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signofthestriking · 1 year ago

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What's A Hellsite?

(I'm writing one-shots tied to my bigger OC-driven AU, which you can check out here. Hoping this is a good start.)

May 19th, Age 714. Noon. The light of the afternoon sun streamed through the dusty library, Maize's eyes darting about as she stepped inside. Library. Someone in this village had told her to find this place. She had stopped them and asked if they had ever heard of Saiyans. After all, Master Limax knew about them. But the people in this village didn't know a thing, and the human she'd talked to had told her to find the library.

Maize had never seen a library before. She'd never seen the human village up close before, long straying from their cities. Her heart raced even being here. Even reminding herself that he wasn't here, that there couldn't be any harm in breaking this one little rule if he never found out, Maize looked over her shoulder every few seconds. She never saw him. With a sigh, Maize passed by the front desk and wandered into the shelves.

It struck her that she had no idea where to start looking.

The young girl started at one end and scanned each book for the word "Saiyan", which never came. She checked a second shelf with the same results. Maybe if she read all the books, she'd find something. How long would that take? Maize wasn't sure, as she hadn't read that many books before. Aside from the ones Master Limax had gotten to teach her how to read, she didn't have any at home. Maize's hands traced over the spines, and as she searched to no avail, her mind began to wander.

'I wonder what's in these… Cookbooks? Oh, maybe all the books here are about food.' She realized. '...It smells nice here. But I feel like I'm about to—'

Just then, Maize sneezed. So dusty. Sniffling, she turned around a corner and gasped when she met eyes with a stranger. An older woman in a pencil skirt and a blue blouse, with round glasses connected by a thin chain. Maize quickly looked away, staying silent. Maybe the woman wanted nothing to do with her.

"Are you looking for something?" The woman asked. "...Saiyans." "Um, excuse me?" Maize pointed to herself. "Me. I'm a Saiyan." "Oh, um, okay...." The woman nodded, trailing off a bit. "Is there a book you're looking for?" "One about Saiyans." "Sayings?" "No… Sai-yans." Maize restated. "Someone in the village said to come here for books if I wanted to learn about things." The woman paused, before going on. "Well… Are your parents around?" "My parents are dead."

The woman covered her mouth. Resuming her search, Maize moved onto a different shelf. 'Annexation of Yahhoy For People In A Hurry'. Yahhoy. That was a new name. What did 'annexation' mean, anyway? Maybe she could read it later. But she moved on, and on, and on, until she'd searched too many shelves to count. Her eyes began to ache. How could there be books about so many things, but not one about Saiyans?

Turning another corner, Maize found herself down the hall from the front desk. The same woman sat hunched over her phone, covering her mouth with her hand as she spoke. When she noticed Maize, she quickly looked up with a smile.

"Did you need something?" She asked. "No." "Find what you were looking for?" "No." The woman bit her lip, before responding. "Well, um… You could try the computer, if you'd like!" "What's a computer?"

Maize followed the woman's lead down the hall again, to a desk with an odd-looking box sitting on it. She tilted her head. The woman pressed a few buttons and pulled up a chair, gesturing for Maize to sit. As she did, the display flickered on. Maize poked tentatively at the keyboard, scanning the buttons. What was this for?

"Look up whatever you're searching for, okay?" The woman told her. "I'm sure you'll find it." "What is this?" Maize asked. "A computer. You've never seen one before?" "No." "Oh. Well, use the keyboard to type. And use this mouse to move around." The woman explained, pointing out some of the keys and showing Maize how to use the mouse, before stepping away. "You'll get the hang of it!"

Maize turned her attention back to the display, the flickering light making her eyes water. A window sat idly open, an empty search bar waiting patiently. She'd never seen anything like it before. Maize poked at the keys with letters, seeing them appear on the screen. Her eyes lit up. That's how this worked! Remembering the button that deleted things, she cleared the bar and typed in "saiyan", before hitting the bigger button labeled 'enter'. Most of the buttons remained unknown, and Maize resisted the urge to press them as the search results appeared.

Her brow furrowed at a meager gathering of results, using the mouse to click on the various links as the woman had instructed. One took her to a page of oversaturated colors and unreadable text. She could barely look at it, let alone search through it for knowledge of the Saiyans, if it even contained such a thing. Another link led to a nearly-blank page marked only with the numbers 404. What was that supposed to mean? Maize pouted. Wasn't this computer supposed to answer her questions?

It had been all she could think about for the past few weeks, ever since she'd been left on her own. There had been a lot on her mind for months, every day, and this had been something she could finally dwell on for a little while again. She could stare into the sky and dream of what her people could have been. What they could be doing in that very moment. Were the Saiyans traveling the stars? Or were they living simple lives on islands, like her? Limax wouldn't tell her, but he'd never forbidden her from seeking answers on her own. Right? Not that she could remember. He did say she was one of the only ones here, though. But that meant there were others, right?

Maize realized she had yet to click a third result. It led to a page framed with dark blue, a string of text laid out in front of her. But she could actually read it, and that was more than the last two entries could say.

kawaii-dipshit, 12hrs ago Gotta love it when your parents refuse to listen to you even for a second #vent post #idk don't look at this kawaii-dipshit, 11hrs ago He did NOT just say "it's not ladylike" MOTHERFUCKER THERES TWO GIRLS IN MY CLASS THAT GO TO TAEKWONDO LESSONS HOW CAN YOU BE SO DUMB kawaii-dipshit, 8hrs ago Okay but what I don't get is how he really acts like there ain't anything weird about what he's saying cause it's all obviously bullshit. I mean does he actually think I'm gonna ignore the fact that I'm a saiyan too or something? Like what the fuck!!! It'd be so nice if you could just be open to your kid about what you're so fuckin scared of but no, let's just pretend like it's all okay. Sick of this shit! #dont even know why I'm so mad about it today but fuck it

Maize tilted her head. This person was a Saiyan, too? What even was this place, though? And who was this? Someone had to have written this. Like a book, but on a glowing screen framed by dark blue borders. Maize didn't know the words for it, but as she searched about the screen, her mouse hovered over the image next to Kawaii Dipshit's name, and she instinctively clicked on it. But now, faced with a strange profile and an array of buttons to click on, Maize didn't know which one to press next.

'...This one's got a little green dot.' She noticed. 'Maybe that's something special.'

The button triggered a little pop-up. Register? What did that mean? Getting out of her chair, Maize finally returned to the front desk, seeing the woman still sitting there. She greeted the young Saiyan with a smile, glancing at the door every now and then.

"Everything okay?" She asked. "I, um… I made a few calls, and someone will be here to pick you up soon." Maize ignored that. "I need help." "With what?"

Leading her back to the computer, Maize pointed at the screen and explained how she had gotten there, sitting back in the chair. The woman took the mouse and progressed through the pop-up, having Maize type a few things in the process. She had to pick a name. She had never picked a name before. But it couldn't be her real name, according to the instructions. What would make a good one? Maize had an idea, hastily typing it in and completing the registration process.

It was then that she realized the misspelling of her new name. She had chosen "monkey". Something Limax had called her a couple of times. Earth had monkeys of its own, and Maize always thought they were interesting creatures. So she'd picked that as her new username. But she'd forgotten a letter, leaving it as "monke". Oh, well. It wasn't the end of the world, and she had no idea how to fix it anyway.

Finally, as the woman returned to her desk once more, Maize realized she could finally talk to this other Saiyan. As she thought of something to say, she faintly heard the woman speaking in the background.

"...Yes, she's still here. Can someone please pick her up? I can't leave a child all alone… We close in half an hour, just send someone. She said her parents were dead. I, I don't know what else to do."

Who could she be talking to? Maize didn't know, and she didn't see any need to dwell on it. She could leave on her own when she was done speaking with this other Saiyan, anyway. And so, turning her attention back to the screen, Maize typed out her greeting.

monke: hello monke: are you a saiyan too

*****

Lunch couldn't arrive fast enough. Konnie had begun to slip into a fast-paced dream involving pillows and motorcycles until she heard the sound of classmates gathering their things. Oh, Human Anatomy was done already? She had zoned out the whole time. Grabbing her books, Konnie hurried to her locker to grab her lunch. More like a snack than a real meal for her, but during the school year, that was lunch.

Konnie's tail shifted around under her clothes. She had taken to telling people she was half-beastman, if they happened to notice it. Most people tended not to ask a whole lot of questions. Like if half-beastmen were common, or why both of her parents looked human. Heading outside, Konnie traveled to a small courtyard with a few trees, sitting in the shade of one. A few other familiar faces milled about, although Xandria had been absent the whole day. She ate, she shared a few words, but spent most of her lunch break on her phone.

The young half-Saiyan yawned again. She hadn't slept much last night. Another little spat with her father about the usual topic. She'd even asked to practice on her own, in her room. Just to see if she liked it. But Okkoro had said no, and she needed to rant about it. Thankfully, she doubted anyone paid much attention to her blog, a little void for her to scream into. But she didn't bother checking on it right now. Right now, she saw a text from her mother.

Mom: Your father wants to know if you still want to go to that convention with your friends. Still some tickets left. Mom: I know its last minute but do you want to go?

A reply could wait. Konnie shook her head. He was trying to cheer her up. As stubborn as he could be, Okkoro couldn't help but coddle her a bit. Konnie supposed she couldn't complain, since she did want to go to that convention. But still, he knew she was upset, and he definitely knew why. So why couldn't he come clean? What was he scared of? Of her getting hurt? Or her getting into trouble? She couldn't tell. For all she knew, maybe he was afraid of both.

But seriously, was it so much to ask? Konnie had even told him she'd be satisfied with a few straight answers about the Saiyans. How could he leave her hanging like this, refusing to tell her anything about her alien people? That couldn't be fair!

Konnie raised an eyebrow when she saw a message she didn't recognize. On her blog, nevertheless. Odd. She hoped it was nothing inflammatory. A new user, an unfamiliar name, and a simple message greeted the half-Saiyan.

monke: hello monke: are you a saiyan too kawaii-dipshit: Sorry, who is this? monke: my name is Maize monke: are you a saiyan

This couldn't be real.

Konnie humored the conversation for a little. Longer than she usually would. How did someone notice that post? Out of everything to find, what were the chances of someone finding her quiet little blog and seeing that post in particular? She cringed when she read the word "Saiyan" in it. How could she be so dumb?! Even as she deleted the post, the stranger pressed on.

This had to be a trick. Someone was having a laugh. Especially when this came from a new account with an odd name. Going to the stranger's profile, Konnie nearly blocked them, seeing a message pop up at the last second before she could hit the red button.

monke: do you have a tail too

Hold up. This person knew Saiyans had tails.

Konnie lived all her life barely saying a word about her alien blood. She certainly didn't draw attention to her tail if she could help it. And as far as she knew, she and Okkoro were supposed to be the only Saiyans on Earth. And yet, this person knew Saiyans had tails. But no, she couldn't simply trust that right off the bat! Who knew who this person was behind the screen? If she'd learned anything, she'd learned not to trust strangers on the Internet. Even if they claimed to be an alien.

Konnie noticed she was running out of time. Lunch would be over in a few minutes. Asking a hasty question, she hoped the stranger would reply fast enough. And they did, immediately bringing up the Great Ape her father had always taught her to fear.

'They can control it?!' Konnie thought to herself, typing as fast as she could. 'Then my dad was wrong!'

It seemed like this person wanted to know more about Saiyans, too. Unlucky for them both, as Konnie knew next to nothing about them. Her knowledge stopped at the fact that they were aliens. Realizing lunch was all but over, Konnie sent a final reply before rushing back to class, knowing full well she'd be dwelling on this for the rest of the day.

kawaii-dipshit: Hey I have to get back to class. Maybe we can talk later? Where are you right now anyway? monke: it is called a library monke: i have never been to one before monke: it is quiet and i like it kawaii-dipshit: Alright how about this? Come back around noon tomorrow, that's when I have my lunch. We can talk about this more monke: i will come back tomorrow then monke: goodbye kawaii dipshit kawaii-dipshit: Goodbye, Maize

#[oc] konnie sai #[oc] maize onigiri #[story] one shots v.1 #[au] spectrum verse #dbz #dbz fanfiction #dragon ball z #dragon ball z fanfiction #dragon ball #dbz oc #dbz ocs #fanfic #dragon ball oc #dragon ball z oc #dragon ball fanfiction #dragon ball fanfic #dbz fanfic

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thisisapaige · 2 years ago

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for suptober22 day 1: maze/maize

The spiral rings full of stars were an endless maze. Dean walked upon them, up one minute, then down the next, despite never changing direction. The inky void all around threatened to consume him, but Dean kept moving, kept following the shimmering oil slick pathways, kept his determination.

The pathways groaned, like the sound of metal if it could yawn, and started to spin. Dean cried out and crouched, attempting to keep his balance. The entire structure shook, and Dean gripped the edges of the pathway. It was warm, almost alive. His hands slipped across the frictionless material, and Dean glided down the surface on a dangerous slip n' slide.

He skidded downward, then skipped upwards, then slithered sideways. He tried in vain to stop his rapid movement, but the glass-like substance refused to help him.

He tumbled into the void.

He didn't scream or shout. Instead, he closed his eyes, calm. This was it. He was done. He failed.

I'm sorry, Cas, Dean prayed.

Bright, flashing, multicoloured lights, some beyond human perception, flickered behind Dean's eyes. A whisper, a whoosh, and Dean landed on a soft surface. He bounced, once, twice, thrice, then stopped. He stayed there, lying on his back, and caught his breath. Whatever rescued him was gentle, holding him how he imagined a lover would, and Dean opened his eyes.

Feathers.

They surrounded him on every side, shining like metal and glass, but more comfortable than even Dean's memory foam bed. Dean reached out to the nearest feather, running his finger from the top of the vane to the bottom. He marvelled at how every colour of the rainbow and beyond was contained within it. He'd never seen something so beautiful before.

The feathers beneath him shuddered. Actually, the whole wing shuddered, because Dean realized he rested upon one of six. He could see the tips of the others curling above him, creating a cocoon of safety around him.

"Cas?" Dean asked, voice rough. He'd been wandering so long in this dark place, this Empty. "Cas? Is that you?"

There was a sound like a low rumbling hum, and tears pricked at Dean's eyes.

"It's you. It's really you!" Dean patted the feathers beneath and let his tears fall. "Morning, sunshine."

There was a rumble all around. It wasn't words, not exactly, but he understood them all the same.

Hello, Dean.

#suptober22 #destiel #destiel ficlet #deancas #spncreatorsdaily #true form cas #whoops i wrote another empty rescue fic #feathersforcas #deancaskiss #gosh i haven't done a ficlet in so long i forgot how to tag lol #anyway #enjoy!#writing paige

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irradiated-mogai-moved · 2 years ago

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aesthetigender coin game [from forever ago]

words were corn, shade, trick

maizemazestrickic

etymology : maize + mazes + trick + ic

a gender that is in some way connected to going through a cornmaze at dark , liminal spaces , feeling as though you're being watched , the sound of rustling corn stalks , seeing things out of the corner of your eye , old + flicker flashlights , and i know there was a path here earlier-

#apple cores n gender hoards : coining #xenogender #gender coining #mogai coining #mogai identity #mogai gender #xenogender coining #mogai #xenogender blog #mogai community #aesthetigender #mogai coining event #xenogender page #xenogender coining game #queer coining

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the-last-kenobi · 3 years ago

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Oh my gosh, are you taking new promtps? If you are and if you want to write this, may I request "Setting a broken bone" with Qui-Gon and padawan Obi? But only if you have the time to write and like this particular prompt. And, of course, if you are still taking prompts. Thank you!

