actual secret entailed. You very much doubted he meant for you to find out at all, let alone the way that you did.

On the night in question, you decided that you wanted to take a walk during the evening, and found yourself a meandering path through the woods to follow. It was one of hundreds, forged by the many animals that called the island home, but you can’t tell the difference between them. You can sense that both predators and prey used to use it regularly, but that lately it had remained empty, and that concerned you. 

There were very few animals that posed a threat to you, but they were there. Generally the animals left you alone, but even before now you had sensed something was riling them up. It had been hard to notice because there were more pressing matters to attend to at the time, but you would hazard a guess it had started when Lucci had washed up on shore. 

Though you couldn’t be sure because you hadn’t been paying much attention, it was also the only thing that had changed on the island in the last few years.

In any case, you had finally noticed the disruption in the flow of magic around the island, mainly that certain species of animals had become far more aggressive, starting to wander closer and closer to your home. It was unlikely that they would outright attack it, or that they could actually do any damage, but you couldn’t be sure what they would do if they were left unchecked.

You didn’t want to face whatever was causing the upset, just scope it out and determine if the solution would be more involved. Sometimes, the problem turned out to be as simple as an injury, though this time you got the feeling that it was deeper than that. 

Based on the way they lurked around and were attacking each other, you imagined something had upset the food chain. The animals and plants each had their own individual auras that you could sense, and the animals had been growing weaker, although so slowly it had been hard to tell it was happening at all. It had become enough of a concern now that you needed to step in and figure something out.

Continuing on as quietly as you can, you allow the many different waves to wash over you, trying to determine which animals are in your vicinity. You know there has to be one nearby, because there’s a complete and total silence around you that only a predator can bring about. Not even the sound of crickets chirping can be heard, no matter how hard you strain to hear.

What you find is a monstrous creature, and as you approach it, sweat beads up on the back of your neck. It’s dangerous to approach one under normal circumstances, but as they’re now riled up, it’s downright stupid. 

Taking the time to cast a small invisibility spell, you step out into the edge of a clearing, scoping out the massive mound of brown fur in the center. It isn’t a natural clearing, but rather the animal-- a bear, by the look of it-- has tamped down the foliage and torn down the trees to make room for its massive body. 

“Shit,” you whisper, raking your eyes over every inch of its body that you can see. It doesn’t seem to be in distress, no labored breathing or cries of pain, and there aren’t any injuries that you can see. So what can it be?

There’s a snort, then the mound-- indeed a bear-- climbs to its feet and rears up on its hind legs with a snarl loud enough to knock you to your knees. The ground rumbles as it lands again, jarring you further. For the first time, you’re really and truly afraid for your safety, and you scuttle backwards, towards the trees. Even if they can’t stop the beast, they’ll hopefully slow it down enough to allow you to get away. On your own, you had no hope of taking it on, let alone down, so your only option is to run.

You stand up on wobbly legs, only to stumble as the bear begins to charge. The clearing isn’t large at all; it would take only a moment for it to reach you, but you aren’t far from the edge. All you need is that second--

Another snarl, smaller but no less menacing, rings out through the air but you don’t turn to look until you’re in the safety of the trees. Hidden behind the trunk of a large tree, you poke your head out to find a leopard, almost half the size of the bear, with its teeth clamped into the scruff of the other animal. Its claws are raking viciously down its back, its head whipping from side to side, trying to tear chunks of flesh from its larger victim. 

A leopard, you think, watching in awe, there are no leopards here. 

Cheetahs and tigers, along with a range of smaller feline species like servals and ocelots, but no leopards. You almost fear for the leopard’s safety, given its far smaller stature, but it’s locked down tight on the other animal’s back, relinquishing its hold just long enough to latch on again and maintain its position.

The bear is writhing in pain, screaming as it swipes at the leopard with terrifyingly oversized paws tipped with wicked looking claws. At last, it fell, rolling onto its back and obscuring your view of the cat, and you’re sure it’s been squished. 

But then it appears, leaping lightly up onto the bear’s side, making a beeline for its prey’s exposed stomach. Before it can make it, though, the bear is up, roaring again as it stumbles towards the treeline in a clear retreat. 

The hairs rose on the back of your neck as you watch the leopard stand in victory in the middle of a puddle of blood, licking its lips like it wanted more. Then it turned to look at you, piercing you with a set of intelligent silver eyes.

Your heart slams into overdrive when you lock eyes with the cat in a moment of recognition. It licked its lips again, taking one silent step towards you, and you turn, booking it through the woods and back towards the safety of your home. 

Though you aren’t sure how safe you really are anymore, given that you had let an animal inside already.

What had been a twenty minute walk out there was reduced by half in your mad dash back, and you’re out of breath, holding your side against the raging stitch there when you reach the house. Doubling over on the porch, you wheeze out what turned out to be a laugh. You collapse to your knees, struggling to get a proper breath in between your hysterics and general lack of air. You freeze when the floorboards creak under you, jerking your head up to meet the silver eyes of your guest, the same eyes you had locked gazes with mere minutes before. 

“Lucci,” you whisper, acknowledging him with a hoarse voice. He’s notably devoid of any blood, but you’re beyond the ability to process what that means. Your lungs hurt and you don’t have the strength to run again as Lucci comes closer, kneeling down and cupping your chin, but you have managed to get your breathing under control.

“You ran,” he says, amusement evident in both his words and his eyes. They’re narrowed, and seem to hold confusion as well, though you can’t fathom why. “Were you scared?”

Well that was a stupid question. Of course you were. 

“My housemate, who is virtually a stranger, turned into a massive leopard without my knowing it could be done, then managed to fend off an even bigger bear all by himself.” You couldn’t even take on those behemoths. You aren’t sure if it was due to their size or the island’s magic or both, but they’re impervious to your attacks. The best you could hope for was to shore up your defenses enough to keep them at bay, although it generally isn’t a problem. “What else should I feel?”

“Gratitude, for one thing. That monster was going to kill you, and you know it. If I hadn’t stepped in, you wouldn’t be here,” he answers. His hands wrap around your upper arms, gently tugging you to your feet. You stumble on legs still trembling from adrenaline and exercise, with Lucci’s arms likely being the only thing keeping you on your feet. 

He has a point, you concede as you fall onto the porch swing. It’s chains creak faintly under your sudden weight, but it was in no danger of falling. Like everything else, it’s magically reinforced to remain in place. “I do appreciate it, Lucci,” you say, raking your fingers angrily through your hair. It wasn’t that you were angry at him, or upset at his secret. In fact, you can’t peg what it is that’s upsetting you. “I just...I don’t know. You’ve been here for months and I feel like I know nothing about you, but I’m just supposed to be okay with it. And then it turns out you can transform into an animal. I can’t even do that.”

Although you now at least knew what was upsetting the animals around you. They must have recognized that Lucci was different from them but, unable to discern how, marked him as another predator, and were now trying to figure out a new chain of command.

He knelt down in front of you, and even then still remains at eye level with you. His brows furrow, silver swirling with anger as he glares at you, telling you without words that he’s going to answer no questions, even if you do ask. 

You wrench your jaw from his hand, glaring at the wall as you bite your lip against the furious tirade brewing in your chest. Against your will, he turns your head to him again, his face now wiped of all emotions. His thumb grazes over the marks your teeth have left in your lip, eyes lingering just a moment too long before meeting yours. It isn’t going to be so easy to deter you from your anger though, and you open your mouth, teeth clacking as you snap at him.

He chuckles, a low, dangerous sound that sends shivers down your spine. 

“And I’m the animal?” he asks, his fingers tightening on your chin, just enough to remind you he’s far stronger than you could ever hope to be. “I have the powers of a Devil Fruit. The Cat Cat Fruit, Leopard Model,” he says, relinquishing his grip to stand. 

You thought he was going to leave, leaving you with a dozen new questions, but to your surprise he sits beside you on the swing. You sit up straight, relaxing into the back of the swing and are met once again with the feeling of fingers ghosting across your neck, followed by the warmth of his arm.

You would be a liar if you said finding out he had strange powers didn’t sting a little, but you would be a fool to say you hadn’t known. Of course this man had secrets, he practically oozed secrecy, nevermind that he divulged very little about himself, other than that he worked for the World Government prior to washing ashore on your island. Beyond that, you know nothing about his hobbies, likes or dislikes, or even his favorite color.

Then again, you decide, maybe there wasn’t much more to him than that. Like the poor villagers from your home island, maybe he was all work and no play.

Pushing that aside to work through later, you pull your legs up underneath you. The sweat had cooled on your body, and you were feeling the chill as the sky grew pink. 

Quick as a flash, Lucci has a blanket in his hand.

“How did you--? That wasn’t--” 

You take the blanket from him, staring at it in confusion. That had been inside. Your heart begins to race in your chest again as you look up from it to him. He’s staring at you with a knowing smirk, waiting for your reaction. 

“Is that another power from your Devil Fruit?” you ask, hoping you don’t sound as nervous as you feel. That was two in a day, and you wonder what else he can do.

“No, I learned that from training for the World Government. I can move so fast I seem to disappear. Did you like it?” he asks with a sneer. He knows he’s playing with fire, revealing so much to you in one go, but he’s curious to see just how far he could push you before you cracked.

It’s easy to recognize the game, it’s one of his favorites, and you aren’t about to fall apart and let him win. 

“I don’t know if I like it, but it’s certainly interesting.” That sounds weak, even to you, but what else could you say? It’s unlikely that he would answer any questions, even if you knew what to ask, and it’s just as unlikely that you would understand the answer. “About this Devil Fruit, though, can you only turn into a cat?” 

Devil Fruits you understood. There was a tree that grew on your home island that produced one. They called it the Whistle Whistle Fruit. It gave a person the power to whistle whatever they wanted at any decibel. You thought it sounded a bit stupid, but the wielder could do some serious damage if they practiced enough. 

He shook his head and stood, making his way out into the grass. You watch curiously as Hattori takes off, coming to settle on the back of the swing beside your shoulder. 

The hairs raise all over your body, your breath coming out in a rush as Lucci shifts before your eyes, growing taller and sprouting spotted yellow fur all over his body. Just as you expect him to fall down onto all fours, it all seems to stop, and he remained up on his hind legs. Somehow, his clothing remained in one piece, stretched taut over the massive barrel chest he now possessed, as well as the increased muscle mass over the rest of his body. 

Your vision begins to spot, darkness closing in at the edges. You curl your hands into fists, digging your nails in as hard as you can to anchor yourself to the pain. You can hear your pulse thrumming in your ears, seconded by a strange, tinny whistling you couldn’t remember hearing before. As quickly as it came on, it passes, leaving your head spinning and your temples throbbing. 

Realizing you’ve stopped breathing, you gasp, taking short, heaving breaths in order to clear the lingering tension.

Lucci stands out in the yard still, tail flicking as he watches you struggle to come to terms with the odd sight. He was sure you were going to pass out, watching the sweat bead and fall from your hairline, rolling down and following the curve of your jaw until it fell to your shirt. 

But you impress him, managing to force it down until you could breathe freely again. 

Even more to his surprise, you stand, making your way down the stairs towards him. He refrains from moving, even though he desperately wants to see how badly it would frighten you. 

Moreso, he’s curious to know what you’re going to do. He is in no fear that you would try to hurt him; even if you did, there was nothing you could do that would harm him, and you would be a fool to try.

Your skin is still drained of all color as you watch him, like a deer might watch a wolf it thinks is sleeping but can’t be sure. Your steps are light, careful, ready to flee at a moments notice, and he can hear your pulse pounding away, see the telltale flickering in your neck. With his heightened sense of smell, he can also tell that that fear is mixed deliciously with a heady desire.

Unconsciously, he licks his lips, his pupils narrowing as you come to stand in front of him.

You don’t miss the flick of his tongue, already zeroed in on his every move, even though the more primal part of you knows you couldn’t get away even if you tried. It wouldn’t stop you, though, your fight-or-flight already on high alert. One wrong move, and you would run without thinking, more than likely causing him to chase on instinct. It would become a hunt, and you weren’t sure what the outcome would be.

A shiver shoots up your spine, and you can’t deny that the idea of a more desirable outcome, one ending with you pinned underneath him and entirely at his mercy, is a prominent reason.

Very slowly, you reach out, running just the tips of your fingers down the fur on his muscular arm. It’s smooth and fine, not quite soft but not coarse like you had imagined, and thick enough to delve your fingers into, but not enough to grab a handful. When they meet one of the many spots that littered his fur, you find that it’s thicker than the gold hairs, more coarse, but still not unpleasant to touch. 

You frown, running your fingers up and down over the rosette, watching the thick fur fold down and spring back up only for you to push it down again. “The spots feel different.”

It isn’t a question, but Lucci shrugs anyway. The smirk has long since faded, and he’s instead enveloped in watching you examine him. It’s a surreal experience to have someone essentially petting him. 