Yay!! Love getting your requests! 🤍 And stars do I love writing these two. I am a complete sucker. Did I go completely overboard on this one? Yes. Yes I did.

I’m not kidding this was way longer than I intended.

(Note for anyone who is interested in making a request: I already have prompts for Tampering with Food/Drink and Public Execution/Torture.)

—

On Florrum, they crashed.

Their ship had reached its intended destination, but their sublight engines malfunctioned as they entered orbit, and there was the clang of metal and a cloud of dust after the fall.

Qui-Gon emerged first, his boots thudding in the hard desert, his blue eyes scanning the horizon cautiously even as he stretched out his senses into the Force. When he was sure, he turned back and proffered his hand into the crooked opening of the broken door, and Obi-Wan leaned into the light, squinting as if the light were blinding.

Qui-Gon frowned and raised his other hand, and though his young Padawan made a noise of protest, he plucked the boy out from the ruined ship and lowered him gently to stand beside him. Obi-Wan shifted slightly, leaning his head toward his Master, and Qui-Gon raised his arm higher, concealing his Padawan from view beneath his billowing sleeve. “Hold on,” he said quietly. “We’ll find shelter.”

“Skalder,” said Obi-Wan, and the hint of red beneath his hair turned into a small trickle down the side of his face.

“What?” Qui-Gon asked him.

The boy stiffened, clinging to his robes in an effort to stay upright. One pale hand emerged from his Master’s shielding arms and gestured into the distance. “Range hills,” he said softly. “Skalder. Can cross the geyser plains safely with…with them.”

Qui-Gon looked, and saw in the middle distance a range of low rises, and moving around them, large lumbering creatures with their heads down low, sniffing out flora to eat. “Skalder,” he repeated. “How do you know this?”

Looking down, he caught a glimpse of a pale face and the flicker of a grin. “I read, Master.”

Qui-Gon laughed and drew his arm higher again, hiding the boy’s concussion-pained eyes from the flat sunlight.

That afternoon, Obi-Wan tied his sash around his eyes and raised himself onto a skalder’s back, blind physically but trusting in the Force, and gestured for his Master to follow suit. The skalder lowed and grunted, but after a few moments of unsteady swaying, the entire herd began to move across the plains. Geysers shot up all around them, but not once did they come close to touching the creatures or the two Jedi.

“Instinct,” said Obi-Wan, his blindfolded eyes gazing ahead into the setting sun.

Qui-Gon watched his Padawan carefully, but Obi-Wan seemed perfectly at ease as he was, as if riding an unfamiliar creature over deserts and sulfuric geysers without the aid of his eyesight was only to be expected in the course of life.

“Let me check your head,” he said.

Obi-Wan did not turn. “It’s fine,” he answered. “I know what I’m doing. Resting my eyes is already helping.”

When they settled in a rock formation with a crevice almost large enough to be considered a cave, Obi-Wan settled himself down in the opening, facing away from their fire, his still-covered eyes towards the night.

Qui-Gon woke two hours after they had lain down to sleep and reached a hand towards the boy’s shoulder, but before he could make contact Obi-Wan spoke, still gazing sightlessly out over Florrum. “I’ve already checked. I’m still fine. Thank you, Master.”

On Akiva, they were led astray into the jungles and abandoned for dead by their so-called guide.

Qui-Gon studied their surroundings, pressing a hand to the moist, auburn bark of the tree beside him, closing his eyes and listening. The Force hummed back at him, so rich and alive in this place that was teeming with natural life, a clean energy untainted even by the cruelty of the people who had deceived them. There were other, kinder people here who still needed their help. They must make it through the jungle.

Qui-Gon’s eyes flew open as a loud rustling crash disturbed his meditation— he blinked at the sight of Obi-Wan, fifteen and scrawny and ridiculous, standing before him with a thoughtful expression as he studied the creature in his hands.

“Obi-Wan,” he said, startled. “Did you kill it?”

The boy looked up at him. “I did, yes. Fenglas are easily startled but they make for good eating. Many of the natives consider them their primary source of sustenance. There is also fruit, but not here. Closer to one of the rivers, there are trees.” He glanced around them with a humored expression, still holding his hunted prize. “Well. The right trees.”

The amusement faded as he caught his Master’s eye again. “Did I…? I’m sorry, I should have asked what you thought first. I was only thinking, the guide stole our bags, all our rations and supplies.”

Qui-Gon lifted a hand to still the rambling explanation, and Obi-Wan dropped his gaze, chastised and red-faced. “Very well, Padawan,” Qui-Gon said after a moment. “You found a problem and then a solution, which is good. But you would do well to consult me first before you hunt for food in unknown territory.”

“It’s not unknown,” said Obi-Wan, and he began gathering dry wood for a fire.

They ate in silence. The jungle creature was not luxury dining, but it was hearty and full of rather more meat than the thing had seemed to have, and had a savory tang that smelled like the wood they had cooked it over.

Qui-Gon rose to douse the fire, but Obi-Wan stopped him quickly with a hand on his shoulder. “The smoke will help protect us,” he said, as if that explained anything, and then he reached into his left boot and pulled out a small folded something that he held up and shook loose. It was fabric — no, a fine mesh netting, so fine that the small bundle turned out to be several square meters of the stuff. The Padawan swirled it through the air and then let it fall, sliding himself onto the ground where he had lain his folded cloak. The net settled over him like a strange sort of shroud.

Qui-Gon stared, bewildered, and Obi-Wan lifted the edge of the netting and gestured to him. “Move your cloak closer, Master, so we can both fit underneath.”

“But why?” Qui-Gon asked.

A crease appeared between the boy’s brows. “The ya-ya flies, Master. They’re venomous. You’re full-grown and healthy so they’d only really make you sick, but it’s better to be safe. The smoke and the net will keep them away.”

Qui-Gon slid beneath the net, his makeshift bed a few inches from Obi-Wan’s. “Did our guide give you this?”

“No,” said Obi-Wan. “I brought it just in case. I’m glad there wasn’t room in my pack, or it would be stolen and we wouldn’t have it at all anyway.”

“What do the natives do about the flies?” Qui-Gon asked next, studying the boy’s features as they flickered in the firelight. He looked unbearably young, still, but tired.

Obi-Wan breathed for a moment, staring upwards through the film of the net at the jungle all around them. “They keep fires burning, sometimes with oils that kill the flies,” he said. “And they weave nets to cover their beds.” He turned his eyes to his Master and added, “If we hunt enough tomorrow, we may be able to trade for another net. Or just maize.”

“The crop they grow here,” Qui-Gon recalled.

His Padawan nodded. “When we find the nearest river, we can collect water in my pouch. It should hold liquid for awhile.”

“And if the water isn’t clean?”

Obi-Wan shrugged. “If we can’t reach civilization in time, the risk of unclean water will have to do.”

On Arkanis, it drizzled 60% of the time. On another 39%, it rained in torrential downpours that would have flooded the streets and drowned the population had they not long ago learned to control the water flow, to build stronger than the rain.

And every so often, just once in a long while, the sun came out and lit up the planet in warmth and golden hue.

But it had not been one of those days when Master Jinn and Padawan Kenobi had arrived to mediate on export negotiations. Rain had fallen so heavily from the skies that it felt more like swimming than walking — a sensation that turned from hyperbole into frightening reality when the supports beneath a walking bridge gave way.

Qui-Gon reached out and took hold of a screaming entrepreneur, dragging him safely to stable ground.

Obi-Wan slipped and plunged into the waters seething below and did not climb back up.

“Where do the water ways go from here?” Qui-Gon demanded over the roar of the storm. “Where do they go?”

“Out to sea!” the businessman cried back, a look of pained sympathy on his face. “There’s too much water moving too quickly, nobody could swim in that!”

Qui-Gon gazed down into the thundering rivers below, imagining the crushing weight they must bring, the incalculable strength of the waters, and felt the first slivers of grief begin to gouge into his heart like shards of broken glass.

Of all the things to lose the boy to — rain. Or, that he, the Master, had not been aware enough of their surroundings, or that he had reached for the civilian instead of the boy.

Qui-Gon’s eyes burned in the lash of the storm, but he hurried to his feet and shepherded the others inside to warmth and safety. They were immediately bombarded by a rescue team that passed them by to begin repairing the bridge, and by people offering them warm drinks and soft towels and dry clothing. Qui-Gon helped the others first, and then himself, the movements mechanical.

The next few hours passed in a daze. The negotiations were postponed as the city dealt with the crisis, and Qui-Gon was politely escorted to his rooms — the rooms with two beds, where he ought to have been with his apprentice, safe and dry and alive. But Obi-Wan, he thought, the truth slicing into him slowly, a delicate and perfect cut of a knife, had drowned hours ago. Tossed about in water that raged fifteen meters deep, funneled from all over the city and then out, out to the sea. A pale, fragile figure trapped inside. Suffocated. Qui-Gon covered his eyes with one hand and sank onto his bed. He did not remember climbing beneath the sheets, but he woke the next morning tangled in them, still exhausted.

The next day he dragged himself through the opening discussions, his words as sharp and his gaze as penetrating as ever, but his mind constantly distracted by the memory of the boy falling into the water. Obi-Wan had screamed, he remembered that now, although he wished he didn’t. Then he had tumbled in the air, trying to control his descent, and entered the water feet first.

For the following two days, that same image played over and over in his mind, and yet in those two days he still oversaw the mission, and departed the table on his last evening with a mingling feeling of both quiet satisfaction and unrelenting shame. The mission. The boy. The negotiations. His boy.

Hardly able to breathe, the Jedi Master wheeled around and marched up to the nearest aide. “I need to stay another week,” he said. “Please. To be sure.”

The aide concealed her pitying expression flawlessly, but her presence in the Force was brimming with it and he did not want it. He waited just long enough to hear his request confirmed and then fled.

For three days he stayed in the city, exploring the now much calmer waterways, talking to the mechanics and attendants that kept an eye on the entire system. All of them apologized, but no boy had been seen in the waters that night, and no body had been found on the shore.

“It’s been a while since we’ve lost someone to the floods,” one attendant said heavily. “And it’s been even longer since someone has survived that. I’m sorry, Jedi.”

Qui-Gon walked slowly back to his rooms late that night, his shoulders slightly slumped, the only visible sign of his defeat. The idea of staying another night in the half-empty room and then departing for Coruscant alone was unbearable, horrific.

A turbolift chimed, and the door opened.

Qui-Gon froze.

Obi-Wan emerged from the lift, dripping rain water and carrying all of his clothes except for his cloak, which seemed to be missing, and his trousers, which he was still wearing. The boy searched the room for a moment with tired, puffy eyes, and then he saw Qui-Gon.

“You’re still here,” he said, in disbelief. “You’re still here.”

Qui-Gon didn’t answer. In three strides he had covered the space between them and pulled the boy close, feeling cold water beginning to settle into his own clothing. He only held Obi-Wan tighter, dropping his chin to rest on the damp hair, closing his eyes for a moment as he tried to remember how to speak and breathe.

“Obi-Wan,” he said, in a strangled voice. “Obi-Wan, where have you been? I thought— oh, Padawan, where in the galaxy have you been?”

The boy made a small sound of surprise at the fierce embrace, but he didn’t pull away. “I was in the tunnels, Master. I’m sorry.”

“The tunnels?” Qui-Gon asked blankly.

Obi-Wan nodded against his chest. “There are older waterways beneath the current ones. They’re sealed off, but you can open them if you really try. I knew what to do when I fell into the water; I got rid of my cloak and boots, and I floated as best I could and let my feet face forward. I crashed into a support beam, and I couldn’t climb up and out, and I kept falling asleep holding onto it and just trying to keep my head above water.”

Obi-Wan paused and yawned hugely. “So I swam down, using the pillar as a buffer. It wasn’t easy. I nearly messed it up. But I got down there and found an old access hatch, just like I’d hoped, so I climbed into the old tunnels. And then I got trapped in there, and I’ve been trying to find my way out ever since.”

Before Qui-Gon could even begin to process all of this madness, the boy added, almost as an afterthought, “I had no idea I’d find you. I heard the negotiations ended last week, and knew you must have left.”

Qui-Gon’s arms tightened around Obi-Wan’s small frame. “Not without you,” he said, the words coming out shuddering on an exhale. “I wanted to be sure.”

“Oh,” said Obi-Wan. “I’m sorry.”

On Baraan-Fa, they fell from a roof, flung over the edge by the force of an explosion.

Debris rained around them, cracking sickeningly on the ground, and Qui-Gon crouched over his apprentice, shielding him with his body and shielding both of them with the Force. Obi-Wan’s presence in the Force brushed against his, bright but somewhat timid, a newborn flame still learning just how far it could spread.

The din ceased, and they raised their heads slowly. The building was burning, the top of it utterly demolished, and people were beginning to flood the streets, screaming, bleeding, calling for help and offering assistance to one another. Sirens wailed.

Obi-Wan waited for his Master to stand up and turn towards the chaos before he climbed to his feet, and in this way, focused on the tragedy blossoming around them, Qui-Gon did not notice the way the boy swayed on his feet, white to the lips.

He did, however, notice when he turned around to give the boy instructions and found him gone.

For a moment, irrational fear swept over him — images of debris striking flesh and unfriendly hands dragging the boy away swarmed through him.

But these unlikely possibilities were firmly swept aside like the pestering insects they were; the Jedi Master closed his eyes for a moment to center himself, and found to his faint surprise that Obi-Wan was only just around the corner. He followed what his senses were telling him, and scanned the next alleyway carefully, searching.

There. Concealed in a crumbling alcove, half-hidden by a fallen support beam and clouds of dust. A small red-haired figure was struggling with something, his back braced against the wall, head bowed.

A small whimper reached Qui-Gon’s ears.

Obi-Wan’s hands shifted, and through the haze and debris, the unnatural angle of his left leg became visible, and the position of the boy’s hands and the look of pained determination on his young face suddenly made sense.

“Obi-Wan!” Qui-Gon said sharply. He was already moving by the time the boy’s head jerked up to stare at him, his hands still clenched around his leg.

“Master?” asked the boy. “What are you doing here?”

Qui-Gon stopped beside him, dropping to a kneeling position to avoid cracking his head on the crumbling ceiling. “I would ask you the same, but I think I know exactly what you’re doing. So, a new question — why are you here?”

Obi-Wan blinked. “Is that… not often the same thing?” Sweat glistened on his brow, even through the layer of smoke and grime.

“Not usually,” replied the Master. “For instance, I know that what you are doing is setting your broken leg. I would like to know why, however, you did not tell me you were injured, and why your first solution was to set the bone by yourself.”

The blue-green eyes blinked rapidly. There were flakes of stone dust clinging to the eyelashes, and tears rose up unbidden as the eyes began to sting. “I… there was a bombing, Master. Somebody has to help, and that somebody is usually us. I hurt my leg, so I doubled back to fix it while you went on ahead.”

“And did it occur to you that I would prefer to see you taken care of first?”

A bewildered expression clouded the boy’s face. “I… we’re in the middle of an emergency.”

“Exactly.” Qui-Gon gently raised his hands and settled them over the boy’s much smaller ones, easing them away from the damaged leg. “And I cannot focus if you’re inexplicably missing, or suffering alone on a broken limb.”

“But I can fix it!” Obi-Wan insisted. “I know how. I’ve done it before, many times!”

Qui-Gon’s hands, still holding Obi-Wan’s, tightened their grip. His voice, however, remained steady. “Oh? Do you go breaking limbs on every mission we’ve been on and gone through the healing process without my noticing?”

Obi-Wan’s gaze slid from his. A look of mingled shame and wariness crossed his pale features, and the Master noted that it was not the first time he had seen this expression on the boy. He had certainly seen it on Arkanis, on Akiva, on Florrum. And other times and places, too — this look of mingled guilt and mistrust.

“No,” Obi-Wan mumbled. “I broke bones a few times on Melida/Daan. Broken bones were common. I learned how to set my own and other people’s pretty quickly. And I’m grateful,” he added quickly, as if worried he would be interrupted or reprimanded. “It’s a valuable skill.”

Qui-Gon was silent for a long moment.

“Yes, it is,” he said eventually. “Like memorizing waterways on a planet known for flooding, or practicing how to survive falling into fast-moving waters. Or, perhaps, like preparing defenses against mildly venomous insects, or learning how to hunt creatures you’ve never seen before. Or navigate a desert full of geysers.”

The boy did not seem to see a connection. He stared down at his kneeling Master, his hands still trapped gently in his teacher’s, and said nothing.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon said softly. “I am not going to leave you.”

The Padawan’s brow furrowed. Still he said nothing.

“Melida/Daan was not an experience you should ever have had,” the Master continued gently. “You have developed many skills as a Padawan, and I do not deny that learning to set broken bones is one of them. But I think you also learned something that you should never have been taught, and now I must unteach it.”

“What is it, Master?” Obi-Wan asked. His back slid a few inches down the rough wall as his good leg began to collapse beneath him, and Qui-Gon released the boy’s hands to catch him around the waist and under one arm, keeping his broken leg off the ground.

“You learned to handle everything on your own,” said the Master, walking them both slowly back out into the sunlight. “To expect yourself to do things alone, for fear of slowing others down.”

They reached a flat pavement stone free of debris, and Qui-Gon set the boy down gently, careful of the injured leg, watching as Obi-Wan clenched his jaw against the pain. He knelt down beside him again and put one hand at the boy’s back, encouraging him to sit upright, leaning on his palms.

“But you’re part of a team, Obi-Wan. And more than that, you are my student. You are not expected to do everything alone, or care for all of your injuries without assistance, or prepare to survive alone on a strange planet.”

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to protest, but Qui-Gon shook his head and raised a finger to silence him.

“Listen to me, Obi-Wan. There will be times when we are separated, that is true. And there is broken trust between us. But Padawan, please understand me when I say this— I will never leave you, and I will always help you.”

Obi-Wan stared at him, tears and dust still clinging to his eyelashes, breath shuddering with pain and perhaps the threat of tears. His Master smiled slightly, running a hand up and down the boy’s back as if to soothe an illness, and for a few moments they simply stayed that way, waiting.

“Master?” Obi-Wan said quietly. “Can you help me with my leg?”

Qui-Gon nodded. He placed his hands gently where they needed to go, his expression calm. “Hold on to my shoulder, Padawan. When I set your leg, I want you to squeeze my arm as tightly as you can.”

“But that will hurt you,” the boy protested.

Qui-Gon’s lips quirked in a slight smile. “As I said, Obi-Wan, we are a team. Now. Hold on as tightly as you can. I’ve got you.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flickered from the broken leg to his Master’s patient, open expression.

He smiled. “I know, Master.”

fin.

#and then they lived happily ever after and nobody was ever sad again #long post #I really just wouldn’t shut up with this one #star wars #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #master & padawan #jedi apprentice #tw blood #tw broken bones #tw abandonment #someone hug them #so much angst #but also #soft #qui gon is trying #obi wan is small and tired #my writing #bad things happen bingo

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fatefought · 2 years ago

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sudden movements catch in her peripheral. she allows her eyes to flicker in that direction, temporarily breaking her attention from the buffet before her. is he odd ? ( though she's the one observing khaddar, ironically enough. ) she recognizes the man from eight from her sister mentor giving her a crash course in the other twenty-three who had been reaped. however, the district eight lesson focused largely on scarlett taylor. volunteering can do that in a district that doesn't export careers. having already introduced herself to the woman from eight, makes sense to do so with the other tribute from that same district.

her watching becomes more blatant. it's surprising that nobody else seems to be. in a room full of capitolites, weren't they the bottomless entertainment ? though she supposes it's a welcomed break, even if only short-term. so perusing the provisions gets ditched for her curiosity. she takes a sip from the flute she's been glued to, finally realizing what has gotten khaddar's attention. all this for a pocket-sized arachnid that scurried on the table carefree.

spiders were no phobia for maize. in the fields, a plethora can be found. and though one should never risk the chance of being bitten by one, they're some of nature's best pest control. they can co-exist. ( and somehow, they're much better company then most she's been made to schmooze tonight. ) she barely suppresses a chuckle at his over the top reaction to his drink. soon that same glass is used as a means to contain the insect. " i thought for sure you were gonna kill it. "

amusement lingers in her tone, but she can put together what the other is trying to do. her eyes scan the table before the the general vicinity. not a single thing would be thin enough to make the removal graceful. " looks like you'll either have to use your hand or the spider is gonna have to wait for the next person to hopefully set them free. "

Khaddar Ganesan surveyed the platters of decadent food along the wall of the lavish ballroom he had traipsed through for the past hour. While there existed a wealth of wonder to behold in front of him, he instead was hyperaware of a groove on one of his teeth. Strangely, his tongue grew itchy, so he began to alleviate it by rubbing it against the roof of his mouth. He then scratched at his chin, stubble prickling through his skin after having been shaved by his hair stylist the day before. His body did not feel like his own. Khaddar struggled with ignoring his corporeal qualities when his personal autonomy had been stripped down to nothing more than a source of entertainment or a stake in a wager. Or, as President Snow put it, a “gracious sacrifice.”

His introspection was interrupted when he noticed movement at the corner of his eye. A jumping spider had leapt from a heap of fruit. The size of his pinky nail, the spider appeared as if four of its perfectly round eyes fixed on him, tilting its head curiously. A clink sounded as he grabbed a drink from a tray an Avox was holding.

“Thank you,” he said with a nod.

With no potted plant nearby to dash the beverage in, he made the rash decision of downing the contents when the spider quickly began scurrying away. He grimaced at the strength and bitterness of the alcohol. Flicking the cup to rid it of any remaining drops of liquid, he turned the glass downward and trapped the jumping spider within. He slightly stooped down for closer inspection. Depending on the angle he viewed the spider, the abdomen gave off different shades of metallic green and magenta. The iridescent sheen reminded him of an oil slick or a soap bubble.

Catching the jumping spider was the easy part of his little endeavor, transferring it to a safe place was another challenge. Khaddar’s gaze broke from the glass, and he scanned his immediate vicinity for a thin, sturdy object to slide under the cup. Instead, he met the eyes of the person closest to him.

#eventideevent01 #* interaction / maize .#evenfalls

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aic-americas · 3 years ago

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Ritual Cache, Salado, 1300, Art Institute of Chicago: Arts of the Americas

Discovered wrapped and hidden in a remote, dry cave, this cache of ritual figures comes from the Salado culture, which flourished in the mountains of southwestern New Mexico and southeastern Arizona between the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Brilliantly colored and adorned with flicker feathers and dyed cotton string, these effigies once formed an altar as agents for communion with the life-giving spirits of the earth and sky. The large male figure, with his feather necklace and bold black-and-turquoise zigzag pattern, features sky symbolism. The smaller, female figure is a more self-contained form, probably corresponding to the earth. Her ocher color likely refers to maize and pollen, symbols of sustenance and fertility. The accompanying figures are a mountain lion (the chief predator in the region) and two serpents (carved from cottonwood roots), representing agents of communication with the earth and the seasonal cycle of fertility. Curved wooden throwing sticks for rabbit hunting complete the ensemble. Testimony to the antiquity and endurance of the worship of earth and sky and to the spiritual bonds between people and animals, these objects bear close resemblance to ritual figures and implements still used today among the diverse Pueblo peoples. Major Acquisitions Centennial Endowment Size: Male figure: h. 64 cm (25 1/4 in.); female figure: h. 36 cm (14 3/16 in.) Medium: Wood, stone, plant fibers, cotton, feathers, hide, and pigment

https://www.artic.edu/artworks/55249/

#artoftheamericas #artinstituteofchicago #salado #museumarchive

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kylorengarbagedump · 4 years ago

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Little Bird: Chapter 39 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 38 here. Part 40 here.

Summary: The WHO probably doesn't recommend you do any of these things while pregnant.

Words: 9900

Warnings: tw: graphic depictions of big time violence, both physical AND sexual, DUBIOUS consent, voyeurism

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: Hello, welcome back to my horror show! Hahaha.

Thank you very much for your patience in me waiting to get this chapter out. As you can tell, it is a beast. I genuinely hope you enjoyed it as apology for the long wait.

Cannot thank everyone's kindness and thoughtfulness enough. Your comments always, always brighten my day. I love y'all with my whole heart.

“So the plan is to flank them.”

“We’ll flank them here--Kuruk, Ap’lek, and you will take the east side. Cardo, Trudgen, and myself will take the west.”

“Where do we pull over, then? We won’t be able to get the Buzzard that close.”

The Night Buzzard was split into three sections--the front third was dedicated to food and supplies storage and an imitation of livable seating, the second third designated entirely for weaponry. The rear of the bus consisted of four stony, stripped bunks, beds in function only.

The Knights Templar--save for one, who was driving--had spent the past hour out of the six-hour journey at the front. They crowded over a map, debating their strategy while you watched, perched on the tiny couch across from them. Your Commander loomed beside you, silent, the knife of his gaze occasionally slipping over you, so sharp it slit you through his mask. He had hardly spoken a word since you’d boarded; the quick, piercing glances were the only evidence you had that he remembered you were there--a feat while stuck in close proximity on an armored bus.

“A five-hundred foot perimeter is typical.”

“Five-hundred feet gives them too much opportunity. The Buzzard has jammers.”

“Jammers don’t mask the sound of the engine, ‘Shar.”

“All right then, Vic, but the more space we give them, the greater chance they have of escape.”

Kylo Ren turned to them. “The primary objective is to destroy the subversives. Flank the encampment, salvage what documentation you can, kill any that cross your path.” He paused. “Leave Pryde to me.”

His voice was cold, even through the modulation. You sulked into the corner of the couch, anxiety knitting in your chest. To be near your Commander brought you a sense of peace, but the unanswered question of your future--your child’s future--left you lurching. You longed for a moment, two moments alone with him, an opportunity to search his eyes and find liberty in his response. Perhaps in a hormonal, pregnant haze, you’d imagined it like a prophecy: his large hands, curling around yours, his lip trembling with fear, his silence a concession. And you’d imagined the words swirling into your ears, granting you everything you’d grown to need.

I’m choosing you, he’d breathe.We’re free.

But staring at him now, hidden under a helmet, armored, toting a rifle and pistol, you weren’t sure where the man in your prophecy might be. You weren’t sure if that particular man had ever existed at all.

The bus shuddered, striking into rough terrain; beyond the tinted windows, you could make out a field blanched under the quarter-moon, wild maize exploding through the grasses.

“We’re about half a mile out,” called the driver--Kuruk, you thought.

At this, Kylo opened a cabinet and grabbed two devices--they beeped and hissed when he turned them on, and he fiddled with them both in a sort of calibration before crouching to be level with you. He pushed one into your hands, stowing the other one on his hip.

“This frequency is full-duplex. We will hear each other at all times. If someone unfamiliar to you even glances at the Night Buzzard, you will call for me.” He pinched your chin between leather fingers, angling your eyes into the void of his mask. “Do you understand?”

Your cheeks burned. You swallowed. “Yes, Commander.”

He huffed--static in the mask--and patted your cheek. “Good girl.”

As you blushed, he stood and crossed to the Knights. They steeped themselves in hushed discussion until the driver signaled their arrival. With a rumble, the Buzzard slowed, coasting to a stop behind a smattering of trees, and through the darkness, you could spy a collection of distant glowing lights, cold and artificial. One of the Knights murmured something about cutting a generator, and Kylo nodded. A brief, mustered agreement, and the doors opened, the soldiers filing out, leaving their leader behind. He turned to you a final time.

“The exterior is bulletproof. The door will lock.” His presence was heavy. You wished you could touch him. “At even a glance.”

“I know.” You gazed at the transceiver, its power light blinking like a heartbeat. “I will.”

Kylo held you under his stare for a lingering second before stomping down the steps and exiting the Buzzard. With everyone now gone, the air seemed stale. Empty. Sighing, you rose to your feet, dragging yourself to the driver’s seat and plopping into it, cradling the radio in your lap. The only noise filtering through the speaker was muffled static.

Though you could only see from several hundred feet away, the camp seemed unassuming, composed of a couple dozen military vehicles and a bunch of pitched tents that appeared half-packed away. They’d said the encampment was moving tonight--the Buzzard’s dash read 10:42 PM. Bodies bustled under the lights, Angels in black uniforms and armed with rifles carting indiscernible armfuls to store them on trucks. You scanned the fields, searching for your Commander, but found nothing. Kylo Ren and his men had disintegrated into the dark.

It started with a flicker--the camp’s lights fluttered like a flame--and a black veil swallowed the outer ring of the perimeter. The men in your sight seemed confused, not concerned, spinning to examine the issue, creeping forward. And then one dropped with a crack, the items in his arms tumbling free, his body folding into itself as it hit the ground. With firecracker panic, the camp erupted, soldiers revealing their rifles and whirling in sloppy formation, only to watch other comrades smack the dirt, shot dead in random, bloody heaps.

A coordinated effort was abandoned, and the Angels scattered, rifled roaches under dying halogen lights. But their attempts to hide were futile--the second they found shelter, another layer of lighting winked out, and they scuttled to the center, shooting volleys of gunfire in no particular direction. It was only then you caught them--the Knights, cutting through the camp like raven razors, collapsing tents and impaling bodies as they passed. A pair was back to back, twirling as one clotheslined two Angels and the other emptied a clip into an approaching squad. A third covered those two, winding around them and unleashing a full automatic round into the camp.

Then a sharp bang, white fire--you winced--the men in the camp stiffening in temporary paralysis. In their stupor, the other three Knights descended, sharks consuming a helpless meal, rending their prey into paper shreds. One Knight slit a man’s face from ear to ear, a crest of blood in the dirt, and twisted his knife into the back of his mouth. The man screamed into the sky, so loud you heard it from the Buzzard, and then through the transceiver, followed by echoes of furious voices demanding order in new, terrible chaos.

The horror picked up the pace of your heart--this was different than the times you’d watched Kylo. Their savagery was almost sadistic; a thought confirmed when two Knights paused their spree to watch an Angel wriggle like a split worm, kicking him as his blood clumped mud under his chest. You swallowed, tearing your eyes away as another section of lights died, plunging the entire camp into darkness. Shouting choruses of strained voices ripped through the radio, the only sign of activity the sparks of muzzle fire and shifting shadows under the moon.

Staccato pops pierced the speaker, and you jumped, focus darting between the device and the absolute nothing you could see beyond the bus. And then a voice, familiar--the man you remembered as Pryde.

“Took you long enough, Ren.” Another round of gunshots. “Three weeks to pin us down?”

Two shots, louder, closer. “Easier to find rats when they have nowhere to hide.”

“You’re willing to bet on that.” A single pop.

“Betting implies faith in the outcome.” A pause. “I don’t have faith. I have knowledge.”