There had never been anyone that he showed this form to that he hadn’t wanted to intimidate or just flat out murder, and so no one had ever been close enough to him to touch him.

The motion startles you from your fixed attention, and you look up, craning your neck back as far as you can in order to see his face. Lucci was tall to begin with, but in this form he had to be at least 12 feet. 

In comparison to the rest of his body, his legs are downright scrawny and, in another situation, you might have laughed. 

But right now, you feel like you’re standing on a fragile precipice, one that could break at the slightest provocation and send you tumbling down to the gods knew what end. It was the last thing you had ever imagined being shown, especially from someone as secretive as Lucci, but he had seemed so willing to show you, and it would be rude to laugh.

Besides, you were already past it, your eyes roaming over his massive chest and up to his face, roving over a face strangely made up of both human and animal features.

Neither of you say anything for a long moment, your heart still thrumming away far too fast in your chest, Lucci simply waiting for your reaction. Some part of him he doesn’t want to acknowledge hopes you wouldn’t run. The animalistic part he’s more prone to listening to hopes you do, but not for the normal reasons.

He knew, as did you, that if you were to run, he would hunt you down, making a game of it for as long as he felt like it. When he pounced, he would claim you, over and over again until he likely would have to carry you home in his arms.

You reach up again as high as you can, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. He allows you to pull him down, following until he’s kneeling before you. Even at this height, he still towers over you, and you have to lift your arms up above your head to reach his face. As carefully as you had his arm, if not moreso, you trail your fingers through the fur from his forehead to his jaw, finding it soft and downy and pleasant to touch. You’re overcome with the urge to rub your face against it to determine just how soft it was.

Tugging on the piece of shirt you still hold in your fist, you pull him the rest of the way down. 

He resists at first, before relaxing in small increments until his face hovers above yours. It doesn’t cross your mind that the position might be uncomfortable for him, and he doesn’t offer a complaint. You register vaguely how his breathing has deepened, his eyes narrowing to half as your nose brushes over his gently. It isn’t wet, but dry and warm. You move on quickly, pressing your cheek to his and allowing the fur to graze your skin. It was just as soft as it had felt against your hands, if not softer.

Your hands slide up, over his shoulders and threading into his hair, relishing how soft the thick, black curls are as well. He doesn’t smell like you thought he would, wearing the same foresty scent of pine and rainwater that he always had. Of their own accord, your arms wrap around his neck, allowing you to press closer to his thick chest.

His hands curl around your sides, almost meeting before lifting you up to stand on your tiptoes, supporting most of that weight with his own strength and clutching you even closer.

“Do you know how dangerous this is?” he asks, squeezing just enough that you can feel his claws press into your skin through your shirt. 

His voice is right in your ear, feral with lust he makes no attempt to hide. 

It had taken every bit of his willpower not to take you prior to this, but the last thread is stretched to the breaking point. One move, one word from you, and he would claim you.

Your breathing hitches, your back arching up into him, and you curl your nails into his neck as heat flares from your toes up to your face. For one short instant, you really believe he might eat you alive, but then it’s gone, replaced by the distinct need to feel him against every inch of you.

“Lucci,” you moan, so quiet it’s almost a whisper, but his ears flick up in surprise. Fingers tipped with razor sharp claws wind through your hair, so careful not to nick your skin or shave your hair that you hardly realize he’s done it until he’s tugging your head back, exposing your neck to his sandpaper tongue. 

It rasps over your pulsepoint, and he feels you tremble in his arms, torn between fear and arousal. Your eyes flutter closed, so you feel rather than see his transformation, and then very human lips latch onto your neck, teeth nipping hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue. 

You can rapidly feel your body giving up control to him, unable to do anything but gasp and roll your hips. Your chest brushes against his, your nipples hardening at the light contact.

His lips trail up the column of your throat to your ear, nipping gently before asking, “Is this what you want?”

Afraid your voice won’t work, you nod, eyes opening to look up at him. Instead of returning to you, he shook his head, giving you a teasing look.

“I’m going to need a better answer,” he says, the hand not locked in your hair slipping up underneath your shirt and skimming up your back. Desperate frustration fills you, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Lucci, yes, please!”

“Good girl,” he whispers. He’s still on his knees, his human height much more manageable, and he leans away from you enough that he could slide his hand up your front. 

A warm, calloused palm splays out across your stomach, pressing gently before it began a slow journey up your ribs. His lips brush yours briefly, not enough to call it a kiss, but it elicited a response all the same. Your lips part, head tilting up to follow him, begging him without words to come back and kiss you properly. 

Instead he smirks, and you realize he had been hoping to distract you as his hand finally cups the heavy weight of your tit in his palm.

Against the tender skin of your breast, his hand feels like sandpaper, but he’s so gentle as he rolls your nipple in his fingers that it feels exquisite. Warmth surges in your stomach, settling down at the juncture of your legs. You shiver as your back arches, seeking more.

His teeth meet your ear again before he lifts you up with one arm, still fondling your breast, like your weight means nothing. You can’t find it in yourself to care, instead allowing your fingers to thread through his hair down to his shoulders as his lips claim yours at last, his tongue immediately delving past your already parted lips and claiming your mouth entirely. 

He tastes of lingering blood and you shudder at the reminder. Your nails graze his neck on their way to the buttons of his shirt. By feel alone, you pluck them open, revealing delicious olive toned skin inch by inch.

You’re jarred a little as he sits down, and when you open your eyes you find yourself in the living room, settled in his lap on the couch. 

He had removed his hand from under your shirt in order to open the front door, and it now found its way back to the hem, pulling it up and over your head. 

His eyes rake from your waist up to your face; his eyes meet yours just long enough for him to flash a wicked grin at you before dropping back down to your heaving chest. You lean back, gripping his knees in each hand and tossing your hair over your shoulder, putting yourself on display for him. 

He likes that, watching you give yourself up willingly to him. It somehow satisfies the more primal part of him that craves seeing you submit to him in every way, but the look in your eyes says you know exactly what you’re doing. 

You’re willing to play his game, if he’s willing to follow the rules.

His fingers wrap in your hair again, his other hand gripping your hip, forcing you to roll down and grind against the bulge in his slacks. Like everything else on him, it was big, and you wanted to see it. 

“Patience,” he says, grabbing your hand as it reaches for the button of his pants. He guides you by the hair, forcing your back to bow more so he could wrap soft lips around the nipple of your untouched breast.

You have to clench your hands into fists to keep from reaching up and pulling him closer. You understand that he wants to take it slow, and it does sound appealing, but a part of you also just wants him to fuck you right then and there. It makes it all the more exciting, though, to hold back and let him lead.

His tongue laps languidly at your breast as you grind against him, eyes half closed as he takes his time. He relishes the faint gasps and whines filling the room as he moves to the other one, feeling his cock throb the longer he draws it out. When you begin to squirm, begging him to stop, he pulls away, pressing one last kiss to your raw, hard bud, and releases your hair. “Those shorts need to go.”

You grip the back of the couch and stand as if you were stretching, pushing your breasts against his chest. As you finger the button of your shorts, he pulls his cock out, giving it a few slow pumps as he takes in the view. You undo it and the fly, hooking your fingers in the waist before pushing them down, allowing them to slide down your legs to your knees, revealing your lack of underwear. They bunch at your knees, and you push them the rest of the way down, bending over far more than necessary, so your face comes dangerously close to his leaking erection. 

It’s as big as you had imagined, surely bigger than anything you’ve taken before, and you kneel down between his knees, taking it into your hands, Lucci’s breath hitching at the soft touch. Your fingers don’t even meet on the other side, and you can feel a new flood of warmth down your thighs at the realization.

Above you, Lucci smirks, able to smell your arousal peak. He watches you without saying a word as you begin to stroke him, poking your tongue out to lap at the pre leaking from the tip. Your mouth engulfs him a moment later, tongue swirling around his head and slit. It’s all you can take, and he groans at the feel of your mouth tight around him, imagining what your dripping cunt will feel like. His fingers grip your hair, pulling you gently off him and up to your feet. 

He relishes the look of confusion and flash of fear, afraid you’ve done something wrong.

He pulls you forward, coaxing you to straddle him as you had before, his cock nestling between your dripping folds. You moan, rocking your hips, covering it in your slick. The friction along your already sensitive clit is driving you dangerously close to the edge, and Lucci lets you continue for only a few moments before he stills you.

“This is your last chance, beauty, to change your mind,” he says, even as his thumb finds your clit and presses hard. 

It’s an unexpected roughness, and your hips jerk in response, your pussy spasming around nothing in pleasure. Even had you entertained the notion of stopping before, it would have been swept away in a rush. His eyes are liquid warmth, watching you with an amused smile as you shake your head enthusiastically.

“Lucci, please,” you moan, seeking more of the friction from his thumb. He acquiesces, rubbing softer circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves, gathering the moisture your body produced up. Your body is torn, not wanting to give up the feeling of his finger but craving him inside you.

“I need more than that, _____.” The deep, throaty way he says your name causes you to gasp. One long finger dips down to toy at your entrance. He has no intentions of slipping it inside you, but he’s more than willing to tease you.

It does the trick, your body instantly clenching in anticipation. “I want you inside me now.” 

You’re whining and you know it, but you also don’t care, willing to do whatever it takes to get what you want.

Lucci gives you a dark, hungry look, and wraps his hand around his length. “Sit up,” he says, and his words are laced with so much commanding lust that you don’t even think to argue, instead sitting up on your knees and allowing his head to lodge in your dripping hole. Before you can sink down, he grabs under your thighs, keeping you positioned above him. You whine in frustration, tipping your head. He’s almost where you want him, nestled so deep inside your aching cunt you won’t be able to walk straight when he was through.

You whine as his thick tip splits you open, already stretching you to your limit. Inch by agonizing inch, he lowers you, fucking up into you little by little until he’s sure you can take him further. In your heady daze, you hadn’t considered how much it could hurt, taking something so big, especially since he was sure it had been ages since you had been with anyone. Fortunately, Lucci is in full control and aware, willing to restrain himself for your sake. Though he is a self-admitted sadist, that doesn’t extend to this, and he’s by no means a selfish lover. He doesn’t want to hurt you. 

At least, not unless you ask.

After several long, agonizing minutes, your hips settle down against his, little sparks of pleasure surging from your clit, trapped between your body and his. Your body trembles in his arms, your cunt spasming helplessly around his throbbing length, the only thing keeping you still being his arms locked around you. You’re cradled to his chest, his lips littering your neck with kisses, struggling against the desire to fuck up into the tight heat around his cock. 

“You’re so tight, beauty. You took me so well,” he whispers, licking the shell of your ear.

You’re almost sobbing against his shoulder, nonsensical babbling and begging spilling from your lips, rocking your hips just as much as his arms will allow.

Finally, once you’ve relaxed, he loosens his arms, allowing you free. Instead of the desperate bouncing he expected, you throw your head back, bracing yourself on his knees as you began to roll your hips, taking his cock inside you in deep, slow thrusts over and over. He’s mesmerized, watching the bounce of your breasts, his hands mindlessly gliding up to cup them before running back down your ribs. He can feel the way you twitch underneath his hands, like it tickles, but he’s already past it, one hand on your hip and the other moving down to cup your mound. The feel of his thumb against your clit startles you, your hips stuttering from their rhythm for a moment before they pick up again, faster now as you also sought the pleasure his fingers brought.

You begin to mewl his name, more nonsensical begging falling from your lips in between each call, until your pussy starts to flutter around him. 

His arm slides around, pulling you up and into his chest, his lips seeking out yours. His tongue slides past your parted lips, swirling around yours and swallowing your cries as you cling to him. Your nails leave jagged red lines across his shoulders as the bouncing of your hips become desperate and out of sync, and Lucci takes over, guiding you back into rhythm. The pounding of your hips and the frantic friction on your clit melds together and with one last cry you collapse into his arms. He eases you through your orgasm with gentle rocks of his hips, punctuated by little moans and gasps as you come down.

His hands caress down your thighs and back up, cupping your ass and forcing your hips to move. You shudder and whine, rolling your hips down to engulf his cock in your heat again and again, allowing him to use you to chase his own release. In your ear he whispers colorful praise, growling how good you feel around him, how much he enjoys feeling you squeeze tight around him. 

Your mind is slowly going blank from overstimulation, but you grip his shoulders, digging your nails in and dragging them up and down his back. He tenses when your teeth meet his collarbone, but it quickly passes as you move up his throat.

“Lucci,” you moaned, pressing your lips just underneath his ear. “Oh god, Lucci, you feel so good. I can’t--” You gasp when he rolls his hips up sharply, pressing deep inside you and pinching your clit in the process. 

Your whispered, thankful praise and your pussy clenching around him are his undoing and he stills inside you, his hips jerking several times before he relaxes against the back of the couch.