A cacophony of shots staticked the speaker, and you clapped your hands over your mouth, silencing your squeals. You glanced out the window, still seeing nothing but the twinkles of the Knights’ massacre. Like dust, the exchange settled, someone panting over the channel. From the clarity of breath, it didn’t sound like Kylo.

“Impossible,” said Pryde. “There are cells that you can’t possibly--won’t possibly ever know about.”

“You’re willing to bet on that.”

Something crossed through a shaft of starlight, moving toward the Buzzard. You blinked, inching toward the dashboard. It was difficult to see in the darkness.

“You pushed Gilead too far.”

“I’m improving it.”

“Your improvements are borderline treason.”

“You’re heading a coup.”

Explosions of noise through the radio, a growling scrape--your throat tightened. The shadow was definitely human. It was definitely coming closer. Running.

You grabbed the transceiver, holding it to your mouth. “Um. Commander?”

The only response was static, a party of bullets through the speaker. Fear stabbed your chest, your pulse in your ears.

“It will never be treason to restore Gilead to God’s word.” Another crackle. “I’m righting your mistakes.” More gunfire. “This isn’t a coup, it’s retribution.”

“Commander,” you said, a little louder. “Sir.”

“You’ll need the support of the Council.”

It was an Angel. He was rushing the Buzzard with something, some sort of bag in his hand. It looked, maybe, wiry. It looked, in your mind, like a bomb.

Your heart careened--why wasn’t he listening, why wasn’t he answering--and you fumbled the radio, sending it tumbling onto the floor of the bus and under your feet. The light stopped blinking.

“Fuck.” You tried to kick it toward you, managing only to knock it under the seat. “Fuck! Kylo! Kylo!”

Of course, there was no response.

“You think you have the support of the Council? You’re no Snoke. You never will be.”

You scrambled to the floor, knees scratching metal. Reached for the transceiver.

“I killed Snoke.” A clatter of metal--you snagged the device and flung it toward you. “This is my destiny.”

Turning it on, you screeched, “Kylo please there’s someone running with a bag please help!”

The sound of a gunshot. An inhuman snarl. And the radio went dead.

“Kylo?” you said. “Commander? Sir?”

A shriek of fire erupted in the camp, spewing dirt and smoke into the air, and you screamed, shouting nonsense into the transceiver, as if this would summon him to your side. The explosion guttered in seconds, flames trickling to death, fog fading. There was no sign of the Knights. Or your Commander.

Your heart thudded. Something could’ve happened to him. He could be dead. But there was no time to process or consider it. You were alone in the Buzzard. With the Angel only coming closer. One hundred possibilities reeled through your mind--he could be escaping, defecting, taking this chance to denounce his chains--yet the only one you could consider was the one that involved him blowing you and the bus to whichever afterlife actually existed. Running wasn’t an option, if he did blow up the bus, with you being in the middle of nowhere and with no places to hide. There was only one other choice. Before anything and everything else, you needed to survive.

Steeling your jaw, you scrambled toward the second third of the bus, threw open the weaponry cabinets and stared at the assembly of rifles, shotguns, pistols, and other deathbringers. There was no leisure to figure out how to use a new type of gun--you barely knew how to use one. You snatched a pistol, testing its weight in your palm before fussing to find the safety. Your fingers found the magazine release instead--it popped out, revealing a full clip, and you silently thanked whatever divine being allowed that to happen, because there was no way you would’ve checked to see if the stupid thing had bullets. The safety was already disengaged. Swallowing, you wiped your palms on your robe and tramped to the exit, chin quaking while you flipped the lock and opened the door.

The summer air stuffed your lungs, and you wheezed through it, stumbling into the dirt. Holding your breath, you sidled up to the Buzzard, spying the Angel sprinting through the grass. Your hands shook, stomach churned. There was no way you’d nail this shot. Unfortunately, you had to try.

Teeth gnashing, you tugged back the slide and raised your arms, elbows locked, fixing the sight of the pistol on the shifting shade. To account for delay, you led the barrel in front of his path, following him for one second, and two. You pulled the trigger.

Rattled by force, the bullet went wide, whizzing into space, and you gulped, watching as the Angel paused, searching for its origin. You hunted for oxygen, but the air was thick, ears shrill with terror. Adrenaline drunk, you threw your arms forward, aiming again. Fuck it. He still wasn’t moving. This time, you wouldn’t miss.

Lip curling, you fired, wrists flung back, and the Angel yelped, dropping a knee. You had only seconds to celebrate before he turned straight toward you, and your blood froze. He struggled to his feet, hand moving at his waist--you panted, unable to stop the rapid vibration wracking your joints as you tried to aim again. In a zombie shuffle, he leveled his own pistol and sent off a shot, pinging the steel next to your head.

“Fuck!”

You clung to the side of the Buzzard, heaving now, clenching the gun in your hands. You wanted to get it together. He still had that bag in his arms, and now he knew you were here. You needed to get it together. With his injury, he was holding his gun one-handed--the recoil recovery would be your chance. Every pulse of your heart clouded your sight--you drew in a slow, deep inhale through your nose, ignoring the flighty feather of thought in the back of your mind:

Where the hell was your Commander?

Shaking it off, you adjusted your grasp and spun the corner, moving to aim--another shot glanced off the bus, and you shrieked, falling to your knees. Growling, fight-or-flight flaring, you tracked the Angel, determined to win, and pulled the trigger.

And nothing happened.

“What the fuck,” you said, and smacked the gun, like this would help. You tried to shoot again, but nothing. “What the fuck!”

Your failure was the Angel’s opportunity--you glanced up, his arm already raised.

Pop.

Wincing, you waited for the pain. But none came. You blinked, peering into the grasses, and spotted the Angel, crumpled to the ground.

Commander Kylo Ren broke through the night, a cyclone through the fields--relief flooded you, fleeing your lungs--he was alive. He was here. And he was charging you like a tank.

“Kylo,” you breathed, and clambered to your feet, pulling your lips in over your teeth. But he didn’t respond. Your fight-or-flight stalled in his approach.

Palms wet, your grip slipped and the gun smacked the dirt, shooting a round into the grass. You flinched, neck hot, made to grab it, but before you could reach, a gloved hand gnarled your hair and whipped you back, hauling you onto the Buzzard.

You yipped in pain. “Kylo!” Tugging at his fingers, you tried to pry free as he yanked you up the steps, but he tightened his grip, wrenching you forward and tossing you onto the couch. “Will you--”

His mask snapped with static--he seized your face, pinching your cheeks. “You seem to have a penchant for bullets,” he said. “If you’re so interested, I’ll put another one in you myself.”

You glared at him, pushing him off. “Are you kidding?” you said. “I thought he had a bomb!”

Kylo grabbed your face again. “He was carrying documents. And your solution was to begin a shooting match.”

“Who cares?” you spat. “You’re the one who didn’t respond to the radio!”

He growled. “You may care little for your own life, but you are--”

In the distance, tires squealed, a vehicle spinning into the field--his head snapped toward the front, and he pushed you free, striding to the driver’s seat.

Without a word, he revved the engine and threw it into gear, slamming on the gas and peeling through the grass, speeding in the other vehicle’s direction. You jolted with the terrain, seeking purchase on the couch, but he jerked the shift into low gear, motor wailing as he plowed through the plains. Thrown forward, you grappled with the table across from you, peering through the windshield, watching Kylo barrel into the night.

You knew that he was in pursuit of Pryde. But your conversation didn’t feel finished. In the back of your mind, alarms blared: evidence, evidence of your inevitable fate. The man in your prophecy was a stranger. The one in your reality hadn’t come when you’d called him. He seemed reluctant to choose you at all.

The Buzzard roared, its acceleration impressive for its size, chasing the speeding sedan, catching its rear in its headlights. Focused, Kylo shoved the gearshift forward, and the engine howled, flinging you back to the couch with a yelp.

“Stop moving.”

You frowned. “It’s not like there are seatbelts back here.”

The sedan cut to the left, zooming toward a highway, and Kylo growled. “Get up here.”

Gripping the sides of the aisle, you pulled yourself toward the driver’s seat, and when you met the back of the chair, Kylo reached around, wound an arm around your waist, and dragged you on his lap. You squeaked--before you could adjust, he hit the brakes and jerked the wheel; the Buzzard whined, teetering in protest, and Kylo tugged you to his frame, shifting under you to keep you both from hitting the floor.

Your face burned--despite your frustration with him, he was large and warm underneath you, his chest steady at your back. Swallowing, you grabbed his thighs, hoping to steady yourself, and if he noticed, he didn’t care, letting you cling while he focused on the hunt. The sedan bumbled across pavement, sliced through the highway, back into the fields--Kylo smashed the gas, and the Buzzard flew over the asphalt with a smack, bouncing you on his lap, sending heat to your cheeks. The distance from his prey was negligible, now; the car was some type of black Volkswagen, the license plate glinting in the glare of headlights.

Kylo stiffened and lowered the window, buffeting you with gusts of syrupy air, and grabbed your hands, tacking them to the wheel. “Steer.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait--”

He brandished his pistol and stretched out--you jostled over his thighs--lining up a shot as you bore down on the car. Gritting your teeth, you kept the Buzzard straight as it rumbled over the dirt, and he tensed, firing two shots, blowing out his target’s rear tires. The Volkswagen whirled, a tornado in the grass spiraling toward you, set to collide with your front-end; you thought to do nothing else but swerve and spin the wheel. The sharp curve pitched the bus off of its side, and you cursed, the both of you thrown toward the steps.

A strong arm barred your waist, catching you and wresting you back, and a leather hand encompassed yours--Kylo slammed the brakes, righting the tires as the bus screeched to a stop feet away from the car, rocking you both into the driver’s side, his hold buffering you from injury. You panted, face and flesh hot, head airy; in the grass, Pryde scrambled from the Volkwagen into blinding light, a crimson streak through his scalp. He ducked, took cover behind his car and drew his pistol, lodging two shots in the windshield. You yelped--there was no chance to speak before Kylo pushed you off, his own pistol in hand as he shouldered his way through the bus door and into the glow of the Buzzard’s headlamps.

Pop, pop--the fire stalled your Commander’s advance, and he shielded himself with the bus’s body. Emblazoned with righteous furor, Pryde shot again, burying a bullet in the frame.

“You’re an idiot, Ren. You’ll do this forever. I won’t be the last.” From your height, you could see Pryde fussing with something. He must not have known you were there. “As long as you go against God’s plan, you’ll never win.”

Then he tossed whatever was in his hand, covering his eyes--a stabbing flash eclipsed your sight, its detonation drowning your ears, and you gasped, seething, curling at the waist. When the noise died, you groaned, rubbing the artifacts from your vision, peering into the field. In the seconds you’d been stymied, Pryde had disappeared. Your Commander shot into the car--nothing--and crept through the grass, head on a swivel.

Spits of gunfire from the driver’s side of the Buzzard, and Kylo juked back, landing them on opposite sides of the bus in a stand-off. You chewed your lip. Pryde definitely didn’t know you were there. And there was still a cache of guns in the cabinets. Turning, you snuck through the aisle--but when you reached the storage, a hail of bullets crackled from the Buzzard’s rear. Despite being inside, you bowed, heart in your stomach, pulse pounding with fear. You needed to keep going.

Swallowing, you threw open the door to the cache, plucking another pistol from its hook. You remembered your near-follies earlier: magazine, check. Safety, check. Slide pulled back, check. More sweat on your palms. Cursing to yourself, you wiped them on your robes again, shuffling to the front--and then another blast, another searing light. You hissed, knees buckling, gunshots echoing through your ringing ears. A grunt escaped you, your jaw tense, and you shook off the pain, forcing yourself to look through the windshield. Your eyes adjusted, unfuzzing, just in time to see Enric Pryde raise his gun and shoot your Commander twice in the chest.

It happened in split seconds. Kylo staggered, impact hampered by his bulletproof vest, his gun falling into the grass; you trapped a scream, your muscles burst with adrenaline. Bungling the pistol in your grip, you scaled the driver’s seat, blood soaring, brain baffled--you were doing this again you were seriously doing this again--and leaned out the window. Pryde approached, raised his weapon, training it on Kylo, and in that instant, your mind cleared, annoyance and worry and terror swallowed with rage, all of it coalescing into a single, solitary thought:

That’s my child’s father, asshole.

You steadied your arms, pulled the trigger--your ears trilled, elbows bowed--and Pryde howled, knee slamming the dirt. Pinching your lips together, you fought the urge to tremble, preparing to shoot again, but Kylo had already recovered. He lunged, tackling Pryde to ground, the other man’s pistol sailing into the air and disappearing into the dark.

Pryde twisted underneath your Commander’s weight, trying and failing to throw him off. “God doesn’t make exceptions, Ren!” Kylo clocked him in the jaw, and he choked, sputtered. “Gilead will never accept you making a whore your--”

Kylo’s fist clobbered his face, striking him over and over and over, blood spewing from his mouth, his nose, over his chin. You couldn’t sit down, something strange tingling your neck under the knowledge that the mention of you made him snap: a sick glimmer of affection, of hope. A disgusting delusion that, perhaps, he really could choose you. Bone cracked, Pryde’s cheek collapsed, and Kylo stopped, heaving, arm reeled back.

The older man wheezed, skull pulverized to a mess of meat. “Go ahead and kill me, Ren. But there’s no such thing as destiny. The longer you try to fight God’s design, the greater you’ll lose.”

“Interesting theory. But God doesn’t design Gilead.” Kylo glanced at you, still bent out of the Buzzard. Your heart fluttered--without him having to say it, you knew what he was asking. With an underhand, you lobbed him the gun, and he snatched it from the air, jammed it against Pryde’s broken chin. “I do.”

Pryde gagged, red drool dribbling from his lips. “You’re the devil.”

“Yes.” Kylo’s voice was mechanized malevolence. “I am.”

Pop. Blood spattered his visor, Pryde’s head lolled in the grass. At the same time you exhaled, slumping into the driver’s seat, your Commander’s shoulders bunched, then fell. He hung there, hovering over his victim. Silent, he stared for a moment before he rose, pistol in hold, and crossed to the bus.

You should have felt relief as the door opened and he stepped onto the Buzzard--his enemies vanquished, a victorious soldier, your body the spoils--but when he towered over you, your ribcage constricted with dread. Pryde’s words looped through your mind.

You’ll do this forever. I won’t be the last. The longer you try to fight... the greater you’ll lose.

They nagged you, clawed at the wrinkles of your brain. Because despite their origin, you knew--despite not wanting to know--that they were very, unfortunately, true. And if you knew that, then part of Kylo had to know that, too. Part of him had to know how shallow this victory was.

He flicked a switch on the dashboard, and picked up a wired transmitter, spinning a knob until static fizzed from the Buzzard’s radio. “Target eliminated,” he said, and reported a pair of coordinates. “Your status.”

Another voice came through the speaker--one of the Knights. “Documentation obtained. Encampment neutralized. En route shortly.”

Without a word, he flicked the switch and replaced the transmitter.

“Um. So.” Shifting in the seat, you gazed at him, seeking his eyes through the visor. “Will this ever stop?”

A tired hm was all he offered.

You sighed, pulling the robe closed over your chest. “I mean, will you always be fighting just so we can be together?”

He stood, solid, staring. Or not staring. It was too difficult to tell. Either way, he said nothing.

“I know that’s what you want.” You shrugged. It was easier to look at him when you didn’t know if he was looking back. “For us to be together. But this isn’t going to work.”

His head tilted a single millimeter. “Work.” It was more of a question than a statement.

“If this is what it’s going to be, then it won’t work.” The words hung, heavy in the air, and you paused, waiting for his response. You received none. So you continued. “There’s another way, though.” Leveling him with your gaze, you held your breath. “We can just leave.”

Kylo snorted, turning into the aisle. “We don’t need to leave.”

“We do.” You shook your head. “He’s right, Kylo.” You crossed your arms. “I hate to say it, but he’s right. You have to realize that you can’t make this perfect. It’s broken.”

“Of course it is.” He returned the pistol to the weapons rack. “It’s broken because I’m not finished.”

You frowned. “Well, it really doesn’t matter what you do,” you replied, “if it involves Gilead at all, then I don’t want it.”

He spun on his heel. “You don’t want it?” he asked, voice rising. “Is this not enough?”

Raising a brow, you caught a laugh in your chest. “Of course it’s not enough! How could it be? I told you--I’ll always want more.”

“More? More than what?” Kylo stalked through the aisle, heel-ball-toe. “Haven’t I kept you safe?” He was a black condor, cornering you in the driver’s seat. “Fucked you well?”

Heat seared your face. “It was because of you that I was in danger anyway!” Shaking your head again, you allowed your chest to puff out in indignance. “None of it is enough when you’re free, and I’m not.”

“No,” he said, “you were in danger because of imperfection. People assigned to the wrong roles. People failing to fulfill the roles they were meant to fill.” He edged closer. “Freedom is inconsequential under perfect design.”

“Your design is bullshit, your roles are bullshit!” You jumped to your feet, bumping his breast, and his shoulders tensed--but you ignored it, and pushed past him into the aisle. “As long as you try to force things on people, they’ll never be happy.” Flustered, you gestured toward him. “Hell, you’re not even happy! I know you aren’t!”

The prophecy seemed distant and comical, now. But the inevitability of this reality was almost too painful to admit--the fact that despite your pregnancy, he was still unwilling to forgo his stance. The facts were that you would never be with Kylo Ren, he would never know his child, you would never be allowed to have him, and he would never understand your needs.

Dozens, hundreds, thousands of nevers welled in your throat, flooded your eyes, nevers that never should have been, and nevers that never would be. Never whispering his name, never waking up in his arms, never seeing him cradle his child, and never falling asleep next to him in a future where he was your home and your family, a future where you would feel his lips on yours, naked in your shared bed, feeling safe, feeling secure, feeling loved.

Your throat was tight. “I’m… I’m pregnant, Kylo. I don’t want to raise my child in a world where it can’t know choice. I don’t want to fulfill whatever you believe my role is!” Scanning him, you stiffened your jaw, and his fists tightened, his leather gloves squelched. “I want to be with you. I do. But it can’t be like this.” Steel sharpened your tone. “As long as you have Gilead, you’ll never have me.”

You pivoted, stepping toward the back of the bus--but a leather-bound hand grasped your neck and whipped you back, curled you against his chest, a metal muzzle at your face. Frowning, you squirmed, and he halted you with ease, subsuming you in his strength.

“That’s where you’re mistaken.” The sound coming from the mask was not one you recognized. “I already have you.” His free hand skated down your stomach. “I’ve already won.”

“Get off of me, Kylo.” You moved again, but he shook you in his hold.

“You said it yourself,” he replied. “You wanted this. You wanted my child.”

“That doesn’t matter.” Your skin tingled from his proximity, from the electric silk in his voice. “You have my body. That doesn’t mean you have my mind.”

“So you say. Yet you pulled a gun on Pryde. You helped me end his life.” He huffed, a human rumble in his throat. “Who would do that other than someone who wanted what I wanted, too?”

You tried to shake your head, stuck in his grasp. “I don’t want what you want.” Something flickered low in your abdomen. “I don’t want to fulfill a role.”

Kylo shifted, his hand sliding from your neck into your hair, coiling around it. “You already are fulfilling your role.” Every word forced you to resist the urge to whimper. “You want to be mine. And you want it so badly that you’re willing to forsake everything to have it.”

Shame streaked through you, hotter than hell itself, and you cried out, shoving him back, only for him to grapple you and flatten you along the pantry chest first, smothering you, stoking horrified heat under your flesh. He wrenched your arm behind your back with ease, his boots framing your feet, his hips pinning your backside.

“Don’t deny it,” he said. “You know I’m right.”

“No.” Most of you was sure he wasn’t right. But the tiny twinkle that shivered at the thought of forever being his, no matter the cost, agreed. Your chin trembled. “You’re wrong.”

Another rumble, deep in his chest. “Am I?” His pelvis pressed against you. “You’re willing to deceive Johana. Manipulate the Resistance.” One hand wagged your scalp, the other holding your hip as you wiggled under him. “You’re willing to watch others die. You’re even willing to kill.”

“Stop.” You panted, hating the rush of excitement to your thighs, hating that his words were making sense. “That’s not--that’s not how it is.”

“But this is how it works.” A slow exhale left him. “Neither of us have ever had choices. You realize that, now. This is who we’re meant to be.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not.” Kylo’s fingers dug into your hip. “You’re meant to be mine. And I’m meant to own you, to own all of this.” He inhaled, the noise hollow in his helmet. “You’re never escaping me.” His weight compressed you along the cabinet, shortened your breath. “And I’m never letting you leave.”

Terror exploded into wrath. It couldn’t be true. “No!” You writhed underneath him, but he weighed on you like a boulder. “Fuck! Get off of me!”

A low, quiet noise of amusement knocked in his throat. “Poor thing. You want to avoid it. But this is what you want.”

“No, it’s not!”

“It is.” He nuzzled his helmet against your head. “You’re as much me as you ever were. The only difference…” He hummed, hand at your hip massaging the flesh. “I admit who I am.”

Desire thickened your throat, your heart crumpled in despair. How dare he, how dare he make you believe he cared for you--then reveal it was a ploy to land you exactly where he’d wanted. And nothing he said had been wrong. Despite your best intentions, your earnest efforts, there was still no one’s life you cared to save--outside of your own--other than his. You tried to steady your lungs, ignoring the rising urge to have him even closer.

“I know who you are,” you said. “I know you’re better than this.”

“You do?” Kylo Ren snickered. “You’re mistaken, angel. Didn’t you hear what he said?” His muzzle, cold carbon, met your ear. “I’m the devil.”

A surge of lust swirled in your belly, and you screamed, thrashing, trying to throw him off. He ceded an inch, and you shouldered him back, only for him to wrap his hand around your throat and spin you, back smacking the cabinet. One arm framed your head, the other driving into your chest, and you swallowed against him. Scowling, you stared into the empty facade of his mask.

Even in his assuredness, you would never tell him how deep you’d fallen--it was the final thing he couldn’t take. After all, every other line you’d meant to draw had long been washed by the waves of your selfish hunger. Hunger that, even in this moment, barked with greed.

His mask tilted, dipping over your figure--your robe was askew, revealing half of your breast, your stomach peeking through the gap--and his grip on your neck tightened, fuzzing your pulse. Your knees weakened, even as you hoped to raze him to the floor with your eyes. Kylo huffed with restrained excitement.

“Mm. You’re trembling.” His thumb stroked your wild heartbeat. “You’re hot.”

“Fuck you,” you said. “You’re disgusting.”

“Perhaps I am.” The hand above your head slipped under your robe, leather skimming your skin. “But we both know how you love to revel in filth.”

Air caught in your chest--this bastard--you rolled your tongue in your mouth, jaw tense, and you sucked in a breath, spitting a fat glob straight onto his mask.

Kylo hissed, lifting you by the neck until your feet dangled, slamming your skull into the cabinet. You grunted, digging the heels of your palms into his shoulders, kicking his stomach--but he was a mountain, immune to your timid storm. His sheer size neutralized your effort, and he leaned close, flattening you along the pantry, paralyzing your limbs.

“If you know what’s good for you,” he purred, deadly soft in the mask, “you’ll clean that up.”

Hunger wasn’t barking, now. It was howling. And you wanted to stoke its appetite.

“You’re right,” you replied. “How rude of me.”

Smirking, you gathered another wad of spit at the top of your palate--and after a long, obvious scrape of your throat, you hocked it at his eyes.

Hurled through the air, you crashed into the aisle, feeling footsteps quake the floor. You spun onto your ass, scurrying backwards on your palms, Kylo chasing you in long, livid strides. You heaved, heart pounding, crawling until your back connected with a metal frame. One of the beds. Before you could think to dodge, he ripped you up by your hair and onto your knees, slapping you hard across the face.

“Nasty little bitch.” His grip curled at your scalp, his other hand groping his now-obvious arousal. “You must have forgotten what your mouth is for.”

You sneered. “I’m fairly certain it’s for cursing you.”

White pain whacked your cheek, and he shook you back to reality, your vision swimming. He’d undone his belt, and pulled free his angry, erect cock. “Drop your jaw, little bird,” he murmured. “Before I break it off.”

When you hesitated, Kylo drove his thumb into your mouth and hooked it behind your teeth, tugging it down to receive his length. You stared at him, contempt simmering in your eyes, exhilaration careening through your blood. Of course you were infuriated with him, but this only seemed to incense your passion, rather than dampen it--perhaps, in that way, you were like him, too. As his cock slipped over your tongue, you let loose a soft moan, and he released you, allowing you to seal your lips around his thick, heavy shaft.

Both hands shot into your hair, holding you still while he rocked into your mouth, and you hummed, gazing into his visor, wondering what he looked like behind the mask. Your tongue pressed to the underside of his dick, earning a growl from his chest, and he jerked your neck back, sliding in deeper.

“Use your hands,” he said. “Unless you want me to fuck your throat.”

You rolled your eyes--but encircled the base anyway, struggling to fully wrap around his girth. Groaning, your lids fluttered while you drooled onto him, slicking your saliva down his length, bobbing your head while you struggled to keep your attention trained on his face. His cock filled your mouth, the tip poking your soft palate, and you sucked, revealing in his sharp intake of air as you tightened your grip. Even if you never did this again, having him in your mouth was a feeling you’d take to your grave--the hot silk skin at your lips, the pulsing on your tongue, the sore stretch to your jaw--all of it made you throb, made you ache for more.

“Mm, that’s right.” He adjusted his grasp, urging you back and forth on his cock, making you gag. “Much better than hearing you speak.”

Narrowing your lids, you pulled your lips back, letting your teeth catch on his shaft--Kylo grunted and jerked out of you, backhanding you in the jaw. You wailed, your sight spun with pain, but your cunt was soaked, dripping and clenching with your escalating need.

“Fuck y--” you began, before he yanked your head back and shoved his dick down your throat.

You retched, choked, vision flooding with tears, but with him handling your hair like reins, he trapped you there, your mouth a helpless hole for him to fuck. He snapped his hips, his dick bulging in your neck, his breath labored with the pace of his thrusts. Sweat spilled down your back, and you retched again as his cock twitched on your tongue, cranked your jaw wide, plunged in and out of your throat.

“You pretend to fight.” The words were husky under modulation. “But you love it. You’re a slut for my cock.”

Under the noise of your groaned assent, you heard it: beyond the perimeter of the Buzzard, an unmuffled motor, advancing fast. The Knights had arrived. A thrill lit up your spine; perhaps it was the anger with your Commander--a spiteful need to make him jealous--or the fact you were more aroused than you’d been in weeks, but the thought of being caught by them, just like this, flashed fire at your neck and between your legs. You whimpered with anticipation.

But if Kylo had noticed, he didn’t seem to care--he clutched your head, reveling in the wet warmth of your throat as you swallowed around him. Voices echoed in the stark night air outside of the bus, growing closer, and you imagined them seeing you as they walked in fresh from battle: a moaning, wanton whore on her knees, sucking their leader’s cock.

It was too much--your fingers dipped between your legs, and you teased your clit, sobbing in pleasure. Your Commander growled and pulled out, tucking himself away, and you sputtered, both hands bracing the floor while you gulped down oxygen.

“Dirty fucking slut.” He crouched, elbows on his knees, and grabbed your face. “You want them to watch me fuck you.” His thumb traced your swollen lower lip. “Don’t you?”

The doors to the bus opened. And your smirk drew up in a sneer.

“If you think you can handle other men looking at your property.”

Kylo Ren seized you by your hair again. “I can do more than handle it.” Standing, he hoisted you to your feet. “I’ll order it.” He tossed you into the aisle with such force that you stumbled, knees scraping the floor.

The Knights ascended the steps, stopping mid-board. Humiliation scorched your nerves, you strangled a moan at the thought of how you must appear--robe splayed open to reveal your underwear, your face moist, hair mussed--and how obvious it would be to them what you’d just been doing. You swallowed your desire as the half that had climbed onto the bus now stood in silence observing you, a broken-wing bird, at the mercy of her ravenous Commander.

“Get on. Sit down.” Kylo’s voice was eerily calm behind you--the Knights filed in, stuffing themselves together around the tiny table and couch. “This is your entertainment, tonight.” His boots resonated with his approach. “If there’s even an inch of movement toward her, I will bleed you dry on the Buzzard and leave your body for worms.”

They nodded, but did not reply.

“Now.” He wove his fingers through your hair again, and you winced, scalp tender. But he whirled you around anyway, shoving your nose into his crotch. His cock strained against his pants. “Where were we?”

You bit your lip, sliding your hands up his strong thighs. “I don’t remember, Commander.” What you were doing was incredibly devious, and certifiably insane. But the thought of embarrassing him in front of his men was a small salve on your fury. And the temptation of the consequences had your body demanding more. “It must not have been very... impressive.”

Kylo snarled and slammed your back to the weapon cabinet, grinding his covered cock into your face. “What was that?” he said. “Answer carefully.”

Heartbeat in your ears, you mouthed at the fabric of his pants, gazing at him. “I said,” you replied, nuzzling the bulge with your cheek, “that it must not have been very--” you dragged your tongue along the length, “--impressive.”

“Hm.” His hand drifted from your head to your throat. “That’s what I thought.” He clamped down, knocking your skull on the cabinet and compressing your artery, and you wheezed, pressing your thighs together. “Strip.”

You stared into his mask, blood beating at your temples--you wanted to speak, but found no words.

“Hurry,” he said, “before you pass out.” The pressure increased. “Or I’ll have to do it for you.”

Now woozy, the back of your brain dared you to let him do it, but you figured passing out wouldn’t be smart to do while pregnant (getting slapped, thrown, and choked, however, apparently fine). You shuffled your robe down your shoulders, vision blurring while you unlatched the hooks on your bra and shimmied it onto the floor. The last articles were your boots and underwear, which required you to wriggle in his hold, the movement eating the edges of your sight--and then they were gone, and he released you, waiting as you collapsed, naked, against the storage.

The Knights’ heads were aimed toward you--and to your surprise, at least two were already rubbing themselves through their pants. Your cunt pulsed.

“Now.” A gloved hand slid into your hair again, leather tugging at the strands, while his other hand wrestled free his hard cock, the tip gleaming with pre-cum. “Where were we?”

He rammed into your mouth, and you shuddered, ignoring the urge to vomit, your delighted moans hiccuped by the vigor of his strokes. Drool doused your chin, coated your lips, and your bleary focus wandered to his soldiers, one of whom had leaned back, his chest rising, another palming himself faster. They were watching you, watching you get throat-fucked by the man who owned you, watching as you bloomed a film of sweat, watching as you loved it, your pleading, wretched face begging to be abused.

“See how badly they want you,” he muttered. “But you’re mine. It’s all--fuck--all for me…”

Another reminder--Kylo Ren was going to keep you, he did not want to let you go, and would never, ever see you as you saw him--but you ignored it, choosing to suffocate yourself in desire instead, to stave off this stupid fucking reality where you were a stupid fucking slave in stupid fucking love with her stupid fucking Commander.