Your arms wind around his neck and you hide your face in his hair, placing lazy kisses along his throat and shoulder before settling your head there. It’s quiet and still, neither of you wanting to break the peace.

Lucci’s hands wander absentmindedly up and down your back, enjoying the way your breath is still uneven, your body still trembling from exertion. You had looked exquisite as you took him, and already his body is stirring at the thought of taking you again, seeing that wild pleasure on your face again. But for now, he lets you rest against him, comfortable with you in his arms. Right now, he could forget that he was a wanted criminal, a murderer, and that, no matter how much he might possibly, maybe want to stay, he’s already cast his lot with another.

Your breathing deepens and evens out, the steady rise and fall of your back lulling him as well, and, more gently than he could ever remember being, he moves you to lay on the couch, grabbing the blanket off the back and joining you a moment later.

He smiles-- an actual smile-- when you curl right up in his arms, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and go back to sleep. 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t join you for a very long time.

[thefeeblehearts]

Dreams of Chinook

As published in “Expression Literary and Arts Magazine” Spring 2020, Casper College. 

Today is a blustery day, the wind crashes into the trees like a tidal wave breaking on the shore. The dry, crystallized flakes of snow are whisked away across the ground in swirling dances that cover the roads and blanket the ground anew. And when I close my eyes I can hear it, the ocean. Each gust, a storm at sea sending waves running into the sand. It pushes me forward, a demand to move. In the quiet between each push, there is the feeling of being pulled back. And yet as the wave builds in the distance and rushes to shore, my breath is stolen by the very air I breathe in, whisked away to some other place and time.

A gentle ebb and violent flow. The wave and its undertow.

Behind closed eyes, I see the land before there were people. Water that met a sandy shore, lapping and licking at the ground, soaking into the rich soil to nourish the forest. The wind is like a memory. It pulls me to the past and to the truth of these ancient lands I now call home. Wyoming, a land that was once filled with the same salt waters of the ocean. The fossilized seashells, the dried, petrified bones of animals beyond imagination show me this proof. A memory. A dream of what this place was before anyone was here. 

It is magic. The wind is magic. The dream of memory.

When I open my eyes I have to squint past the golden, snowy glow to recapture the feeling of connection. It is hard when so often the land looks dead, to remember that it is alive and screaming, waiting for its people to hear.

It is in my sleep. I feel that the magic leaks from the wind and land. It seeps into the grey matter of my tired mind and works a new kind of magic. Each breath is a gateway for the wind in which the stories, the magic, flow in and mix with my blood and shoot through my body.

A teleportation to a new world.

Here again, as night falls, I close my eyes and I am nothing more than ears listening to the tidal sound of the wind. The rush of air pushing on the house and making it speak in groans under the hostile attack. The air pushes to get in and spread its magic, and I fall asleep to its rage. It pulls me back gently only for the roar of ancient stories to slam through me and into my most sacred of places.

Dreams. This is how I dream. I am eased back only to be grabbed by the hand and dragged into a line of story that is both mine and other.

The wind in my dream is quiet, everything is silenced. I have conversations with phantom pantomimes of my family without ever hearing a word that they say. The roar outside has made me deaf to their voices even within my own mind. But the magic carries me through another dimension where the houses are smaller on the outside and despite being locked between concrete and brick, the doors still lead to a garden and forest that extends beyond the reaches of humanity.

There is a story here that the wind pushes me to experience. This house is not new. While bland and uninviting from the outside, squished between neighboring cookie-cutter copies, its interior is warm Gothic. All hidden passages, dark shadows, and brightly lit kitchens. There are places I can only get to if I am lost, and I am often lost. The magic in the winds that powers this dreams-cape pushes me along to explore, whispering in my ear that this is where I live; this is my home. And I feel at home, wrapped in a blanket of constant change and surprises, here is the landscape I’ve been looking for.

I want to know this story, and I listen to the whispering in the stream of air that brushes across the folds of my mind, “He is alive here, will always be alive.”

And I look, and he is. A resurrected and frail but breathing incarnation of my dad. He is smiling. His salted hair looks feather-light, and his green eyes catch the light the same way they always did when he was alive and happy. He still stumbles when he walks and I am pushed by the wave of the wind to go. Go and embrace the fallen because he is here.

The house swirls, a marriage of color and dancing light and it is a new day. I am awake again, my eyes prying open, only to fall shut again, a struggle I face every morning. The morning is quiet, the rage of the night before is temporarily sated, but I am not. I am never finished with dreaming. I wish for the wind to come again.

It is winter. In Wyoming, every day feels like winter. I miss the long springs and autumns of the East. It had been that way in my dream. The odd garden and forest that existed there are familiar and comforting. The flavors of green were not oppressive but life-giving. And the feeling of nature being so close that you are within it causes memories to drift across my mind of my childhood home. I am so lonely without the endless sounds of crickets chirping, singing me to sleep through the crack of my window. The wind here blows it all away.

My dad loved that home, the one that was on top of the hill, hidden by trees with it’s back to the woods. When it was winter there, the snow did not blow and there was no rage in the wind. We built snowmen, snow forts, snow tunnels, and sledded until it was too dark to see. The wind did not tear at us violently, forcing us inside, but instead, we listened to the quiet nuances of the forest and believed in its nymphs and fairies. In the East, the thorn trees were our friends, and the blackberries were fresh from the vine in our yard. My dad mowed the lawn once a week and we never had to water it. There was rain, it was green, and the trees were tall and strong.  

The East was my dad. Wyoming is other.

The wind is howling outside again, as it so often does in winter. The snow has all blown away, its sandy grains no longer pelt against my face as I climb the stairs into my dwelling.  The blur of evening action is the same as it is every day. There is no change, no surprise, no variation. The difference from the home I once knew is striking. In Wyoming, there are small angry cacti and the berries are poisonous. And if the nymphs ever existed here, they too have been frightened away by the temper of the wind. I want to sleep in the wind and surf its tide into the home where my dad still lives and the spring flowers are blooming beneath a mist of rain. My head hits the pillows and I am sucked under by the undertow pulling me out to sea.

The house is still here. It is here every night now, a home in my sleep where I go to seek the things I miss. My dad wanders the hallways like a spirit though here though he is not one of the departed. The wind has whispered him to life and he is a constant, steadying presence even when he is unseen. He takes me to rooms where the real ghosts live. A pair of sisters who haunt their bedrooms together. They are the Wednesday Addams of my home and I cherish their tomfoolery even as I gaze upon them with jealousy. Where was this when I was young? My sister and I made each other bleed from hatred. The wind has brought me the ghosts of what could have been. My dad, alive and laughing with me as we tease those around us mercilessly. My sister, a cherished partner-in-crime, pulling pranks on unwitting passersby. It is magic to see this world and I surf through each night exploring the wilds of my dreams.

In Wyoming, the wind is magic and the magic is in my dreams. Although others in Wyoming hate the beast that roars and bellows at all who dare to listen, it is my favorite part of this land. It connects me to home. It connects me to him.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Without Question (Epilogue)

Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Content: fluffy conclusion and maybe...mayyyyybe a future fic idea

Warnings: …none? Um...except for that one lady in there.

Word Count: Hot water does not quench my thirst no matter how good it might be for my body...which in itself is such a disaster of a thing.

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

The life of a parasite is not that complex of an affair. It is born to live inside a host, gather its nutrients from the said host- more than often at the host's expense- live till it can breed more or find a better host. Its entire life is based on the expense of another creature; its survival in the flesh of someone who can contain it. Therefore, it is no wonder she does not like it when someone calls her a parasite. For she is not one. Her kind lives in codependency, finding a host it is compatible with and helping it flourish in return for nourishment.

Her species was known to have always gone for the living, looking for hosts they could control, be the dominant party of the two sitting in the conference room inside the mind of the body they inhabited, the foreboding controllers that they were. However, inhabiting a dead host- or someone near to it- was never talked about for carcasses were beneath them and their Titan-like ego.

But she isn't like them. She wants to be different. To finally have the freedom she has craved for her entire existence; she wants to live it. And so, she has decided to throw all the laws of the dead empire outside the window and try her theory of inhabiting a body nearly at its deathbed.

The woman- strolled into the emergency room with fatal blows to her body in some accident- is covered in blood and bruises when the doctors try to rush into the process of saving her, measuring her heart rate, blood pressure and respiration rate. It is pure chaos for her to watch it all from the ceiling. Humans. Such soft creatures. She can sense that woman's vitals weakening with every passing moment, something the machines tell the medical professionals by a few seconds' delay. No amount of effort is going to repair that internal bleeding and shock accelerating that human's chances of death slithering right by the corner. And just at that second, she knows that flesh is no longer the resident to the soul it has been harbouring since the beginning of its time, she jumps discreetly into the body when the doctors are focusing at the screen that shows the patient is flatlining. One shock to through the defibrillator is enough for her to let the chemicals be catalysed to become one with neurons; her presence gradually gelling with the body to become one with it. And before any other human in the room can debate on it being a medical miracle, a sign of higher power or simply the inadequacy of the machines, she opens her eyes in her new form, seeing the world through an independent pair of windows for the first time.

Free.

.

"You know, when we both silently agreed on staying together, I wasn't really expecting you to spoil my life like this."

Steve's chuckle reverberates through the kitchen and dining hall. His honey-laced laugh reaches you in the living room to make you smile as you gather the whiteboard, a few markers, the portable speaker, and a couple of other knick-knacks for the small gathering you are about to have.

"If making breakfast every day is spoiling you then I am not even halfway to showing you how much more I can spoil your life, doll," he announces over the sound of something sizzling over the stove.

You bite your lips to stop the overflow of these gushing emotions all inside you. "Oh, let's not forget giving Stace the freedom to do whatever she wants, okay?" You state, getting up and moving towards the hall, "And you making that entire front yard-"

"That's our back yard."

Our back yard.

...Fuck. Why is he like this?

"Making our entire back yard into this freaking perfect garden with all those fancy fairy lights and a freaking gazebo!"

"You liked it," he stresses. You peak in from the entrance of the kitchen, watching him carefully place the omelettes in two plates along with the toasts- yours extra crispy with thinly spread butter on them- before pouring orange juice in two glasses.

"That doesn't matter," you retort, watching him being caught off guard, your heart instantly melting when his eyes light up on seeing you stand there. "I'm not gonna maintain that luxurious green patch when the time comes."

He stands facing you, his hands on his hips and oh heavens! that customised blue apron with chibi Captain America blessing its front gives you all the right feels in your stomach. "No problem," he affirms, picking the plates and moving them to the tiny breakfast table by the French window before coming back for the juice, "I'll take care of it. I'm pretty sure all of these are positive spoil-"

"Oh I'm not done yet," you interject, sauntering towards a slightly confused and faintly excited Steve, "you have me utterly spoiled-" you move your hands around his waist, earning an arched brow from him- "with all-" your hands go beyond his back, moving lower till they land over his butt cheeks- "of that-" and give them a tight squeeze, forcing a delightful hum out of Steve as you push him closer to you- "sex!"

"Hmm," Steve growls, planting his one hand on your waist under your t-shirt, while the other goes up to tease your lower lip with his thumb. "If you don't like being spoiled," he whispers, bringing his lips closer to you but never close enough for you to get a taste of him, "we can always stop."

"Or," you begin to propose through a moan by letting your hands run along the hem of his track pants, creating a wave of disturbance wherever your fingers touch him before stopping at the trail of hair going down, "we could make it a healthy habit so it doesn't seem like I'm being spoiled." 

Your fingers run down that soft golden trail, stirring something inside the Captain, his light eyes feeling a dark edge of mischief being added to them. His finger traces a path down from your lips to your neck, going further down your chest. "Everyone'll arrive in an hour," Steve sighs, giving a light shrug.

"Oh," you turn to look at the clock and realise he's not wrong, letting go of the waistband of his track pants, "then we should-"

Your sentence ends up a light shriek from Steve lifting you by your ass, making your reflexes wrap your legs around him. "That means," he grunts, balancing you effortlessly in those buff arms while his lust-filled eyes have yours locked in place, his voice a shade huskier as he starts moving to the bedroom, "I have a lot of time to make you question all that I do for you. And to you. And more."

Oooh yes!

.

"How do I use this thing?"

Wasn't working with a human vessel not enough? Did they really have to invent these cheap electronic devices?

She looks down at the device that seems to keep buzzing with different messages for some reason as she tries to find her way through the street.

Getting out of the hospital had been easy (and so was getting a fresh set of clothes). Give the docs and nurses another pile of flesh and bones to worry about and they run like scared animals to help their flock. Now, she is out exploring, trying to work with this new suit, find out the perks and non-perks, questioning her idea of travelling solo when having another conscience to talk to and gnaw at would have been easier. Now it's just her with her voice speaking from some uncharted void walking down into a farmer's market, already having discovered how much of gross unwanted attention this sex of the human species is given on the street.

There is a huge variety of delectables lines up that the humans seemingly prefer. Different shapes, colours and sizes. Some smell sweet, some sour, and some smell like they would sting your tongue before leaving a sweetness behind. Strange edibles. She watches another human- a man as far as the scent of the hormones off him goes- politely asking for some fresh oranges while telling the man behind the counter the ones he is trying to pack do not smell fresh. The sweet nectar of curiosity seems to send a reaction to her brain, making her step towards the box of citrus fruits displayed for the customers. Quickly picking half a dozen from down the different boxes, she brings them forward to the man who is nearly losing his patience. "These are fresh."

The man turns to see her. And she gets a good look at him for the first time. Hypnotising blue eyes look at her in a flurry of confusion and gratuitous delight, the beard hiding pink lips and flushed cheeks.

After a short considerable second, he takes the oranges from her. "Thank you," he mentions without blinking, taking a little time to turn back to make the payment. And in that turn is a microscopic moment, he watches, from the corner of his eye, a stranger try to touch her ass for barely a second.

She, of course, feels it too well. The man turns to get hold of that pervert and kick some respect into him only to find her punching the daylights out of him.

And he just stands there, full body in pause, mind in awe of the woman who has knocked that excuse of a man out in one blow, looking at her once again- this time from his heart. She looks back at him too; though with visible shades of uncertainty before looking down at the guy.

"Was I not supposed to do that?" She asks the man who by now has his mouth agape, still looking at her.

He blinks. "Huh?" Looks down at the man and raises his brows and chuckles. "What? No. I mean yes. You are absolutely supposed to do that."

"Oh-" she nods, and he watches her beam and be proud of herself, "okay."

"Um," he tries to catch her attention.  "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She looks down at the hand she used, feeling nothing more than minute tickles. "Yeah, I think I'm good." She turns her gaze back to him with a smile.

He melts inside.

"Do you know where is this place?" She asks him, taking out a card she found in her- the dead woman's- pocket.

"This," he hums, reading the card, "was a few blocks down the road the last I saw it."

"Oh," she scrunches her nose and feels a tired groan come out of her, "how far?"

"I can drop you there if you want," he blurts out, "I'm going that way myself."

She looks at him again. Watching him run his hands through his long lush hair, wondering if she'd seen him somewhere before shaking that thought off, knowing full well that she would remember a pretty face like this. "Yes, I'd like that."

"Great," he chirps. "Oh, I'm James," he addresses, drawing forward his hand, "my friends call me Bucky."

"Bucky," she tastes the name on her tongue and feels all the black mush inside her do a little dance for some unknown reason.

"And you are?"

She licks her lips and feels them stretch involuntary, drawing her own hand forward to meet his, saying her name to bring herself- her true self- into existence, letting the air carry her name for whatever future it is to bring for her.

[declanbuckley]

“ step forward and speak with the oracle . it is your turn , ”

     the headmaster returned to the microphone , capturing the attention of the students once more . as far as he can tell , he’s sure they’re restless now , anxious to hear from the oracle , to see what is in store for them . with so many things happening , the anticipation is building . “ declan buckley . step forward & speak with the oracle . it is your turn , ” he said commandingly . he waited until the other man approached him before guiding them off a separate hallway .

      “ man , i didn’t think i was going to be ready for this —– but ‘m actually kinda excited now . ” seeing aron after his visit with the oracle had made declan’s palms a bit too sweaty , but seeing as it was his name called next put him at ease ( just the smallest bit ) . “ wish me luck ya’ll , i’ll see ya on the flip side . ” that being said declan smiled at the headmaster before following him off into the hallway , fighting off every question that came to mind .

       headmaster cristian leads you to a restricted section of the auditorium . the both of you walk a long and dark hallway . unlike the typical modern decor the school has , the corridor is lit by only flaming torches . you can barely even see cristian next to you . you’re left to your thoughts of what you could potentially encounter . eventually , you reach what looks like an open door with runic inscriptions engraved at the top . αυτή που ξέρει όλα . you’re able to read ancient greek as a god . the words written are as follow : “ she who knows all . ” 

       you can’t turn back now , so you enter the room . cristian leaves you behind with a curt nod & a stare from his dark , foreboding eyes . he doesn’t go in with you , as this is your task to fulfill . inside , more torches & candles mysteriously light up the space with each step you take . in the middle , sitting on a wooden chair is the veiled corpse of a woman . there are various trinkets & offerings laid out by her feet . it looks as though she’s been dead for centuries . that is , until her eyes glow a bright white & she starts to speak to you .

       “ . . . i am the oracle . a link between the mortals & the divine . speaker of prophecies . tell me your name , seeker . . . ”

       " it's nice to meet you miss oracle ma'am , my name is declan jackson buckley . " if he had his typical ' cowboy hat ' declan would've most definitely tipped it off to the oracle . instead he stood there with a small smile , observing her surroundings . " i , uh , would've brought ya somethin' if they would've told us that ya take offerings , " he says , motioning to the trinkets by her feet .

       staring back at you with impassive expression , it is impossible for you to tell how she feels . the face that stares back at you with glowing eyes is devoid of emotion or expression . as she opens her mouth to speak , the audible clacking of bones & teeth clicking together is heard .thus , divinity is breathed into the old , withered body . “ . . . i see why she chose you to be her vessel . . . ” extending a long , bony finger , the oracle beckons you to stare into her eyes properly , demanding respect from you in the presence of such a highly revered being . “ . . . humble . . . they will call you the giver of life . you will nourish the land & the people . . . ”

       to say that declan had a few questions was a lie , he had a ton & just wanted to know more about the ancient woman in front of him . but despite how little he knew about the oracle , he felt the need to give her the utmost respect & felt as if he could trust her with anything . that being said , declan kept quiet , pushing smoothing his unkempt hair back so that he could properly look her in the eyes .

       the oracle crackled , letting its words hover in the air . “ . . . i provide answers to the world’s greatest questions . . . but tell me , are you worthy in your pursuit of godhood ? ” there is a lingering pause in the musty air with her question , the creaking voice almost reverberating with a divine power . “ . . . prove to me that you are deserving of my assistance . answer me , young god :

                    she arises from the dirt; her golden locks flows .                     long & graceful , she stalks & bends as the wind blows .                     she gives up her body through labor & toil ,                     baked & placed upon the table , birthed from soil .

call her by her name . ”

       the moment that the oracle spoke again , declan felt a shiver run down his spine . he felt intimidated & safe all at once & it was a new & different feeling for the young man . he listened to the riddle that she gave him & stood the for a moment , trying not to pull his gaze away from her's . " dirt . golden locks . is barely the correct answer ? " as soon as the words left his mouth something just didn't set right with him . " nope , i take that back ma'am . " declan pauses again , furrowing his brows in thought . " d - demeter ? "

       there is a flicker in her bright , white eyes , & the oracle shifts her head ever more slightly at declan's words . " . . . demeter . she is the goddess of the harvest . . . when they bake their bread , what does she give them ? what golden stalks do they harvest from her ? " the question lingers , as her eyes flicker to a more intense hue . by her wayside , the trinkets begin to rumble & shake from the divine pressure building in the room .

       delcan has never really been good at riddles , he had the muscle & overly abundant knowledge on plants & nature from working on his family's farm . but reading , writing , math ? declan really disliked it all . " she gives them , uh , wheat to harvest from her ? then we take the wheat & turn it into bread & she gets a feast ? " he really was bad at this , perhaps he should've taken more history & writing classes in high school .

       satisfied with the answer , the oracle remains impassive . instead , the eyes fixated on you glow brighter , almost piercing into your soul . at once , the room begins to spin , almost swirling & transforming into a void of darkness . you blink once , & then twice . before your very eyes , as the blurriness begins to clear , you find yourself standing amidst a wheat field , the wheat stalks rising up to your chest . you glance to find yourself bare naked , the rich soil crumbling underneath your feet as you curl your toes . behind you , the sun blazes , but its heat does not bother you , even as sweat drips down from your hair down your back . the droplets trace down your spine , & where it falls to the earth , flowers begin to grow . woven into your hair , a crown of blossoming flowers & aromatic herbs rests . as you walk through the field , the wheat parts for you , almost bowing & bending in respect to you . grass sprout up from where your feet touch . at the end of your walk , you walk out into an open field . there , a crowd of farmers await you , & they fall to their faces .

       they begin to pray , lifting up your name in worship , & it lingers in your ear like sweet nectar . the praise is uplifting , as evident with vines curling up & over your naked body . in front of them lies an offering for you ; a blanket stretches out as far as the eye can see . upon it lies the first fruit of their harvest , the best pickings they can offer . the ripest fruit glisten in the sun , almost begging to be bitten into with the sweetest juices . jars of honey lie next to the fruit , the amber , viscous liquid shimmering . freshly baked bread rest atop rich , golden stalks of wheat . harvested roots & mushrooms adorn the feast , while the freshest , greenest vegetables are stacked into high mountains . exotic flowers line the outer lines of the blanket .  you feel an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction at the offering . you are their provider , after all . the harvest & its first fruits are only through your blessing .

       you hear the oracle’s voice in your head again . “ . . . you are their provider , their source of nourishment . they will turn to you when they are hungry , & they will work the earth barren without your guidance . care for them , or the world will wither away . . . ” 

       declan goes as far as to crouch down before the farmers , one thing is for sure - he is thankful for all the hard work they have put forth to provide such an offering . he doesn't seemed phased about his lack of clothing , nor the fact that the wheat parted for him with such ease ; it all just seemed so natural to him . " you all did an excellent job with what you are offerin’ today . " declan's smile is small & warm as he reaches out to take one of the baked breads. " i'm proud of you all . "  

       with that , the vision began to fade , almost as if a hand was pulling you up from underwater . the voices became more muffled , & the colors began to fade into darkness . it is only then that you return from your previous life into reality , laying on the dusty , wooden floor . the ancient advice rings in your eyes , the vision etched into your mind . with it , the oracle remains on the wooden chair , eyes lifeless & body motionless , just as you had first seen when you entered . taking it as your cue to leave , you exit from her chambers . 

congratulations ! declan has met the oracle !

[alyblacklist]

New theory flying around that Katarina is an imposter like our Red, the real Katarina is dead... what do you think Aly?

New? I’m not sure that it’s all that “new.”  This “Fakerina” or “Fauxrina” theory started mere days after Rassvet aired last April, pretty much as soon as the first spoilers leaked of Laila Robins’ scene on the street with Red in the S6 finale.  (The point at which I commented to a fandom friend that old theories die hard and that apparently theories will need to be pried from people’s hands).  It seems most popular among those who either don’t accept the Red imposter reveal (i.e., those who still believe that Red is original Raymond Reddington, Navy officer and biological father of Liz, and that the bones in the bag were someone else) or those who continue to insist that our Red is himself Katarina.  So I guess it’s no surprise, given that I don’t fall into either of those camps (which I’ll lump together as the Red is bio-parental camp), that I also don’t think that this woman is an imposter Katarina.  Are there a few facts that raise some questions?  Sure.  But not enough at this point to cause me to change my view that Laila Robins’ character is the real deal — Dom’s daughter, Liz’s mother, the present-day version of Lotte Verbeek’s Katarina Rostova — who has clearly been through a LOT since the events of Rassvet.  And who as far as I am concerned is the ONLY living bio-parent Liz has to date on this show.  

Why do I think she’s real?  Primarily because this Katarina still shares an emotional connection with Red that is consistent with two people who once shared a deep emotional bond (like Katarina/Ilya in Rassvet, for example).  I thought Laila Robins did an absolutely amazing job conveying that in her scene with Red in 7.02, which I’ve partially giffed here.  She is very conflicted about hurting him, but at the same time she feels deeply betrayed by him, and as we later learn, apparently by her own father as well.  At the same time, Red admits he cares about her and never meant for whatever happened in Belgrade to happen.  He also clearly knows exactly who she is, both on the street in Paris in 6.22 and when he brought up the Belgrade incident in 7.02.  To me, this emotional connection between them is entirely inconsistent with the “Fakerina” view that this woman is some other woman who either shared a fictitious Katarina Rostova identity with Liz’s real mother in the past (as some sort of operative) or was hired to impersonate/draw attention away from the real Katarina following her flight after the fire. By contrast, the emotional conflict between this Katarina and our Red is completely consistent with the clues we have been given for seasons now that something else happened after the night of the fire (and after the events of Rassvet) that hurt Katarina and that our Red either orchestrated or was at least involved in:

For example:

- the conversation between Red and his hallucinated Katarina in 3.19:

Red: It was a Hobson’s choice. There was a woman and her child. Both were doomed. Both would die. I could either save one or lose both. I chose the child. It was… it was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. Worst thing by far.