Eager to dust away the cobwebs of your misery, your hand snuck between your legs, ghosting over your folds to tease your clit, and you groaned, eyes rolling to the back of your head. Kylo snickered.

“Look at you,” he said. “Such a whore for me. Willing to--to make yourself cum in front of a group of masked men.” He jammed his dick deep, pressing your nose to his pubic bone, and you flailed, choking on him. “Is that what you want, slut? For everyone to know what you look like when you cum?”

You tried to nod, or to agree in any way--because yes, fuck yes, you wanted his men to watch you cum for him, to have them envy you and him and have them stroke their cocks and spill their seed while they dreamed of fucking your pussy and--

Perhaps pregnancy hormones were more powerful than you’d initially thought.

Kylo slipped out of you again, and you gasped, panting, wiping the sheen of sweat from your forehead, smearing the spit from your mouth. It had already dribbled onto your tits. Every part of your body felt swollen, and every part of your body wanted release. A leather finger tilted your chin toward his visor.

“Then we’ll make you cum.”

He laid you out on the aisle and spread your legs, and you craned your neck back, meeting a wall of the Knights, seated in a half-circle, all focused on you. You licked your lips, hoping to entice them--and then two gloved fingers pried open your folds, and before you could brace, they drove in, filling your pussy. Crying out, you shivered, clenching around him, hips gyrating to seek more of his touch.

Kylo’s breath quickened, his thumb circled your stiff clit, pleasure sweeping over you, and you twisted your neck, wanting a better view of the front of the bus. One of the Knights was guiding two digits up and down his shaft, another working himself free, the rest now prepping themselves, waiting to touch their cocks. The sight shuddered you, made you writhe, made your core throb and your flesh burn.

“Desperate whore.” He swirled your nub faster--you throttled a moan. “See what I do to you.” His fingers curled and twisted inside of you, petting your walls. “You’re ready to cum for faces you’ve never even seen.”

“Jesus.” Three of the Knights were stroking themselves, now, one of them fully fisting his shaft, pumping it in rhythm with Kylo’s hand. Heat blazed your thighs, forcing you toward ecstasy. “Fuck. Commander…”

Kylo grunted, a needy noise in his throat. “There we go,” he said. “Who else can make you cum like this?” He snapped his wrist, a third gloved finger pushing inside of you, his thumb tracing your clit, and you whined, back arching, air cycling faster in your lungs. “Tell me you want to stay.” You heard a soft shuffle beyond your waist--you knew he was jerking off. “Tell me, and I’ll let you cum.”

Flames flicked your neck, ire popping your bubble of bliss. Did he think he was winning? You swiveled to meet his vacant gaze. “I can cum whenever I want.”

Switching motions, he scissored you wide, drawing zig-zags on your throbbing clit. “Don’t test me.”

You snarled and rolled, his hand pulling out when you staggered to your feet. It didn’t matter, in that moment, that you were naked and he had the capability to pulverize you under his heel--you wanted to piss him off, wanted him to feel even a fraction of the frustration that you felt, wanted him to destroy you as desperately as you wanted to destroy him.

Kylo stood, his arm shooting toward you, and you slapped him away, spitting at him again--he snagged your wrist and thwacked your cheek, and you howled, daggering your knee into his thigh. A feral noise tore through the mask; he clasped the back of your neck, lifting and smashing you into the weapons cabinet, massive chest pinning you there.

“Get off!” You pounded your fist into the helmet, pain echoing to your elbow. “Fuck!”

He grunted, collected your wrists in one hand and pinned them above your head, the other shoving two fingers into your mouth until he reached the back of your tongue. “Be good,” he said, “or I’ll do whatever I need to do to make you.”

You leered at him, steeled your jaw, and bit down on his hand.

Before you could breathe, that hand crushed your throat, and he knocked your thighs apart with his knee, impaling your cunt on his cock. He drove into the hilt with a growl, and you sobbed in pleasure-pain against his grip, a sharp sting, your pussy stretching for his thick, hard length. Kylo pumped into you, ruthless, primal, his chest swelling with rapid air, as if he was possessed, every thrust pushing shaky noise from your lungs.

“That’s right.” His hips collided with yours, thumb toying with your pulse, his voice ragged with desire. “Now you’ll behave, won’t you?”

Whimpering, you gasped, the unsteady bloodflow buzzing your lips and cheeks. He flattened your wrists to the cabinet, grinding your joints to the aluminum, his weight compressing your ribcage, his strength holding you still. The drag of his dick inside of you was enough to make you wail, but the ferocity, the animalistic savagery in his thrusts had your cunt throbbing, spasming, ready to cum without him touching your clit. In seconds, he’d tamed you, drenched you in sweat, submerged you in ecstasy, dangling you at the edge of submitting to his authority.

Kylo eased off your neck. “Look at them.”

Straining, trembling, you did--and met six men, all huffing, all enraptured. Two had stood, hunched as they stroked their cocks, others leaned back, fucking into their fists, another one trailing his palm up and down his shaft. You ruptured with lust and groaned in satisfaction, throwing your legs around Kylo’s waist, taking the brunt of his fast, vicious thrusts.

“Fuck, yes.” He brutalized your cunt, hammering into it. “They want you. They want what I have.” Like a spark, you felt it--his gaze meeting yours from behind the mask. "They envy me. Am I not enough?”

You wheezed, drawing in quickened air. “N-no,” you said. “And you--you alone n-never will be.”

His fingers bit your flesh--he lifted you from the wall, supporting your ass and cradling your skull before he crushed you onto the aisle, sliding his cock deep into your wet cunt. Kylo hissed in pleasure as you sheathed him to the base, gliding out and driving in, skin smacking while he tugged you into his heaving, rabid frame.

“Fucking whore,” he muttered, burying the muzzle of his mask in your neck. “Why do you want to leave?” The words were pins through his teeth. “Why do you always want to leave?”

You wanted to respond, but the pace of his hips stole your breath, your words, your jaw dropped with pathetic whines. All you could do was let him fuck you into the floor, body bouncing with his force, elated to exist as a loyal, greedy hole.

“I’m going to destroy you,” he growled. “I’m going to split this pussy wide, and I’m going to pump you full of cum.” He groaned, shivering from his own words. “And when I’m done, my men will cover you in it, bathe you in it--fuck--like the filthy, vile slut you are.” The hand at your head grasped your hair, scraped your scalp, the other slipping between your legs, expertly rubbing the engorged bundle of nerves. “Now beg to cum.”

“God!” You squirmed in delight, orgasm swelling inside of you, begging to gush out over your flesh. But you wanted, needed just a little, tiny bit more. “Fuck you!”

Kylo leaned up, bolted one hand to your waist, while the other reeled back and cracked you like lightning across the face--your mind went black, your eyes went white, and inside of your mouth, your teeth went red.

“Beg for it!” He pummeled your pussy, stroking your clit, jerking you into each snap of his hips. “Fucking beg!”

“Christ!” At the edge of your sight, you could see the Knights, their cocks pink and throbbing, all ready to cum, all ready to shower you with it. “Please, please Commander, please make me cum!”

His hand shifted, a gloved seam skated your nub--you shattered, back lifting from the aisle, limbs trembling as euphoria burst into your blood. The pain, the violence, the passion, all of it needled into your climax, stretching it through your skin, crumbling into powerful aftershocks as Kylo pounded you through it. Then his hips stuttered, a low, bellowing sound escaping his mask; he thrust once, twice, three times, cock twitching at your core as he came, spilling his seed inside.

Through his panting breath, he pulled out, barked an order. “Cum on her face. Paint her like a whore deserves.”

Still floating to reality, your gaze strayed from the floor, only to be met with six men tromping to encircle you, jerking their dicks with feverish focus. You blinked, whined, biting your lip--and they broke, cursing and choking in bliss as they splattered your face with load after load of cum. Hot, sticky streams roped over your forehead, your nose, your mouth, a particularly hard shot splashing down your neck and across your tits. They gasped as their climaxes left them, cocks bobbing with the tail-ends of pleasure, viscous drops dripping onto your skin.

With the final adornment of seed, they collected themselves, muttering under their masks--likely for their own benefit, rather than yours--as they tucked themselves away and meandered back to the front. In the death throes of your exhibition, you were quaking, overcome with a sudden, desperate need to sleep. Your mind plummeted into a hole, exhaustion overcoming you, actual, real-life ramifications trickling into your consciousness.

Your scalp throbbed, your face burned, you ached at every exposed joint. You swallowed--your mouth had bled, too, a bit. Making to move, you winced, finding it too difficult, resigning yourself to curl up on the Buzzard’s floor. To any observer--and perhaps, in a way, even to you--Kylo Ren had just beaten and fucked the shit out of you. And yet you couldn’t imagine, in just this single moment, being any more sated or satisfied.

Large leather hands lifting you up tore you from your reverie, and you grunted out a sigh, adjusting as your Commander gathered you in his arms. The latent pain in your heart rejected this--you didn’t want his faux-affection, didn’t want him to pretend he cared. Not when you knew he refused to let you go.

Yet you could barely summon the energy to move yourself, and the drying globs of cum were wearing out their novelty. So you relaxed, plopping your head onto his shoulder.

Kylo carried you to one of the beds and sat, supporting you on his lap, shifting until his back was along the wall and your legs splayed over the mattress. He grabbed a towel that was folded over the bunk divider and wiped you clean, guiding the thin cloth over your semen-stained face. The movements were slow, tentative, swiping away the drool, sweat and cum, pausing when he passed a tender point of tissue. His breath was steady and even, the mask offering you nothing but an empty, vacant, stare.

Kylo Ren’s eyes had been the only way you had been able to know, or begin to guess, what was rolling through his mind. Now they were shielded, a barrier cleaving your connection in half. And denied his eyes, you were blinded, blinded from hope and joy and the open door to shared escape, left with a mockery of the man you knew.

You were going to fight the tears--there would be no crying now, not tonight or in future nights, for someone who did not want to see you free. But his strength was soothing, his hands a comfort, his presence more intoxicating than any other substance you’d known. He maddened you, pitted you, shimmered in your mind like a faraway star; he was your monster and your warrior, the eye of his own typhoon.

Every thread of your being was sewn irrevocably into his skin. And you when you shredded them clean, the both of you would bleed, pouring from patterned holes until you drowned in the pools of your own foolish dream.

Once he was finished, he sighed, that knife-stare slitting through you a final time before he rolled you off of his lap, leaving the bed while he guided you onto the mattress. You laid there, gazing at him in the dim bus light, one thousand heartbeats in your flesh. Kylo stepped away to grab your robe, and then returned, draping it over your tired frame before stopping to stare again. You wished he would hold you. You knew that he couldn’t.

“You’re not keeping me,” you whispered, “or our child.” You met his invisible eyes, unafraid. “I’m going to find a way to leave.”

Kylo tilted his head and crouched low, tucking away a lock of hair that had stuck to your forehead. He studied you, cupped your cheek in his palm, thumb caressing the bone, before releasing you, rising to his feet.

“We’ll see, little bird.” His voice was quiet, wickedly certain. “We’ll see.”

As he returned to the front, your lids fluttered shut, the night sweeping you into its embrace. Your cheek tingled, glittering with the ghost of his affection, your mouth fighting the smile that was sneaking onto your face.

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo trash #little bird #fanfiction problems #handmaid au #tw: violence #tw: dubious consent

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sedge-and-sanctuary · 4 years ago

Text

Sanctuary Pack Stories: The Loner

A story from year seven. After being scattered in the escape from human hunters, the pack is finally ready to go back home. Chicory is reunited with a figure from her past.

"And she still had the gun- I guess I was pretty worried about that- but Uno had the idea to--"

Chicory raises her muzzle, cutting Verand short. "You're limping again."

And Verand's head hunches into an expression so obviously and immediately guilty that Chicory has to bite back a laugh, fighting to keep her face stern. "I've been doing the stretches you told me, you can ask Kit--"

"Like he'd tell me the truth." Chicory snorts. "Slow down-- you don't need to go leaping ten strides ahead. The pack'll hardly leave without us."

"But--" Verand blows out a sigh. "They're just ahead, Chicory. And I swear it isn't sore at all!" She lifts the bad leg to demonstrate, stretching it out ahead in an exaggerated step.

"Hm," Chicory says.

This time, she has to hide a frown.

Verand's range of motion is pretty bad; no sign of stiffness or pain in her body language, but she can't get the leg very high off the ground. Probably she'll be limping on it the rest of her life.

"Fine. Go on then."

And Verand straightens at once, surprise and delight all over her face her face, open and obvious as tansy in bloom.

"It's this way!" She calls, already disappearing through the trees. Her tail wags behind her like a flag, waving them on.

She's a good kid. And she'll be struggling with that leg the rest of her life. Because Chicory hadn't kept her back when she should have. Because she hadn’t been nearly the doctor she should have been.

Probably get worse when she's older, too, she thinks, bitter, and pads on after Verand.

The Sanctuary Pack has been almost a year without a home, scattered wide across unfamiliar territory, fleeing for their lives through baking summer, muddy fall, bitter winter.

And now the spring unfurls before them, thin and cold, with snow still clinging stubborn in the shade.

So their territory is safe again. So they'll all be reunited. So she'll see Radun, again.

Chicory snorts. Looks up. The sky, a chilly dove's-wing gray, is threatening rain.

And wouldn't that be just her luck.

"Verand!"

A voice through the trees- high and clear, Chicory can't quite place it- and Verand, ahead of her, gives a joyful bark and bounds forward, oblivious to Chicory's censure.

She hurtles into a dark, slim wolf- Uno, it must be- and the two go rolling head-over-hocks through the muddy undergrowth, tails wagging fit to stir up a storm.

The wind, shifting, carries the mingled scents of many wolves towards them; the pack, at last.

Chicory lifts her nose, testing the air; no hint of sickness she can detect. No stink of infection, no rotting sweetness.

"Chicory." A low voice-- she turns, and Kit- a big, square young wolf- pads up to stand beside her.

"Yes?"

"Is everyone... alright? In your group?" Something hangs a little sad and serious hanging around his eyes, the way mist will cling to water.

"They'll take some feeding up." Chicory shrugs. "But well enough, I guess. Considering."

"That's good." His eyes keep sliding away from Chicory's, watching his friends play sidelong, so obviously hangdog it's nearly literal, his head drooping low.

Chicory softens- just a little, mind you- and gestures towards Verand and Uno. "Pull those two wolverines apart, would you? I'm sure I can find my own way."

He doesn't need much more convincing. As Chicory walks on, his voice joins theirs; a low and rumbling counterpoint, and warm as the thaw.

Chicory fluffs her fur against the wind, scowling. If the thaw ever comes.

She picks her way onwards, cold mud squelching unpleasantly between her toes.

Is thinking, they better have picked a drier spot to camp, when she comes through a break in the trees, and there is all of Sanctuary, gathered up and waiting.

Finch is fussing over the pups, Maize laid out in a sunbeam watching him, panting a little in that wheezy, painful way- can't Eight look after her patients when Chicory isn't around?- and a couple of scouts are straggling in: Dace and Rover, muddy but apparently satisfied.

Rover splits off immediately, to look for Seven, the two old wolves gray around their muzzles, speaking too low for Chicory to hear above the general babble of voices, and Chicory watches them-- watches all of them-- and feels some foolish, unwanted warmth bubbling up like water in a hot spring, something nearly scalding, too strong, too hot to hold in her, too much--

And there is Radun, too, looking up, the first wolf out of all of them to notice Chicory standing there.