Katarina: You didn’t have a choice.

Red: There’s always a choice.  I was arrogant.  I presumed that there was an order to things, that there was… that if I nourished and protected and taught the child, she would be safe…and happy.

Katarina:  And she was neither.

- Red’s conversations with Dom in 3.20:

Dom: Then what are you doing out here? These boxes are all I have… all I have left of my daughter.

Red: I’m sorry, Dom. I understand.

Dom: No, you don’t. You don’t understand. You think because Masha’s dead, now you… you can understand me? You can… you can share my misery?

Red: I feel bereft, just like you.

Dom: No, not just like me. She’s gone because of choices you made for both of them. First Katarina and then Masha. As far as I’m concerned, you killed my entire family! No, you’re not like me.

- And later:

Red: You still have family.

Dom: Who? The baby? I won’t live long enough to see her out of nappies. If I’m allowed to see her at all. I had to make do with photographs of Masha. Did you even tell her about me?

Red: I couldn’t. You know how complicated it was.

Dom: There was nothing complicated about it. We had to back out of Masha’s life to keep her safe, after you made a colossal mess of everything. Only you couldn’t stay well enough away, could you? Now you… you come to my house with this sorry tale of loss, like you’re the only one affected by this. You’re the only one whose feelings matter. Well, guess what, Raymond? Masha was my granddaughter, and now she’s dead without even knowing I existed. All my sacrifices shot to hell. I could’ve spent the last 30 years just being her grandfather… You selfish prick.

- And Dembe’s words to Red in 4.22:

Raymond I’m not sure Elizabeth will ever be ready to learn about what you did to Katarina.  

Second, while Bokenkamp hedged a little on admitting outright that this woman is the real Katarina Rostova when he was asked that question directly last spring, I think both his comments and Eisendrath’s this season land on the side of Katarina being real.  I know some people place little stock in the Jo(h)ns interviews (and some even go so far as to outright bury their heads in the sand and believe nothing they say about the bones or anything else).  Do they use double speak and hidden nuance?  Sure, sometimes.  But in my book they have never outright lied to the audience and I don’t think they’re about to start now.  From where I sit, all signs point to Katarina being real, and precisely the sort of formidable “big bad” that only a real Katarina —not a fake one — could provide for this season.  

For example, to TV Guide: 

“She is going to be the main antagonist this year,” said executive producer John Eisendrath "And what’s exciting is that that, I think, makes good on the promise that’s sort of been baked into the series from the beginning, that at some point Liz would be part of a triangle between herself and Katarina and Reddington. It becomes the family drama that sort of has always been foreshadowed.”  

To AM New York:

“His life is in real danger. This situation is as bad as it has ever been for him,” executive producer John Eisendrath teases. “Katarina is as worthy an adversary as we’ve ever seen him go up against. Or, perhaps, a more worthy adversary. She is someone we built up over this entire series and here she is, this notorious former spy.”

Like Reddington, Katarina’s full and true identity isn’t known to all of “The Blacklist’s” key players, and Eisendrath says that’ll be a theme present throughout the season.

“Our hope is that season 7 will make good on the promise that we would at some point dive headlong into the family drama and triangle between Liz, Katarina and Red,” he says. “That is essentially the core emotional story through the season.”

To Parade:

“The goal of season 7 is to dramatize the battle between Katarina and Red, to raise the question of who is going to win that battle, and to put Liz squarely in the middle between Katarina and Red,” executive producer John Eisendrath told Parade.com in this exclusive interview. 

It wasn’t that long ago that Liz had come to terms with Red. Her attitude toward him had mellowed, and now, going into season 7, she thinks she might lose him.

“The arrival of Katarina Rostova is going to make season 7 the kind of family drama that will put Liz in between her parental figures and force her to decide who to trust more, Katarina or Red,” Eisendrath continues. “And so even though she comes into the season feeling pretty good about Red, Katarina is going to do her level best to raise the question of whether Liz can trust Reddington.”

To Entertainment Weekly:

“Katarina is a character we’ve heard about for a number of years now. However, until this point she’s been a specter,” [Jon Bokenkamp] told us. “Katarina’s arrival now introduces a whole new set of very real problems for Reddington, most specifically because this is a woman with a deep, intimate and very personal understanding of Reddington. Her knowledge of Reddington and the truths he’s holding presents a very tangible threat to Red, and places him in an incredibly vulnerable place, not only in the criminal community, but with Liz. In terms of how Katarina’s arrival impacts Liz and Red, hang tight — this could be a bumpy ride.

Also to Entertainment Weekly:

EW:  How does Agnes being back with Liz figure into this season’s story

JB:  The table is set for a very strange and unusual familial dynamic. You know Katarina is living across the hall. Daughter is reunited with mom, and Reddington isn’t aware of this. I think we’re we are certainly aware of the fact that Agnes is home and it’s a new dynamic for Liz. She’s a working mom who is juggling all the all the jobs that a working mother does, and yet her super-spy mother is living across the hall looking for answers. Well, that could go in any number of strange and unexpected directions. So, yes, I don’t want to say Agnes is in jeopardy, but I think her story line in coming home presents the show with some really unique opportunities.

******

Liz is her access point to Red’s orbit. Katarina living next to Liz and the promise of her inserting herself into Liz’s life is less about Liz becoming a target, although that very well may happen. It’s more about using Liz to try to get information and trying to get answers about Reddington. So Liz, and therefore Agnes, are sort of in the crosshairs. They’re not necessarily her target, but I think we’ve done a nice job of demonstrating just how diabolical this woman is. And on top of that, I think it gives us a lot of really interesting familial territory to cover, and it gives the show a unique way to explore those relationships without being overt about it. 

To TV Insider:  

How worried should we be about Katarina moving in next door to Liz, especially after Liz’s concerns earlier in the episode about bringing Agnes home?

John Eisendrath: Hopefully the audience will be extraordinarily worried for Liz because we’ve spent seven years building up how diabolical Katarina Rostova is and the first two episodes of this year dramatizing the lengths to which she will go to get the information she is looking for, which are extraordinary. She is now sitting right across the hall from Liz and her daughter. It’s a position that we love having on our show, where the fox is definitely in the hen house.

Jon Bokenkamp: It’s a unique situation on the show where the audience is a step ahead of both Liz and Red. They’re in on the secret on who this woman is and what her agenda is, and yet Red and Liz have no knowledge of that yet.

To Variety:

“We’re really positioned with this season to be what is ultimately sort of a small family drama,” creator Jon Bokenkamp says. “The table is set for something that’s really fresh and new for us. We’ve got this father figure of Reddington, we’ve got the former spy and mother, the FBI profiler and daughter and the granddaughter, Agnes. Thanksgiving dinner could be awkward this year.”

************

Variety:  What viewers know of Katarina has largely been told through Red’s eyes, so what kind of a challenge was it bringing that character to life and bridging his fantasy with reality?

JB:  One, trying not to give away everything about her. In presenting who she is, we were trying to keep some sense of mystery. One of the first questions was how do we do that? But the thing we tapped into that is unique about her, and it is a bit odd and the audience can see is different this time around, is that it’s incredibly emotional. She’s not a Big Bad who is looking for money or revenge. Well, she might be looking for some revenge, but her history with Reddington pains her. Hurting him pains her, she doesn’t want to be doing this. There’s an emotional component between her and Red and probably Liz and Dom — there’s this whole weird family dynamic that the table is finally set for. It’s different than what we’ve ever had before with any of the other Big Bads. That was both the challenge and what is the most exciting. The questions, the answers that she wants, all are coming from an incredibly emotional, sometimes desperate, sometimes very ventricle place.

Variety:  Does she have that “mother gene”? By the way she inserts herself into Liz’s life in the cliff-hanger it seems like she will potentially become Agnes’s new nanny?

JB:  Well your intuition is good. The fun for us is for the audience to be one step ahead of both Liz and Red. They know that “Mommie Dearest” is living next door. And with Liz having her daughter now home and potentially needing some help, that might introduce some rather disturbing parental situations for any single mother. It’s a dynamic that we’re going to explore in terms of who Katarina is and who she presents herself to be, sort of the wolf in sheep’s clothing. Keep in mind Liz hasn’t met her mother. She has no idea that this woman is her mother and she has no reason to suspect anything other than she’s the lovely lady next door. What Laila Robins is able to do — the way she plays between this very serious, dangerous woman and this incredibly sweet lady next door is an absolute blast to watch.

I noted before that there are some facts that raise questions - like how did Katarina not know where Dom lived when she supposedly last saw him almost 30 years ago in the rear view mirror of his Wagoneer at a P.O. Box in America?  Well, that P.O. Box is supposedly in Wilmington, New York, upstate New York - very close to the Canadian border (according to episode 6.17 when Ressler visits there).  I’m not sure that’s anywhere near Dom’s house, which certainly seems a good bit closer to Washington DC given the speed with which everyone seems to be able to get there from DC, Annapolis, etc.  And there’s millions of houses between Wilmington, New York and Annapolis, Maryland.  So while I know the Task Force and others seem to move at warp speed in this show, for now, I’m willing to accept that what they stated is true, and that Katarina didn’t know exactly where Dom lived until she followed the tracker in Mila’s neck.  It’s not a huge plot hole to me.  

Likewise, Masha/Katarina’s drawings.  I saw a post (I think on Reddit) saying that the fact that Liz (and perhaps Katarina?) once drew a brown house with a blue door is concrete evidence that Liz must have visited Dom’s current house as a child.  I found the drawing from Katarina’s trunk from the Artax Network (3.20).  I couldn’t find the second one (supposedly Masha’s) from quick skim through Tom Connolly, Braxton and Ivan (the fire memory episodes) though I vaguely (very vaguely) recall that it exists.  Maybe I missed it.   

Regardless, I guess I don’t place much stock or emphasis in props these days, four seasons in to following this show pretty obsessively.  As far as I am concerned, props are there to create atmosphere – the mood and feel of a scene.  No one but the diehard fans will ever look at them again, much less recall them a season later.  (And not even all diehard fans since even I can’t find the supposed twin easily while actively looking). Frankly, as the mother of a daughter who loves to draw - a blue door on a child’s drawing (with purple curtains!) means nothing other than those are the child’s favorite color of the moment for a house.  No house my daughter has ever drawn looked anything like the houses she has lived in or visited during her life.  Nothing about this drawing(s) is enough for me to say aha! - Masha/Liz definitely visited Dom at his current home with the blue door (which btw definitely doesn’t have purple curtains and otherwise looks nothing like the drawing).

Sorry this got so long but I wanted to give what I hope is a thoughtful response to your ask.  I’m really interested to learn what turned Katarina so hard against Red.  I’m also interested to learn whether it’s connected to Braxton’s Belgrade references and to Red’s apparent slip (or was it?) to Ressler in Zarak Mosadek when he referred to him trying to kill him in Belgrade rather than Brussels as we believed from Anslo Garrick.  These are the questions I’m most interested in going forward, not whether Liz’s mother is or isn’t the real deal.  

Thanks for the ask!

[gothparker]

So! I made a thing. A cute thing. I hate my writing but I hope y’all enjoy it! It’s based off of Billie from It, I fucking love his little stutter so this fic is based off of my dumb attachment to that character aha. So here it is 🐀💘 (I also love how Tumblr is abominable with spacing paragraphs 🤪)

It was dumb. Really, really dumb. The way the pit in his stomach heated up, boiled over. It burst within his insides once it hit the bottom of his belly like a bomb, affection splattering across his organs in the massacre. The carnage of the disaster began planting itself inside his ribs, manifesting, clinging to the bones like vines. It grew up around his lungs that resembled mold, making it hard to breathe when he was around the older man. The lungs, filling up with strawberry wine as he drank, nourished the plants instead of killing them. It couldn’t abolish his feelings, he didn’t want them to.

He found out that this is what adoration is.

We become writers when our minds start to deteriorate.

So Peter kept a journal. Not a diary! Because diaries were meant to contain jargon regarding nonsensical feelings and suicide letters. Journals kept up with his days, his routines, and sometimes his...emotions. Just a tad.

So he wrote, and never scrapped it. It was raw and unedited, full of errors and failing sentence structures. But it was him. He had a tendency to forget what he was doing because he was so preoccupied with stress throughout the day, so he jotted it down.

Which started to shift into writing about his feelings.

He wrote down every interaction with Tony within his little book, filling up the pages with scribbles from simple evenings. And it mattered to him. It mattered a lot.

He had a section where he would write down dialogue between him and the older man. Whenever he was feeling like shit, he’d just flip open the book and go over his notes for however long he needed to until he felt better.

He started to realize his feelings within jotting down his feelings.

They were...unconventional. Something he stowed away instead of embracing them for what they were. He swore to god on his own pride that he wouldn’t delve into something illogical.

Don’t wanna hear about it.

It was dumb. Really, really dumb. The way the pit in his stomach heated up, boiled over. It burst within his insides once it hit the bottom of his belly like a bomb, affection splattering across his organs in the massacre. The carnage of the disaster began planting itself inside his ribs, manifesting, clinging to the bones like vines. It grew up around his lungs that resembled mold, making it hard to breathe when he was around the older man. The lungs, filling up with strawberry wine as he drank, nourished the plants instead of killing them. It couldn’t abolish his feelings, he didn’t want them to. He found out that this is what adoration is.

Idiotic.

Love paints in flowers. He felt them blooming up past his gullet, the boy metaphorically vomiting out lovely words that were a little more than friendly around Tony. And it scared him. So he ripped the weeds from his lungs, it left him gasping for breath.

But he couldn’t bury his feelings, they were seeds.

Heavy weighed his heart as he snipped the vines, it was for the better. Peter couldn’t afford to jeopardize everything he had with the person he looked up to the most, it would leave his garden in ruins.

So he snipped, and snipped, and...snipped…..

God.

I can’t do it.

He trimmed the weeds he now saw as flowers, less derogatory, more marvelous. He had the aha! moment as he knew he couldn’t completely rid of his feelings immediately, so he tamed them as best he could. He located them.

Locate.

Contain.

Locate.

He wanted to work through his head why he felt these things. Where did they come from, how would Tony feel about this? How did he feel about this?

It didn’t make sense. But that was love, he guessed. It just doesn’t make sense. It happens, whether you consider the emotion or not. Peter knew what he felt, and he assumed what Tony felt as well. And it hurt.

We become poets when our hearts begin to break.

He scrawled out a cacophony of unique phrases that meant very little to him, unimpressive. Bland, as his attitude was tasteless from his own point of view, whereas it was scripture in someone else’s. He found himself to be a plot of land, barren, dry. His wheat was separated from the chaff, but cast aside.

But just like wheat, you need to go through your own trials before you’re presented in your most desirable form. People accept the norm of your brand, but they don’t appreciate where you came from. The original you, is nothing.

He, was nothing.

Dread is he

Amid all the levels

Born to rise from the depths

But struggling with each devil

It meant nothing.

Trepidation weaved it’s threads around Peter’s throat, constricting, tightening, leaving him all choked up. He gulped, cleared his throat, breaking the strings. It left him breathless. It left his esophagus raw, he felt it swelling up inside of him.

The boy felt stupid.

His stupid attitude. His stupid face. His stupid sense of humor. His stupid interests.

His stupid stutter.

The first time he met Tony, the older man thought he was just nervous around him because he couldn’t properly word himself. He jokingly stuttered himself, which left Peter in tears as his cheeks flushed and his bottom lip trembled. He quickly left, locking himself in a stall as his whimpered pitifully, rubbing his eyes with both of his sleeves while he cried.

Pepper sternly explained that his new intern had a speech impediment, Tony wincing as he realized how badly he fucked up. No one ever said anything about that to him, and no one ever said anything about it after it happened.

It was for the better.

Peter seldom spoke, and when he did, it was soft, gentle. Quiet. His sweet heart seeped from his skin, dripping from his plush lips like honey as milk oozed from his eyes, salt laced with the liquid as he cried. The boy hated how he spoke. The words came out broken, awkward. The honey in his mouth collected ants that he tried to hide behind his tongue. So he kept his mouth shut, and tried not to talk.

His words were tender, but his teeth ached as each syllable clumsily fell from his mouth. Twitching legs and bee stings left his gums feeling swollen, pollen mixing in with spit. He kept swallowing, but it left his mouth feeling dry.

Peter’s breath shuddered as he looked at himself in the mirror. Two years had gone by, two years he had been around the genius man. Two years he had jotted down notes, two years he had to comprehend his feelings.

He felt like confessing.

So he practiced.

Peter looked at himself in the mirror, his bathroom door locked so no one could interrupt him. He inhaled deeply, hyping himself up.

“Mr. Stark. I l-love- fuck. Okay.”

Peter cleared his throat again.

“Mr...Stark...I love- I l-love-”

He sighed sharply, then tried again.

Peter continued for a couple minutes, each attempt failing. It left his small frame trembling, his boney hands curling into fists as angry tears leaked down his pale cheeks. He eventually gave up, his lips pressed into a firm line as he exited the room.

“Where’s my- f-fuck. Wh-where’s my journal.” Peter mumbled, searching around his room to no avail.

He felt slight panic, the little flame of doubt blew into a candlelit dinner with paranoia. Peter searched high and low for his little book, his hands trembling in apprehension.

The boy ran around the last places he looked, finding no trace of his journal. Eventually he went into Mr. Stark’s office, without knocking, in a panic.

He stopped dead in his tracks, closing his opened mouth as he was about to ask his mentor the question. Tony looked up, journal in hand, closing the book in front of him.

“I- o-oh.” Peter’s eyes were wide and full of water. He whimpered in trepidation, immediately covering his mouth to hide the sound.

There was a brief moment of silence.

“Peter.”

The boy’s exhale shook as his thin frame shuddered violently. His breathing patterns were trembling as he blinked rapidly, tears dripping down his cheeks that were dusted pink. He wrung his hands and picked at his nails, opening his mouth again to speak, but closing it once more.

“Peter.”

“Hh...ha. Hmm…?”

“Look at me.”

Peter was staring down at the ground, watching tears splash down onto the expensive carpet. He looked up at the ceiling and smiled, laughing nervously.

“Ahhhh haha. I-I’m going t-to have a panic at-attack.” He giggled, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Peter...”

His knees were practically knocking as Tony got up, slowly walking over towards the boy. Peter was whimpering in fear, shielding his face with his hands as he wept silently.

He could feel Tony’s presence in front of him, and oh god, the older man thought, as Peter flinched violently upon contact.

“Pl-please d-don’t hurt me.” He begged softly, followed by a sob. “I’m s-sorry.”

“Pete.” Tony murmured softly, slowly peeling off the hands covering Peter’s face.

“I would never- I could never hurt you. Okay?” Peter had never heard his voice this soft before.

“Look at me.” Tony’s hand came up to gently cup Peter’s cheek.

His eyes fluttered open, red and puffy, glazed over with sadness. He inhaled and exhaled softly, shallow.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Tony’s thumb gently rubbed the skin, collecting tears.

“I-I uhm…”

He blinked up at the older man.

“I’m c-confused.” Peter whispered hoarsely, clearing his throat.

Tony gently rested his forehead against the boy’s, their noses brushing momentarily before he gently connected his lips against Peter’s. He squeaked softly, tensing up slightly before his shoulders started to drop, his fists uncurling. The older man kissed him tenderly, his other hand coming up to his face to caress the skin.

Tony eventually pulled back, exhaling sharply through his nose in amusement as Peter was practically vibrating. The boy searched his face before locking his gaze with his mentor, his throat clicking softly as he swallowed.

His eyes were half lidded and hazy with love as his cheeks were stained pink, lips parted slightly. It was the most beautiful thing Tony had ever seen.

“I…” Peter exhaled gently. “I l-love you.”

He didn’t even care that he messed up, he didn’t even care that he made a pathetic scene a couple moments ago. He didn’t care about his stutter, and he didn’t care about anything else right now.

There was a moment of silence before the older man spoke up.

“I love you too, kid.” Tony murmured as he rested his forehead back onto Peter’s.

“E-Even w-with my stupid stutter?”

“It’s one of my favorite things about you.” Tony pecked his nose, earning a toothy smile from the boy.

“Really?”

“Of course. It’s charming, and quite adorable, honestly.”

Peter huffed gently, a satirical pout molding his facial features as his blush darkened.

“I always wanted you to talk more, but I didn’t want to pressure you, or make you feel bad.” Tony expressed quietly, arms snaking around Peter’s small waist.

“I’ll t-take note on that.” Peter mumbled, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder.

The older man smiled as he rubbed soothing circles on Peter’s back, the boy finally accepting his stutter.

[jacksonthane]

— heads will roll

DATE   /   MONDAY NIGHT, NOVEMBER 18TH PARTIES INVOLVED  /   JEREMIAH THANE, ANDREW THANE, KANE SEIFER TRIGGER WARNINGS   /   VIOLENCE, SERIOUS INJURY, BLOOD, TORTURE, KNIVES, FIRE, DECAPITATION, DEATH

     Jackson, of course, had helped with transporting Kane to this location, and egged on Jer at times when it came to the pain he was inflicting on the traitorous Trojan leader. But for the most part he had stood back, arms crossed with the smallest hint of a smile on his lips as his younger brother carried out his torturing. Every drop of Kane’s blood that spilled was like mother’s milk, nourishing Jackson and his soul as he watched things escalate. The topper on the cake was when Jer went so far as to chop off the asshole’s dick, and Jackson snickered. But he had waited. Jackson wanted Kane to wonder when the eldest brother would be coming for him, to let the anticipation brew and boil. There was no one left on this Earth that he wanted gone more than he wanted Kane dead. Six feet under would be too good for the man. He wanted every bit of Kane gone for the things he’d done. 

     The list of grievances was long, and Jackson let the memory of them run through him as he finally stepped forward to finish the job once Jer had completed his. Jackson finished off the last of his cigarette he’d been nursing while watching the show, putting it out before placing it in his pocket. They couldn’t risk leaving anything behind. Even if this was a secure location. He took his time getting ready, rolling up his sleeves carefully before bending down to smirk in Kane’s face, smug not even beginning to describe how at home and self-satisfied he felt. “Afternoon, Kane,” he simply said in an even and unnervingly calm tone.

     To think that this had all begun nearly three years ago now. Three years since Kane had decided to throw the hissy fit of the century and stab the knife into the back of the entire Primordial gang, making sure to leave a sizeable hole by taking a chunk of the members with him. Kane had done something worse than only spitting in Jackson’s face. Such an act was already enough to make Jackson murderous, but in addition Kane had turned his back on family, on the very people who had fought alongside and for him for years. Jackson may not be a sentimental man, but he looked after those that took care of him and his— and someone hurting the gang was something he wouldn’t tolerate. Not to mention there was the simple aspect of pride and disrespect involved.

     As the son of Cronus, and someone who was always trying to prove that he was more than fit to take over the presidency once his father was gone— Jackson had done more than his fair share of missions and runs, knowing that he somehow had to prove himself further than the typical prospect. It wasn’t just for the benefit of the club and those watching and ready to judge him, but to prove it to the man in charge himself. Though he hated his father with every fiber of his being, Jackson wanted the asshole to know that he was successful. It wasn’t for approval, based more along the lines of undeniably showing his worth and caliber.

     Next had come the attack on Reina. Even though he and his wife hadn’t been on the best of terms when Kane had nearly gutted her— it wasn’t just about the fact that he still cared about Reina. It was the principle as well. Kane had gone after something that was irrevocably Jackson’s, as well as an Old Lady. His Old Lady. It hadn’t been gang business, and had turned the vendetta personal. Jackson didn’t give a shit if Reina had started it by going after Allana, there were things that weren’t allowed to be touched. And Reina was one of them. 

     But now as he stood in front of Kane with a sizeable knife brandished, Jackson was at peace. What he’d wanted for three years was finally within his reach. Kane’s head on a plate. “I think that’s long enough of a break from the fun,” he said before plunging the knife into the side of Kane’s leg, twisting it once it was firmly lodged into the muscle— trying his best to hit bone and feel the delicious scrape of it along the tip of the blade. Kane might have carved his initials into his wife, but Jackson would carve his entire name into the man’s every bone. A wide grin decorated Jackson’s face, practically gleeful as he withdrew the knife and his first blood had been drawn.

     “Jer’s already played with you enough, though...hasn’t he? You’re probably wondering what it is we’ve been saving for the finale.” Jackson was watching the blood on his knife dripped down the steel, past the hilt, and onto his hand— reveling in the ruby red droplets painting his skin. A moment later he cut carelessy down the front of Kane’s shirt, splitting it in half and filleting some of the skin and sinew underneath. Then he took the opportunity to roughly shove a couple of fingers into one of Kane’s still open wounds, gathering some of the shimmering blood for himself. He considered it for a moment as one might consider their next meal, ready to consume the man in front of him. The blood from his fingers found a place on Kane’s midriff as Jackson began to paint his little piece of art. Once he was done he cocked his head to admire his work, the bloody words still dripping as he looked content with what he’d wrought. There were a myriad of letters now adorning Kane, all running together. Traitor. Dickless. Junkie Fucker. The list went on.