And she is just-- standing there. Rooted to the spot by that wave of feeling, blindsided, just by seeing all of them, together and safe again. She’s going soft, probably. Can’t bring herself to care too much.

So she only stands and watches as Radun gets up, and walks across the clearing to greet her.

"Chicory. You look very well." Her voice musical and strangely deep, that odd formality. When she dips her head, low, in greeting, even their poor thin sun cannot help but catch the highlights of her rich, golden fur.

Chicory clears her throat, and clears it again. "You too," she says, stiff. "It's-- good to see you again. Been a while."

Radun straightens. "It has." A pause. "Is Verand--"

Of course-- that's why she'd come up to say hello. Chicory shakes herself, feeling foolish.

"Right behind me. Got caught up with Kit and Uno."

"I see." A pause. Radun shifts from paw to paw, evidently restless. "And is she--"

"She's alright. Favouring the leg a little, is all." I wish I had better news to give you.

"Good. That's good to hear." She clears her throat. Looks over Chicory's shoulder, something stiff in her face, her posture. "I-- thank you very much for indulging my worry. It means a great deal."

"Not a problem." Chicory fights back the horrible honeycomb-feeling bubbling up in her chest, airy and stinging and sweet at her words.

She's only being polite, she's always polite.

They hesitate for another moment, Radun still not quite meeting Chicory's eyes. Watching for her sister, probably, but too polite to go.

"I should go check in with Dace," Chicory should say. Give her an excuse.

Says, instead, "how've you been keeping, then?"

And Radun looks up, almost startled, right at Chicory, at last, something deep and warm in her tawny eyes, something almost…

"I've been well," she says, "very well, under the circumstances. Thank you. I--"

And Chicory looks away, unable to bear it, looks past Radun's shoulder just to-- settle her nerves, her damn idiot nerves, getting excited over nothing--

And all the heat goes out of the world, just like that. Like the sun's been swallowed up, like the seasons are turning backwards.

Eight is chatting with a patient, in the shadow of an oak; she hadn't seen them, when she'd first arrived, tucked away in the shade. And her patient-- a newcomer. Not of The Pack-- a gray wolf, huge out of all proportion, built broad and strong, and his eyes glitter with a sort of watchful, foxlike intelligence.

Chicory knows him, immediately.

Something must show on her face-- Radun ducks her head again. "My apologies. I've taken up too much of your time."

"No," Chicory starts to say, don't worry about it, no, you haven't, but she's turning already, and leaving Chicory with--

With him.

Jumps For Clouds watches Radun as she passes. Looks back along her path to spot Chicory, and the thoughts flicker, visibly, across his narrow face; surprise, at first, with understanding coming snapping at its heels.

He turns, and says something in Eight's ear. She looks up, surprised.

Together, they get up, and start towards her.

Chicory skirts the edge of the camp to meet them. Wants this conversation happening as far from the rest of the pack as possible. If her secrets must come out-- well. She supposes they'll all learn of it, eventually. Probably foolish, trying to draw it out.

She ducks her head away, as Eight and Jumper get near, some great weight pulling her down towards the earth.

"Chicory!" Eight says, "I'm glad to see you back. This is--"

"Jumps For Clouds," Jumper says, smoothly. "But you can call me Jumper. A pleasure."

Chicory looks up, slowly. "--Chicory," she says. "It's-- nice to meet you."

He nods, amiably, face open and friendly. "Now-- I understand you're this pack's other healer?"

"I am." No sense denying it. But telling him anything makes Chicory's fur itch. He remembers her-- he must remember her. He's just got some... angle, is what it is.

He'd always had some sort of angle.

"I thought so. You know, you just seem like a healer to me. Even kinda look like one I used to know."

"I guess there's sort of a-- common look," Eight offers, a note of uncertainty creeping into her voice.

"Sure," Chicory says, stiff. "It's the hunchback."

Jumper laughs, over-loud. "Well, see, I knew someone in this pack had to have a sense of humour! Listen--" he turns to Eight, apologetic. "Listen, do you mind if I have her take a look? I really do feel--"

Eight stiffens, a little, but nods. "It can never hurt to get a second opinion."

"I thank you." Jumper dips his head. "Listen- Chicory, was it? Chicory, I swear I'm feeling under the weather, but the lovely miss Eight here says she can't find anything wrong. Would you mind..."

"Of course not." The words are stiff in her mouth, bitter. "Eight, I can take it from here."

Eight hesitates, frowning. "Are you sure? I have his history, I can--"

"I can ask him." Chicory looks over her shoulder-- back towards Dace, settling down to a meal. "I'm sure you've got other things to do."

Eight follows her eyes, visibly brightens. "Well," she says, with badly-feigned reluctance."If you're really sure--"

And at Chicory's nod, she sets off towards Dace at a barely-restrained trot, affection coming off her so palpable you could nearly see it.

Chicory watches her go, a bitter taste in her mouth.

"Well, who'd've thought you'd learn to manage people," Jumper says, voice light. "Wasn't the most subtle job I've ever seen, but--"

Chicory looks at him. "Jumper."

He tips his head in greeting. "Chews on Chicory," he says. "Fancy finding you here." Something thoughtful in his tone.

"What do you want?"

"Want?" He looks hurt. "Shelter, Chicory, a little help! You know, my own pack's fallen to war. Horrible tragedy."

"It has?" Chicory blinks. So the Pack At High Mountain was gone. "I had no idea--"

"Oh,” Jumper says, smooth as ice. “ I think you had some.”

Chicory looks at him. Feels a sort of frost creeping over her, inexorable, cold vertebrae-by-vertebrae along her spine.

"Of course," he goes on, "I might be mistaken. A common look, right? I might never have met you at all, before today."

Chicory doesn't respond. Doesn't know how to.

The pack had fallen-- how many wolves lost to the fighting, then? How many that she might have saved, if she were there?

"Listen, all I'm asking is a little-- a little healing. Your hunter, Rime, she wants me out with her team, but I'm sure I'm feeling under the weather. I should be getting my beauty rest, not getting myself all-- worn out and cut up hunting. Wouldn't you agree?"

Chicory meets his eyes, for a long moment. A more evidently strong, healthy young wolf she's never seen.

As if from an enormous distance, the warm, familiar sounds of the pack filter towards them-- the excited chatter of the puppies, the easy ribbing of a group of hunters setting out. How long has she been with this pack-- two years, three?

Good years-- good wolves.

"I just need the good opinion of a healer," Jumper says. "That's all."

Chicory ducks her head, guilt in her heavy as a stone.

"Of course," she says, at last. "Come with me."

#wolvden #the sanctuary pack #well. this one is a bit all over the place lmao #just kinda wanted to give an overview of what the pack was like around this point so it's a bit scattershot lol.#chicory #jumper #verand #radun #year seven #pack stories #jumper sucks so much and i love him #written for a loreclan prompt contest!

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tyrannoninja · 4 years ago

Text

Dribble Like Me

The sunset lent a warm, almost cozy glow to the stacks of scarlet-washed terraces that supported the buildings of Mutul. The city was stuffed with more pyramids than any place Neith-Ka recalled from her native Khamit. Her people might have buried their Pharaohs in monuments of equal or even more mountainous scale, but these peculiar Mayabans laid every one of their structures on top of stepped pyramids, none less than two stories high. Everyone had to hike up a succession of stone stairs to reach the summit.

Neith-Ka shook her foot to dull the pain chewing away at her tendons. Already, the woven papyrus of her sandals had started to splinter apart from wear. The Khamitan people may have taken pride in the grandeur of their monuments, but never would their architects dare subject anyone to so many tortuous steps. You weren’t even supposed to climb the royal tombs back home.

Huya, Neith-Ka’s high steward, clicked his tongue with a frown. “You could feign a good attitude, Your Highness.”

Neith-Ka drew in a deep breath through her nostrils. “I’ve done my best. Please show some understanding.”

“I saw you pouting. And, I swear by the scales of Ma’at, I heard you mutter a curse while shaking that leg. You don’t seem to remember that you’re representing your father, your family, and all the Black Land here, princess. I’ll see no more lip from you tonight!”

With another inhalation, Neith-Ka straightened up and nodded to her steward. As he and their entourage of guards and servants marched up yet another ramp of steps, she huddled close behind while keeping her focus on their destination. Looking back down the pyramid’s height only intimidated her further. Even more so with the lighter brown locals crowding behind her, fixing upon her the gawks of strangers who had never seen a dark-skinned person their entire lives.

The lip of the stairway connected to a platform that supported a ring of rectangular buildings around a courtyard, all plastered with a blazing red base. Yet these were not monochrome edifices. Elaborate reliefs of jade-plumed gods were mounted on its walls and over its doorways, along with snarling gold leopards (or were those called jaguars here?), and strings of complicated square images that constituted the Mayaban culture’s written language.

Neith-Ka had heard foreigners complain that Khamit’s hieroglyphs were impossible to read. Yet no mortal could possibly even draw their Mayabic equivalents!

From one short, wide building at the far end of the complex, a faint yet spicy odor floated, its thin trails of steam snaking out from tiny windows in the walls towards the left edge. Dark green curtains, splashed with reds, golds, and purples, hung behind the gallery of square columns that supported the remainder of the building’s length. Standing in front were a pair of native guards, stocky men in padded cotton vests who parted their obsidian-fringed spears upon noticing the Khamitans’ arrival.

Huya bowed at the waist to both guards. “Excuse me, my good man, but where would His Majesty the Ahau and his family be?”

“Already inside, waiting with as much patience as they’ve got,” one of the guards said.

The second glanced at Neith-Ka from the corner of his eye. “And you’re the one he’s waiting on, I presume. Not so ugly as far as your kind goes, if a bit overcooked. I’d advise you to stay clear of his youngest daughter.”

Neith-Ka gave him a subtle smile to hide the prickling sensation that crept up her back. “I’ll…uh, keep that in mind…my undercooked friend.”

“Princess! What did I say?” Huya hammered the butt of his high steward’s staff twice on the stone pavement.

“Aw, give your woman a pass,” the first guard said. “She was only telling my friend to show more hospitality. Right, Yaxkin?”

After strutting away from the two guards as they argued in the Mayabic language, Neith-Ka plunged herself through the curtains and into the royal dining hall.

All chatter within the dining hall halted when she stepped inside.

Two circles of people were already congregated at opposite ends of the space, enclosed by the curtains and columns. To the right, all women and girls sat on pillows fringed with blue and scarlet macaw feathers, whereas to the left, the men sat around a stone platform tapered like a miniature pyramid. Both parties stared at Neith-Ka with slackened jaws and silence, a few of the men’s eyes glinting with that all-too-familiar male emotion.

She gave a nervous chuckle with a retreat towards the curtains, an uncomfortable warmth blushing within her cheeks. “Did I interrupt something?”

On the leftward pyramidal platform sat a short man whose physique seemed much too gaunt to support his towering crown of deep green and red plumes, or even his necklaces and bracelets of gold, jade, and animal fangs. He raised a drinking cup of red clay and gave Neith-Ka a smile, as dark brown liquid dripped from his thin, wrinkled lips.

“No, no, we’re more than thankful to see you so soon, daughter of Amenhotep,” the bedecked old man said. “No need to worry yourself with formalities tonight.”

His ensuing belch rumbled between the columns.

Neith-Ka raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the Ahau of Mutul?”

“Call me B’alaj. It’ll be easier on your tongue than all my titles. Now, before you indulge yourself in the finest cuisine of any of the Mayaban cities, I owe you my thanks for all that treasure you sent us. Mountains of ivory, ebony furniture, all those exquisite animal hides—even though, I daresay, your jaguars are rather dwarfish compared to ours—and then all the gold, copper, bronze…you Khamitans sure know how to buy yourselves a trade deal.”

Huya, who had already entered with the rest of the Khamitans flanking him, bowed to the Ahau at the waist. “Glad to hear you appreciate our tribute, Ahau B’alaj.”

The Ahau extended his arm to the low table-like platform that sprawled over the central third of the hall, cloaked with jaguar hides held down by flickering gourd candles at the corners and a vast, jumbled array of bowls and baskets holding food. “Help yourselves. Your hunger’s the limit. Though I say, the tamales and the chocolate are the best.”

Neith-Ka had not come to the banquet with a bottomless stomach, but the variety of delicacies on display would have boggled even her father’s best cooks in Khamit. The various bowls held piles of multicolored beans, bulbs of squash, slender red peppers, and a lumpy paste that gave off the scent of avocado. In the baskets were stacks of thin yellow flatbreads, tropical fruits collected from the rainforest beyond the city, and cobs of maize scaled blue, red, and yellow. Roasted hunks of turkey, venison, fish, and even dog meat rested on the platters, and a fat pitcher streamed out a tendril of steam from its spout. Next to it sat a pile of folded corn husks stuffed with chili and some sort of dough.

After gathering a couple tamales for her plate, Neith-Ka poured herself a cup from the pitcher. What came out was a liquid the color of coffee from the kingdom of Habesha (which bordered Khamit on the southeast), only thicker and frothier. “I guess this is your chocolate?”

B’alaj raised his cup again. “The beverage of royalty such as yourself, daughter of Amenhotep!”

Neith-Ka took her cup and tamales to the side of the room, where the women of the Ahau’s family dined. They shoved themselves aside to give her a wider berth before she had even taken her own seat. None could take their eyes off their Khamitian guest, even if they murmured unintelligible gossip from the corners of their mouths.There was no point in calling them out on it, she thought, and not only because it would embarrass her entire civilization before the people of Mutul. As Neith-Ka and the Khamitians always said back home, those who hate would always hate.

She took a sip of the chocolate drink and grimaced, daring not to spit it out. It tasted every bit as bitter as the Habeshan coffee, except the Habeshans at least had milk and honey to improve the flavor. If only these Mayabans had the same!

“It’s an acquired taste, I know,” one of the Mayaban ladies said. “You’ll warm up to it later.”

Neith-Ka nodded as she took a second, longer sip. It pleased her no more than the first. “I’ll go look for some water next.”

Between two portly middle-aged women, the petite hand of a girl no older than six popped out. “Why do you not like chocolate? Aren’t you Khamitans all covered in it?”

It was time to take another deep breath. Neith-Ka scooted herself a hand’s span further away from where the child sat, and then pinched the skin of her own arm. “We don’t paint ourselves with your chocolate, little one. It’s our natural color, see here? Am I to assume that your people paint yourselves bronze?”

“Don’t get too mad at my little Itzel,” the elder of the two women next to the girl said. “She won’t bite. She simply hasn’t grown out of her…mischievous streak yet. We’ve all been there at her age, haven’t we?”

Neith-Ka grumbled. “Fair enough. Though if we’re going to comment on each other’s appearances, I must say I like how your nose plugs looks. Are they green malachite?”

“Why, thank you, but they’re plain old jade. I don’t even know what that stuff you call malachite is. You yourself have some exquisite gold on you, not to mention that seductive black eyeliner.”

“You mean the black kohl? It’s not supposed to be ‘seductive’. It helps protect our eyes from the desert sun’s glare and disease—”

Something tugged onto Neith-Ka’s braided hair.

She turned. Nobody was behind her. “Who was that?”

The Mayaban women responded with blank, blinking looks. Neith-Ka noticed that the girl Itzel had disappeared beside her mother.

A second, stronger yank on Neith-Ka’s hair almost uprooted it from her scalp. With a shrill yelp, she spun back and clasped her fingers on a small wrist. Itzel giggled without fear or regret.

“All you foreigners think it’s funny to touch our hair without asking, don’t you?” Neith-Ka asked.