     “Perfect,” he said contentedly under his breath before moving in on Kane once more. A moment later he took a hand Kane was tied to and knocked it to the side in a rough motion, throwing the man to the ground. It was time to end this. Jackson was having far too much fun playing with his food, but he knew better than to get cocky. The longer they stayed here, the more their chances of getting caught grew. Behind Kane now, he made sure the other man couldn’t see what he was doing near his feet, though he’d no doubt feel the heat soon enough. He’d taken the lighter from his pocket that he had used for his cigarette. Picking up Kane’s pants from where Jer had discarded them earlier, he threw them onto the back of the man. Then he lowered the flame to the bottom of the trousers, the growing fire casting shadows on Jackson’s eager face. Only now did he take up a can of gasoline they’d brought for this occasion, pouring it onto Kane’s calves only. He wanted this burn to go slow, for the pain to last.

     The smell of burning flesh and hair was fresh in the air as Jackson took a deep breath, revelling in the fact that this was finally happening. From the table of tools Jer had been using. Jackson selected a dulled axe, giving it a few test swings in front of Kane as the man continued to burn. For a minute he leaned on the axe, the head of it against the ground as he stood hand on hip— watching the flames climb higher and higher. Finally, he stepped forward once more, raising the axe over Kane’s neck, poised and ready. “This might take a few swings, so try your best to be patient.” He’d wanted the axe dull to draw this pleasure out. “I’ll make sure to tell Izzy goodbye for you, and all about what a pussy you were in your last moments.” Even if it wasn’t true, he got a kick out of dangling it over Kane’s head. At the close of his words he brought the axe down in swift and heavy arc, landing on Kane’s neck with a satisfying thud, the crack of bone accompanying it. But as predicted and hoped, it hadn’t sunk more than a few inches into Kane’s neck. So another swing of the axe was quick to follow as Jackson made a messy and fun job of beheading the man.

     Finally, Jackson had his prize and Kane was still. Bending down, he picked up Kane’s disembodied head from the ground, blood seeping from the stump of it that fell to the floor in a lovely piece of art. The last bit of Kane’s body continued to burn as Jackson grinned into Kane’s lifeless face, and he called out to his brothers. “On to the next, boys.”

[solarpunkandstainedglass]

Old Sage and the Unbroken Chain

Solarpunk Story Exchange 2019! @solarpunkstoryexchange

Prompts: Older people in Solarpunk, Student Strikes, Solarpunk Travel

Happy Earth Day! This is year two of this excellent writing event and I’ve enjoyed it so much! can’t wait to read the other stories!

The sky was empty above and echoed with the sounds of the plains. Across the horizon the dark shapes of their destination were laid out like seedlings in the dust. Old Sage felt the wind against her face and the warmth of the sun on her back. She looked at her people, wild eyed with the flight, and counted them in her head. All present and correct. She gave the signal and they moved off the hill, their crafts sweeping the dry grass as they once again built up speed.

They had been traveling now for twelve weeks, across the drylands that separated the coastal towns of the East and the wetlands to the West. The Oasis was the biggest settlement there, and the only one that remained year round. It had become a trading centre and the most popular stop for travelers trying to cross the dry grasses. It was a beautiful sight - the grass surrounding it was lush and green, with covered trellises dripping in vines connecting each of the low buildings. The place was built over a fresh spring, the water carefully cultivated in underground springs that kept their surrounding crops nourished. But more than that, the Oasis had developed the springs further out into the grasses, so that in a beautiful circle around it the wildlife could thrive as it had once done, thanks to the man made rivers and pools that were all fed by the deep spring at the centre. From above it looked like a bright green circle, surrounded by the sea of dry yellow grass for miles.

That morning though, as the weary group reached the green border, an unexpected sight greeted them. In a chain around the Oasis, right where the yellow grass met the green, was a long line of people, arms outstretched to each other, staring defiantly back into the land beyond. As the travelers got closer they could hear the sound of a chant being shouted by the group.

Old Sage leaped off her glider 50 meters from the lines and motioned for her people to follow. Pulling the now gently hovering crafts behind them on their tethers they slowly approached, waving a greeting and stopping again 10 meters away. Close up she saw with a faint shock that the people in the human chain were young - many couldn’t have been much past their teens and some looked even younger. Tired and wary eyes locked onto the travelers as they stopped their approach. From across the space Old Sage saw signs sticking out of the ground

Protect Our Land!

Our Future Matters

We Won’t Let You Make The Same Mistakes Again

Never Again

She felt her old bones ache and looked longingly at the buildings beyond, but some things went even deeper than bones. She anchored her crafts and lowered her body onto the grass next to it. Around her, her people followed her lead. She nodded to the teenagers and pulled out a flask of water. She might be tired and ready for a proper bed but she wasn’t about to cross a picket line.

The sun began to set and a pair of protesters came over to the group. The chain closed over the gap they left, keeping the line strong. Old Sage waved the pair over and greeted them.

“How long have you been out here?”

The older of the two, a short girl with her hair tightly braided in coils against her head, shrugged and replied.

“About three days now. I think they’re beginning to take it seriously, finally. You arriving will help, if you’re planning on staying out here.”

“Of course. We’ve got food and water to last a while, and if it takes longer we’ll move on without trade.”

The girl nodded, relief clear on her features. The teenagers headed back to the chain, where lanterns were being lit and placed on tall poles, illuminating the chain of protesters. Old Sage began to organise her people into a full camp, raising tents and creating spaces for cooking fires. Out here on the dry grasses you had to be careful with fire. One stray spark could cause devastation.

The next morning she was awoken by shouting. Looking out of her tent, she saw a group of men waving frantically at her camp from behind the line. She stood slowly, her muscles complaining as she stretched and climbed outside. She moved until she could see them clearly, older than the protesters, with anger and fear on their faces. In front of them the chain looked tense. She stood firm on her side and waited. The men gestured for her to come forward but she looked pointedly at the chain and stayed where she was. One of the men leaned forward and shouted over to her, asking her if she had been threatened, if she had come with stuff to trade. She recognised him from previous visits, a normally quiet man. His face was red that morning, the look of someone unexpectedly not getting what they want.

She turned and went back to her camp, where the rest of her gang were already putting together food for breakfast. She could hear the man shouting as she sat and accepted a bowl of food, and smiled as the man continued to shout. Maybe they wouldn’t need to wait too long after all.

The day stretched out and on the air she could hear a thrumming - something was coming in the distance. The protesters could feel it too, and looked afraid. Inside the ring the older people looked smug and Old Sage felt a low rage in her stomach. The protest hadn’t been there a week yet and already the leaders of the Oasis were escalating. From the far side she saw a mass of people on the horizon and realised that if they had come from the wetlands they must have started their journey days ago - and that meant that they had been called as soon as the protests had started. She glowered at the gloating men and stood. She called her gang to her and in a low voice laid out her new plan. Agreement was unanimous. They moved their camp and joined the chain.

The night was pierced with red light and panic. Old Sage could picture what had happened even as the jumbled news came to the chain. One of the enforcers had been careless - perhaps a poorly made fire, or a dropped match - afterall, in the wetlands they would not think of such things. Now a fire was growing and heading towards them. There was hardly any time to react. The gang raced around the chain, burning a ring of dead grass, suffocating the flames as soon as they had done their job. They reassured the chain and finally completed the circle, dry-eyed and coughing. The smoke in the distance was growing.

Soon the animals of the grasses came, more than could be believed. The dead plains weren’t really so dead - the wildlife adapted and hung on, in smaller and more hidden places. But that night they ran to the one place they could be safe - the Oasis. First came deer and wild cats and dogs, running past the burnt circle and into the chain where they stopped away from the buildings, drinking water from the pools and streams in desperate gulps, each paying no mind to each other or the protesters. Then came the smaller creatures - rodents, insects, birds - streaming in between the legs of the teenagers and finding places to rest in the lush green grass beyond. The chain was now a mass of living things resting under the night sky. Beyond it all, the wildfire grew.

The enforcers came last, an army of armed people now afraid and tired and ashamed of what they had done. They did not attempt to break the chain that night but accepted water and joined Old Sage’s people in the camp outside the chain, safely within the burnt circle.

The fire was ash by mid morning. The animals stayed where they were and soon other people in the Oasis, scientists and researchers, were out in the grass making notes and finding animals they had thought were long dead. The leaders waited beyond them for their army to finally break the protesters. But the animals covered the grasses and to march on the Oasis would be to march on them. The scientists joined the chain and the people of the Wetlands were uncertain.

The Oasis waited with held breath on its leaders. Anger was rising at the damage they had already caused. As the sun set, they relented.

The stars came out above and Old Sage could finally put her feet in the lush grass of the Oasis. A grasshopper sat on her sleeve and she smiled. Tomorrow her gang would go with the wetland people together and complete their journey. Tonight they would trade their wares and celebrate. The grasses would grow again and the Oasis would be a more equal place.

She felt the wind in her hair and its coolness on her skin. For now, all was well.

[madin-din]

[ ECLIPSE ]

fandom: boku no hero academia pairing: tododeku words: 1.7k

notes: a story about finding the truth, finding a home, and somewhere in between all that: falling. in love.

listen... there is so much potential for the sun and moon dichotomy here. i can only hope i did it justice. 

— 

Chapter 1: The Sun

Midoriya is not how Todoroki expected a Moon Kingdom citizen to look. He has hair the colour of life, vibrant green and untamed and nothing like the various shades of red and orange Todoroki’s used to seeing on this side of the Wall. The freckles patterned on his face could very well be made of moon particles themselves, and beneath the sunlight, they almost seem to sparkle.

Todoroki Shouto from the Sun Kingdom meets Midoriya Izuku from the Moon Kingdom.

read on ao3 || buy me a kofi

Even after sixteen full cycles, Todoroki Shouto still doesn’t feel like he belongs under the Sun.

Being born to the Sun King himself, Todoroki is arguably more solar than any other citizen in the kingdom. His flame-red hair is a striking inheritance from his father, and if that isn’t enough to officially label him as someone who lives under the Sun, then the natural affinity he has with fire leaves no room for discussion: Todoroki Shouto comes from the Sun Kingdom.

And yet—his skin is paler than most, even though it should be golden and tanned by now, at sixteen spans old, like everyone else. Underneath the contacts his father forces him to wear, his left eye is blue rather than brown, a ring of ice circling around his pupil. And on the rare occasions that it rains, he feels drawn to the water almost as much as he is to fire; if he reaches out to touch the droplets falling from the sky, he might even be able to solidify them, control them.

It has been years, decades, since the Sun cast out the Moon long ago. The Wall between the two kingdoms shows the strength of how the Sun can exist independently and Endeavor takes pride in his kingdom’s ability to thrive without help from the Moon.

But Todoroki has always, always been fascinated by the Moon. He knows the tales just like anyone else, about how the Moon Kingdom is a wasteland now that there is no contact with the Sun. The people there are said to be skin and bones, weak and fragile from the lack of sunlight. They are barely surviving because crops need nourishment from the Sun and the dim glow of the Moon just isn’t enough to sustain life. It’s only a matter of time before the Moon Kingdom citizens die out, his father tells him.

That can’t be true, though. If they’ve managed to last this long without the Sun, Todoroki knows that they must have figured out a different way to stay alive.

☼

The Sun Festival starts as it always does, with Todoroki standing on a raised platform in the middle of the capital’s marketplace. He’s dressed in traditional clothing, loose pants and red robes wrapped around his waist, and he holds two strings of ribbons in each of his hands. It doesn’t take long for a crowd to gather as the music of drums signals the start of the ceremony.

Todoroki raises his arms to wait for the beat that indicates the beginning of his performance. Near the back of the audience, he sees his father, the Sun King, watching him with the intensity of solar flares in his eyes.

Inhaling, he begins to dance.

His movements are small at first, just pacing around the stage while casually waving his batons, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. When the music picks up, he leaps into action, flicking his wrists to create a series of small circles with the ribbons before using the momentum to twist his body, spinning into pirouettes. Red and orange colours swirl around him like twin wheels of fire and his heart beats in rhythm to the drums in the background.

The audience follows his routine with warm cheers and little dances of their own, the people themselves becoming songs in front of his very eyes. He bends low, snaking the ribbons along the floor, preparing for a jump. This part of Sun Kingdom tradition, he thinks, is one that he has always enjoyed.

The end of the dance is marked by Todoroki tossing the ribbons up in the air, catching both of them with one hand, and sweeping into a deep bow all in a single, fluid movement. By the time he walks off stage, the sun is at the highest point in the sky, and the festival officially begins.

☼

He gazes up at the clouds above his head, at the Wall that encircles the land, and just as he’s about to turn away, he blinks.

What he sees must be a mistake because, squinting up against the sunlight, Todoroki makes out the shadow of a person standing on top of the Wall.

☼

The Wall is at least thirty meters above the ground and Todoroki has never heard of anyone who has tried to climb it before—even young children know better than to use the Wall as a playground. And yet, the silhouette he’s looking at now stands at the highest point closest to the sun, and begins descending.

Todoroki has to admit that it’s a feat as impressive as it is reckless.