“All my friends tell me your hairstyles are all fake,” Itzel said. “They tell me you women from Khamit always wear weaves because you don’t like how kinky and frizzy your natural hair is.”

Neith-Ka tightened her grip on the girl’s hand to the point where she could feel the bones beneath the skin. She snarled, baring her teeth. “You mean wigs. And we only wear those after we shave for special occasions. The rest of the year, we’re as proud of our natural hair as any other women, and I won’t let a puny Mayaban brat like you tell me any different!”

The child squirmed and wriggled her arm with a piercing squeal shriller than a chimpanzee’s angry screech. “You can’t be mean like this to me, you nasty Khamitan woman! My father is the Ahau!”

“I don’t care if your father was none other than Amun’Ra in the flesh! Say sorry or I will rip you apart!”

Instead, the girl chomped Neith-Ka’s arm. Blood trickled where the tiny teeth punctured her flesh, while the girl scurried back to her mother.

A high steward’s staff banged on the floor, twice, as two shadows loomed over Neith-Ka. She shrank like a child before Huya and the Ahau B’alaj, both of whom glared down at her with the stern intensity of scolding parents. B’alaj’s face darkened into a reddish hue not unlike the plastered masonry around them.

The Ahau clenched his hand into a fist, one finger thrust down at Neith-Ka. “You do not threaten my Itzel like that. You do not threaten any of my children like that. I thought myself generous and forgiving to you, but you showed me my error in ever trusting your kind!”

“You see what you did there, young one?” Huya said. “I told you to represent our nation the best you could. You couldn’t even do that.”

Neith-Ka trembled, buckling under the crushing mass of shame these two men had thrown onto her—together with her own sizzling anger. “You think I’m at fault here? Listen, O Ahau of Mutul, you need to teach your children, and even many of your grown-up subjects, some basic respect for my people. Did you even hear what your daughter said to me?”

The Ahau shook his head with crossed arms. “She is only a child! You threatened to tear her into pieces, all for the ignorance every child is born with. And, since you talk of respect, remember that you are in my city, in the land of Mayab. You’d do well to respect your hosts.”

“And they would do well to respect their guests. It should go both ways!”

Huya’s features softened as he sighed. “In all honesty, the daughter of my Pharaoh raises a good point. This has all been a misunderstanding, O Ahau. How about both parties apologize to one another, make amends, and put this little altercation all behind us?”

B’alaj rubbed his hand over the graying hair that flowed below his headdress, humming in thought. His frown rose up into a grin, but his eyes did not lose their malevolent glimmer in the least. “I did have plans to entertain you with some sports next morning. How about…letting your princess play a little game of ball with us?”

Neith-Ka laughed, casting a glance at her guards, part of her visiting entourage. “You mean me and my men against yours?”

“Oh, no. You, alone, against my best team. You have played ball before, haven’t you?”

Not even the muggy warmth of the tropical night could melt the icy chill that ran up Neith-Ka’s spine. She would not dare reveal it before this audience. “Of course. My sisters and I would chase each other around our palace with a warthog’s bladder filled with—”

“Pig’s bladder? That’s all? We’ll see how you fare with a real ball, then. If you, by the mercy of fate, were to win, I will pardon you for everything. Lose, and I shall deal with you as I would anyone else who has struck one of my family. In which case, please send my greetings down to the Twelve Lords of Xibalba.”

Huya turned to wedge himself between Neith-ka and the Ahau. “What? You can’t do that! She’s the daughter of our Pharaoh. That would amount to an act of war!”

“This is Mutul, and I am the Ahau. I may treat your Pharaoh’s daughter however I see fit!”

Every note of the Ahau’s croaking cackle sent a shiver pulsing through Neith-Ka’s flesh. Whomever those Twelve Lords of Xibalba were, they sounded like demons in the underworld. She doubted the Mayabans would even bother to preserve her body for that meeting.

The whimpering cry of a child moaned like an undercurrent beneath the rest of the commotion. Hugging her mother’s plump arm, little Itzel peeked back at Neith-Ka with cheeks still shimmering wet with tears.

“I’m sorry,” the girl’s lips spelled out.

A dense low mist swamped the tight alleyway that ran between two blood-red walls, each towering straight and vertical on top of the sloped terrace at their base. Already the moisture floating in the air, together with her own perspiration, had soaked the fringes of the band of cloth Neith-Ka had wrapped and tied around her braids. It sharpened the cold tingle sweeping down her skin as she treaded down the alleyway, the dark-stained pavement stabbing her feet with stray particles of grit.

Her sandals, already worn beyond usefulness, had gone missing that morning. That only layered a stinging insult over her fear and shame.

Each of the two walls beside the court had a stout pyramid adjoining it from behind, with people filing out from its summit shrine to stand over the wall’s upper edges. Gazing down from atop the left wall were Huya and the remainder of the Khamitan envoy, the guards holding their spears and cowhide shields while the servant women murmured nervous prayers. On the right wall were the nobility of Mutul, who parted to make way for their swaggering Ahau B’alaj.

He held between his hands a ball of dark gray rubber. “Welcome to our royal ball court, daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep of Khamit. In a moment, you’ll be introduced to your opponents, none other than the finest players in all Mayab—though I may be biased in that regard… Ooh, what’s that? They’re already here!”

They emerged first as a line of hulking shadows in the mist, pushing it aside like buffaloes through reeds until they met Neith-Ka in the middle of the pinched court. Padded bands of cotton covered the men’s torsos, knees, and elbows, accentuating their already thickset forms. All wore helmets of shaggy, dark reddish-brown hair shorn from the scalps of Mayaban jungle bison, the centermost player wearing the animal’s arching horns atop his helmet. He ran his eyes up and down Neith-Ka with either a sneer or a leer. Or both. “You going to play against us in that puny linen tunic, woman?”

She could not deny the validity of his argument. Neither could she betray her resentment at the Ahau for not providing her with armor of her own. Not in front of this human gorilla. “I happen to think what I got suits my svelte curves better. As for you, big boy…all your curves go out instead of in.”

B’alaj laughed. “Khamitan or Mayaban, women will always be too vain to save themselves. These would be the Mutul Bison, our champions. It’ll be you against them, girl.”

He turned his head to face a third, even higher wall on the far end of the court, a vertical gold hood gleaming near its lip at the center. “There will be eight rounds, each ending when either team passes the ball through that hoop. The team with the most hoops after round ten wins. Play ball!”

With the hoarse blare of a conch trumpet, B’alaj tossed the ball high into the air. It shrank into a tiny dot within the sky before plummeting from its zenith, whistling through the wind as it swelled to the size of Neith-Ka’s skull.

Kicking herself up, she caught the ball between her fingers.

The Ahau puffed high-pitched notes through his conch twice. “One more rule I forgot to mention, my Khamitan guest. Never touch the ball with your fingers or palms, nor with toes or soles. Throw it up again.”

Shaking her disbelief away, Neith-Ka complied. She lowered herself to the court’s floor with clenched hands, keeping her eyes focused on the descending ball.

The leader of Mutul Bison beat her to it. With his elbow, he batted it towards one of his teammates. Neith-Ka leaped to intercept it, but a third player bumped her off course with his shoulder. She skidded over the court floor, the grit raking down her skin, until she crashed into the left wall. Her own followers hollered with horror while the Ahau and his nobles hooted with glee on the opposite wall.

Neith-Ka staggered up to find the Bison gathered farther away, below the hoop on the far wall. Their horn-helmeted leader had already knee-kicked the ball through it.

The conch screeched again. “Round one for the Bison!”

Neith-Ka fluttered her eyelids. She had only touched the ball once, and already these overgrown barbarians were on their way to beating her.

In a flash, the world turned dark gray before her. Firm rubber rammed onto her brow, flinging out white sparks.

Her vision cleared to show the Bison passing the ball between themselves with their elbows, shoulders, knees, and hips. So that was how these Mayaban players could move it around without palms or feet! How did the Ahau expect one princess from across the Western Ocean to match his best team?

He hadn’t expected that. He would never have arranged this ordeal if he had.

“Round two to the Bisons! C’mon, princess of Khamit, even you can do better than that. Right?”

The ball hopped back towards Neith-Ka. She did not miss this time. With one swat of her forearm, she redirected it to the left wall. It was now her entourage’s turn to hoot, the Khamitan guards pounding their spears on the stone alongside Huya with his staff.

Their jubilee halted once an opposing player claimed the ball with a strike of his shin. More passing between the Mutul Bison led right up to the hoop again, and B’alaj announced a third round win for his team with his conch.

There was no way Neith-Ka could overcome these giants. They had not only more muscle, but more practice and skill at their own game than she could ever achieve. She could not play ball the way they did.

Then why not play it the way I do with sisters?

The third time the ball returned to Neith-Ka, she slammed it down with the back of her hand. She countered its next launch with her forearm, bouncing it between her limbs and the floor as she ran to the far wall. Her people chanted her name with jubilant fervor as silence descended upon the Ahau’s side of the court. The Mutul Bison watched her, dumbstruck, as she sprang and flicked the ball through the hoop with her wrist alone.

A low drone emitted from the Ahau’s conch. “I guess Round Four goes to the Khamitan princess. Tell me, girl, what do you call that trick?”

“It’s a technique, and we call it ‘dribbling’. Want to see more of it?”

She had already reached past the court’s halfway point away from the hoop, the ball still thumping beneath her forelimbs, the Bison of Mutul stampeding after her. With a backward pivot of her leg, Neith-Ka dashed towards the far wall, parallel to her pursuers. Her supporters continued to embolden her with their cheering songs.

However, she did not count on one of the players sticking out his leg to trip her. As she fell, she had to roll aside to avoid the Mayaban team trampling her. They reclaimed the ball and scored.

“Round Five to the Mutul Bison! Good work, my men!”

“Come on, that must count as a foul!” Neith-Ka cried out.

The Ahau grinned down at her with smug remorselessness. “Plenty of games allow tackling and roughhousing. Why not this one?”

After staggering back to her feet, Neith-Ka stormed over to the left side of the court, growling the vilest curses in her mind. If that Mayaban tyrant would not let his men play fair, why play this stupid game at all? An all-out war between Mutul and Khamit would resolve the problem with much more fairness. No… it would also mean much more bloodshed, death, and loss for innocent people. What could Neith-Ka, daughter of Pharaoh Amenhotep of Khamit, do?

Something much lighter than the ball rebounded off the back of her neck and rolled to her feet. Her sandals.

The condition of their woven papyrus strands had not improved, but somebody had sown thick scrappy pads of rubber to their bottom. She looked up to the top of the left wall behind her, yet nobody new among the faces stared down at her with as much confusion as she felt. The only change in the heavens was the ascendant sunlight beaming down on her through the fading mist. “Thank you for this blessing, mighty Amun’Ra,” Neith-Ka whispered as she put on the padded sandals.

“Round Six to the Bison! Come on, Khamitan woman, stop dawdling and face my players once more!”

When Neith-Ka bolted over to catch the ball, she did so with the velocity of a cheetah in full sprint. Never had she ran with such a sudden burst of speed. In less than half a minute, she won back the ball. She zipped in circles around the befuddled Bison, taunting them as they lunged after her and crashed into one another.

The leader of the team threw himself between her and the hoop. “Don’t think you can outrun yourself out of this one!”

“I won’t,” Neith-Ka said. “I’ll jump.”

She jumped twice — once from the floor, the other off the dumb brute’s helmet. She batted the ball with her shoulder and won Round Seven.

The leader of the Mutul Bison threw his dented headdress on the ground and crushed it further under his feet in a ranting fury. “You can’t get away with that so easily!”

Neith-Ka cocked an eyebrow while still dribbling the ball. “Oh, really? Serves your team right for tripping me back in Round Five.”

“Let’s see if you can keep it up without your ‘improved’ footwear.”

Another teammate, the same one who had tripped Neith-Ka before, swiped the back of his hand at her. She vaulted away from harm with two back-flips, but lost control of the ball. The Bison of Mutul laughed among themselves with sadistic assurance as they bounded the ball between their bodies below the hoop.

Yipping the Khamitan war cry like a hyena on the hunt, Neith-Ka pounced onto the man next to receive the ball. One shove of her hips knocked it up into the hoop.

The Ahau blew his conch with a prolonged, bleating note. “Round Eight goes to Neith-Ka of Khamit, again. You heard that right, she won the last round.”

Everyone on her side of the court broke into a joyous dance of chants, hoots and clapping, the Khamitan guards clattering their spears onto their shields. Even Huya, the high steward, twirled his staff around his body in an ecstatic frenzy.

Neith-Ka could not resist the music of her victory. Yelling in triumph, she skipped and spun about like a desert dust-devil, taunting her exhausted opposition with shakes of her hips and backside.

“Hold up, you didn’t win the whole game,” Ahau B’alaj said. “You won thrice, but my Bison won the rest. Give me my spear and thrower!”

A servant handed him the quiver of weapons. The Khamitans’ celebratory dance ended when the Ahau fastened one spear to his thrower and aimed it down at Neith-Ka. “This is for my daughter!”

A girl screamed. Hurrying over from the left corner of the ball court, little Itzel embraced Neith-Ka by the legs with a defiant glare at her distant father. “You will not kill her, Father! I won’t let you!”

“Get away from her, my child!” the Ahau said. “She wanted to kill you, remember?”

“No, she didn’t mean to hurt me. I pulled on her hair and hurt her feelings. It’s my fault. Don’t kill her because of me.”

“What in Xibalba do you mean? I’m doing this for you, my little princess!”

“Then why won’t you listen to me?”

The rhythmic trebling of cicadas, and the chirping of jungle birds, passed through the silence that fell over the court. It ended with the clanking of B’alaj’s spear and thrower as they fell onto the bottom of his court, splintering in half.

He took off his feathered crown and held his head low. “You speak with more wisdom than I have ever known, my daughter. I shall have her pardoned, with not one drop of blood spilled. Neith-Ka, daughter of Amenhotep, will you accept my forgiveness?”

Neith-Ka nodded to him. “I forgive you in turn.”

Tightening her hug on Neith-Ka’s legs, Itzel looked up, her eyes still trickling tears. “Will you forgive me too, Princess of Khamit? I’m sorry I pulled your hair. I did it because these other girls in town said they’d be my friend if I gave them a lock of your people’s hair.”

She knelt to the child with a smile before playfully scratching her hair. “Those girls wouldn’t be your friends then. You need someone who will appreciate who you are as a human being.”

“But if I don’t make them like me, nobody will want to be my friend.”

Neith-Ka’s eyes verged on melting. She may have enjoyed plenty of sisters in Khamit, but it was true that girls born into the comfort of royalty didn’t always win the love of their less privileged peers. Even children could learn to resent their socioeconomic superiors.

“Hmm…perhaps, instead of pulling on Khamitan women’s hair, you need to show the other girls your positive qualities. Treat them with respect as you would your relatives. Share your toys, or your spare wealth…speaking of sharing—”

Neith-Ka took off one of her sandals. “Was this your work?”

Itzel grinned innocently while hiding her hands behind her. “My mother helped me with the sewing.”

“Maybe I should repay you, somehow. Hey, do you like playing ball, too?” Neith-Ka picked up the ball and twirled it on the tip of her finger. “Because, if you’d like, I could teach you to dribble like me.”

This and other short stories can be read in my self-published collection Beasts & Beauties.

#fantasy #short story #fiction #ancient egypt #egyptian #african #black woman #woman of color #woc #ancient maya #native american #mesoamerican #pre-columbian #people of color #poc #original characters

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