Entranced, he makes his way over to the Wall himself, head tilted back to follow the movements. He witnesses the exact moment the shadow stumbles, loses their footing, falls—down, down, down.

In that moment, Todoroki moves purely out of instinct, running to the edge of the Wall with his arms outstretched as though he plans to catch the person. He can feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, palms starting to flare up uncontrollably at the thought of watching someone crashing to their death right in front of him.

The person—a boy, Todoroki sees now—plummets head-first like a rock tossed in water, and for a terrifying moment, Todoroki is sure he’s going to crack open his skull. But just before hitting the ground, he manages to maneuver himself midair in time to land on his feet, bending low to absorb the impact of the fall. He straightens back up, barely even affected, and Todoroki watches in bewilderment as he takes in the surroundings.

They lock eyes.

Swallowing, Todoroki can’t help but stare at the stranger. He’s never seen eyes like his before. Eyes that glow.

“Can you take me to All Might?” The boy blurts out, walking closer. There’s no greeting, no explanation as to why he was standing on top of the Wall; only—determination.

It takes Todoroki a few seconds to register the words, blinking out of his trance. All Might. He hasn’t heard that name in years, and any Sun Kingdom citizen would know not to mention it under Endeavor’s reign. Narrowing his gaze at the stranger in front of him, he asks, cautiously, “You’re not from… here. Are you?”

For a moment, panic flashes in the boy’s eyes. Then, he smiles sheepishly, hands fidgeting with nervousness. “Are you going to turn me in?”

And although it’s not a verbal acknowledgement, it’s a confirmation all the same. This boy, who climbed to the top of the Wall and somehow sustained only minimal injuries after falling to the ground, is not someone from the Sun Kingdom.

Which can only mean one thing: he’s from the Moon Kingdom.

“All Might is dead,” Todoroki says instead of answering the question. He watches the boy carefully, observing every micromovement on his face in attempt to discern whether he’s a threat or not.

“O-oh…” The boy looks to the floor and Todoroki guesses that whatever information he’s heard about the people of the Sun must be extremely outdated. “Do you know if he really parted the clouds during the Year of Darkness?”

There is that glow in his eyes again, Todoroki notices as his heart does something funny. He nods once, expression controlled. “He did.”

The Year of Darkness is a moment in history that is taught to every Sun Kingdom citizen, a tale of bravery and heroism displayed by their previous King. When the skies had become dark for so long and people started dying due to the lack of sunlight, All Might had gathered a team of people from both sides of the Wall to chase away the clouds. It is the only incidence in the past century that Todoroki can recall the Sun and Moon Kingdoms setting aside their differences to accomplish a common goal.

On that day, All Might had become the Symbol of Light, named after the very first rays of sunlight that passed through the clouds that year.

Todoroki supposes it’s not a surprise that All Might is well-known by Moon Kingdom citizens as well.

“I guess I came all the way here for nothing,” the boy laughs, nervous energy all around. He scratches at the back of his head before stretching out a hand in greeting. “My name is Midoriya Izuku, by the way!”

Cautiously, Todoroki reaches out his own hand. “Todoroki Shouto.”

“Todoroki,” the boy says, testing the name on his tongue. His face breaks into a smile. “Thank you for answering my questions.”

Inspecting him now, Midoriya Izuku is not how Todoroki expected a Moon Kingdom citizen to look. He has hair the colour of life, vibrant green and untamed and nothing like the various shades of red and orange Todoroki’s used to seeing on this side of the Wall. The freckles patterned on his face could very well be made of moon particles themselves, and beneath the sunlight, they almost seem to sparkle. ­

In the distance, he hears chatter and footsteps; the sound of people coming their way. He doesn’t need to ask to know what would happen if they find a Moon Kingdom citizen on this side of the wall—capture, imprisonment. Execution.

“Midoriya,” he whispers urgently, “you should go.”

“—Yeah.” He looks like he’s about to say something before cutting himself off. Then, as if suddenly struck by an idea, he stops abruptly in his tracks and turns back to face Todoroki. “Do you—want to come with me?”

The words are shy when Midoriya says them but something in his eyes tell Todoroki that he likes the adventure, the thrill.

Todoroki opens his mouth to answer before closing it again. He thinks of the kingdom he’s lived in his whole life and an entire kingdom that is unknown to him, ruled by a completely different celestial body. The sun today shines as brightly as it does any other day but all he really sees is the excited glow of Midoriya’s eyes.

There are people coming closer now. If they wait any longer, they’ll be discovered.

And, well, at sixteen spans old, Todoroki thinks that he’s finally ready to see exactly what is on the other side of the Wall for himself.

[tarithenurse]

All is fair in Love & War - 11

Pairing: Loki x reader Content: Well, there’s pining. And hopefully some wise words about pining. And then there’s pain and not just a little bit. I’m talking “get your tissues, chocolate and wine”-sort of pain. Sorry (actually, I am...just a smidgen), I didn’t even write the adult action I had planned, only hinted at it.

11. Words unspoken

There is little time once the decision has been made for you to talk with Loki. Envoys from Vanaheim are introduced to you by Odin, and together with the royal family they begin to shape your future by inventing an entire life for you to assume as your own until one day, hopefully, your quest in Sjöblik is complete. By the gods…what’ve I gotten myself into? Yet each time doubt stirs, you only have to think of the squalid life of so many Midgardians, recall the lies being told to those who fight and those left behind; then your determination returns.

Days are spent in a haze of lessons (pretending to be an Alfheimer requires a minimum of understanding for the language although no one in the Midgardian court should speak it), hours standing still for tailors, and long nights studying the history of both of the nations concerned. All while at the same time maintaining you physical prowess. Sleep comes sparingly, but deep although an occasional dream has you waking up sweaty and with a throbbing need you cannot sate.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

The last night come to soon. Although Loki has done all he can to ensure the safety of [Y/N], he still feels frustratingly powerless. Soon she will be beyond his reach, his aid, on a mission that might separate them forever, and although he wishes to then he knows that he has no right to stop her from going.

All I can do is pray that she returns. Staring into the dusk, he’s only vaguely aware of someone approaching.

“My son,” Frigga’s melodic voice works like a calming balm, “why do you seek solitude rather than join us for dinner?”

There is no doubt in his heart that the queen already knows. In many ways is she the wise one in the royal couple, choosing to observe quietly before jumping to conclusions. It is a method both Loki and Thor have been exposed to while growing up, more often than not finding themselves exposed in the middle of some trick by their mother before anyone else had realized that they were up to anything. Not that it would not have been fair to assume at any given time as the two princes always were causing some ruckus.

Still he tries to pretend all is fine. “Needed some fresh air, mother.” When she does not leave, but comes to stand beside him, looking over the colourful lands, there is little he can think of to put her mind at ease. “It is wonderful to be home again. Smell the sweet air of Asgard. I do love it here.”

From the corner of the eye he can see the gentle smile that curls Frigga’s lips. “You always have had a preference to the sweet and gentle things in life.”

It is peaceful, in a way, to stand there as the sky darkens above them. I suppose she is right, the Jotun king from Asgard muses. The fragility of a flower or a butterfly’s wing captures his attention much more than the wild snowstorms and dark winters that his kin favours. He can find comfort in the cold, of course, but his heart only fills again at the sight of the first green leaf.

“Love is a peculiar thing and too often do we fall short of capturing its essence in our symbolism.” Frigga is not looking at him, just talking to the night and the stars above that are beginning to appear. “We use precious stones to symbolize undying love, but diamonds are hard. Cold and jagged. No, the real symbol for love, if you must use a dead object to represent it, is a pearl. They are rounded, almost soft as you hold them against the skin. And you need to nourish it, work to keep it warm or it will begin to lose its luster, my child, love requires work and dedication every day or it too will fade.” Finally turning to face him, Frigga takes his hand. “But do not forgo the work. When you have found your pearl, do not dismiss it.”

Loki has no words, they are not needed anyways, he simply allows himself to be folded into his mother’s arms as if he were a little boy once more.

…   READER’s PoV   …

Even amongst all these friendly people who have taken to you as much as the mission, the room feels empty when your former captor is not there, and so you only breathe easily as he rejoins the boisterous dinner. Dinner. To the Asgardian this appears to be nothing special. Apparently, they dine like this every night, and according to the few servants you manage to question it is hardly more lavish than the meals of the common folk. Sure, there is a greater variety on these tables, but that anyone should starve while the court feasts? The very notions seems absurd to them. It’s possible. If they can do it, then so can we!

But still, despite knowing that no Asgardian is hungry tonight, you find it hard to enjoy the food. Excusing yourself early, you cling to the hope that there is peace to be found in sleep…though the explanation given is the need for rising early in the morning due to the long road ahead.

Naturally, Loki offers to walk you to the guest chambers, and you are partially thankful for it as you still find the golden palace difficult to navigate. On the other hand, the silence in the endless hallways decorated with marble, gold, and crystals becomes oppressing as neither of you dare to speak, and so you make it all the way to the door before you open your mouth.

“I want to –“ you begin, but Loki has chosen that exact moment to talk as well. A few confused seconds pass before you nod, smiling shyly at the awkwardness. “Please, you first, Loki.”

For a second, he looks lost before seemingly reaching a decision. “Perhaps I should apologize, little mortal, for taking you prisoner.” A sly twinkle is brought back to his eyes.

“Hardly! I came looking for you.” It is hard to keep a serious façade at this odd conversation. “Besides, you haven’t exactly treated me badly. So don’t worry, you can sleep without fear of blame.”

Wanting to end the night on this lighter note, you turn to leave.

…   LOKI’s PoV   …

Catching her hand, Loki stops [Y/N] on her way into the chambers she’s been given for the stay. ”Perhaps so, but I would hate to see you captured again. Stay out of trouble.”

The crooked smile manages to brighten her eyes. ”I always behave, my king.”

You are the embodiment of trouble, little pet. The teasing smile, the way she tilts her hips to enhance the sender waist under the thin fabric…all of her stirs the predatory side of the Jotun and calls forth a rumble in his chest, eliciting a breathy gasp in response. There is no fear in her pretty face, though, only playfulness as she retreats through the door.

”Are you claiming innocence, my pet?” His feet carry him after the slender figure.

”Maaaybe…why don’t you find out?”

The door falls shut behind Loki with a flicker of magic just as he pounces for her. But the little Midgardian is quick, avoiding his grasp and leaving only a giggle behind for him. The little minx wants to play? We can play.

…   READER’s PoV   …

Feeling Loki’s cool limbs around you and listening to the quiet humming, there is no place you would rather be. Well, that is not entirely true, of course, because right now it would be nice to be back in Utgard…but still. You know you could be content anywhere as long as you were near him. That is why you feel safe in spite of everything. It is why your heart is breaking from the thought that you will have to be apart. Not right now. You force the thoughts away, wanting to cherish the afterglow without any sadness, and eventually Loki’s humming brings you to rest. Your limbs are wonderfully heavy, the heat that had coursed through you diminished by the strong and slender figure pressed against you, and you can feel how you are balancing on the precipice of sleep. A soft kiss is planted on your shoulder (one of many), before your king nestles his face in your hair.

”I love you.”

It takes a moment before the words truly makes sense in your drowsy mind. Once they do, however, they elicit a million emotions with each their own response, and in the confusion you do not manage to say anything. All you can do is cling on to Loki because what he has said is the very thing you feel aching in your bones, running through your vein. It is the air in your lungs and now that is has been spent on the words it is as if you are suffocating. He makes room for you as you turn to you back and supports himself on the elbow to hover above you, face so near his raven strands are brushing against your cheeks mixed with the flint and pine-scent. There is fear in the god’s eyes.

“Oh Loki,” you manage to whisper, your heart breaking, knowing a world of pain is waiting, “I love you too.” The joy your answer sparks is bright, flaring like the sun on winter snow. “Please forgive me.”

Already, he is showering you in tiny kisses, but he stops at the taste of salt water on your cheeks. “Forgive you? What for?!”

As if in a trance, you see your own fingers stroke his cheek before burying in his hair. “I’m yours. For as long as I live…but therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? I don’t want to cause you grief, but unless you can push these feelings aside…” Angrily, you wipe away some of the tears from you face. “You should find someone…s’m’one like you.”

“But it is you I want, my dear.”

Loki has trapped you in a cage made of his body. Knees by hips and hands by head, his frame is both a shield and an obstacle to overcome in the hopes of staving off the worst blow.

Sniffling, the determination you had hoped for is slowly conjured. “I’ve considered it. I know that you’ll outlive me, so spare yourself the pain.”

“What if there was a way?”

The deep sigh wafts through your king’s hair. “This isn’t like…like learning to read or –“

“Yes or no! If there was a way, would you let me love you?” A fire is blazing in his eyes that you never have seen before. “Would you stay with me?”

“I’d be yours as long as you would have me.”

“Then come back to me and I swear I will have found a way for us to live full lives together.”