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skeletondeerart · 3 months ago

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Sacred Waters, Sacred Hearts Chapter 1

A Male OC! Metkayina x Fem Human! Reader | Word Count: 1722

Masterlist & join the taglist

A/N : Both Rukan and reader are in their mid 20's

" " = direct speech | ' ' = Metkayina sign language | Bold = English

Another night approaches as multiple moons emerge from the waves. I adjust my mask, ensuring it's sealed to my cheeks, as I shuffle off my light shawl, leaving just my wetsuit and waterproof tablet. The morning winds nip at my exposed skin, and I make haste into the reef, gracefully submerging myself and diving down to the reef bed to escape the chill of the evening.

I was one of the last marine biologists left on Pandora after the fall of the Omatikaya's Hometree, yet by the grace of Eywa I was taken into her embrace and was allowed to live amongst the flora and fauna. I now reside on the coastline a couple hours from the Metkayina settlements; respecting the ocean-dwelling Navi immensely, I made sure to leave them alone and stay in my small corner of the ocean; content with just researching and documenting the underwater flora and fauna. Though I may seem isolated here on my lonesome I do make frequent calls to Norm and Max to update their data files, ordering human supplies or just for a chat yet sometimes I yearn for someone else to share my experiences with...

Weaving through bioluminescent kelp, flippers boost me through the currents I glide to a halt and unsheathe my switchblade to harvest some vegetation and check on the coral's health. Happy with the healthy flora and the harvest I document photos for my log and bask in the temperate waters. I smile at the stillness from the ocean bed, turning onto my back and gazing up through the water's surface, mesmerised by the reflection of light shimmering across the lapping waves from below.

Eventually, my lungs begin to burn yearning for oxygen, and I move to breach the surface, breaking the water tension my mask immediately intakes the Pandoran air and swiftly converts it to plain oxygen. As I catch my breath, I watch Ilu ride the waves and birds dive into the ocean to nab up small fish for their dinner. My stomach rumbles at the through and my mind drifts back to the edible vegetation in my pouch, I paddle back to shore and squeeze the water from my hair before I begin stoking a fire to roast my own dinner.

Time gets away from me as I continue to do tasks onshore like chopping wood and transferring files into the databank. My thoughts are disturbed by a shrill ring, Norm's contact blaring from my tablet. I quickly accept it as Norm appears on the screen; giving a curt wave before he started speaking.

"Hey (Y/n), how are you? Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time, but I have a favour to ask." He rambles, arms gesturing awkwardly.

"Uh, nah I'm not doing much; how can I help ya Norm?" I say absent-mindedly as I continue weaving a new blanket, preparing for the cooler weather.

"Mo'at needs some specific medicinal herbs, but they can only be found in the deeper parts of the reef bed. Considering you're now quite an adept diver I thought to ask you first before connecting with the Metkayina traders."

"Oh yeah no problem, I'll duck out in a moment and get that heading your way no problem" I smile as I stand to pull my wetsuit back on from its drying rack.

Norm rubs his nape and bows his head in gratitude "I can't thank you enough (Y/n) just text me when you're done so I can send someone out there to collect the goods"

"Easy, I'll get back to you soon, but if you don't hear back by tomorrow afternoon assume I drowned" I laugh in jest.

I watch as Norm scrunches his face in horror "Don't make me come over there for a welfare check buddy, because I will! I swear it." Norm sighs exasperated by my words wagging his finger to the camera.

"Oh, I'm just kidding Normie; have some faith in me will ya." I giggle as I slip the thick fabric up my torso, Navi stripes adorn the fabric, mimicking the Metkayina's camouflage.

"How many times have I asked you to quit it with the 'Normie'…" Norm scolds but it holds no venom at all. "Look, you better update me straight away ok! I got to go; Max needs some help in the lab, see ya (Y/n)." He waves and disconnects as I wave goodbye myself.

I release a sigh as I take a final note of all the things I need and make sure my mask is free from damage as I set out. I walk out of the airlock to the edge of the mangroves and leap into the deeper portion, my vision is hindered by a myriad of bubbles for a moment before settling down, I begin the descent into the sandbank, I had no need for a flashlight due to the high concentration of bioluminescence, I glide through the waters and corals with ease and gradually letting some oxygen in through my air tank, I only used it for longer expeditions as I like to train my lung capacity.

I swim further from my base, lowering my altitude as I dive into a stunning deep cave. I spotted the herbs; it looked like sea moss; excellent in curing skin ailments when ground into a salve. I push faster through the currents and into the jagged coral formation that the moss grew on, not seeing the signature Metkayina markers for a protected area... I peeled it from its roots and placed it into a leather pouch, deeming it enough I turned to make my way back out, but I was stunned into silence as a massive shadow passed by the gaps in the coral.

It was an Akula…a massive shark-like beast who not even the Navi deem as a friend. My lungs constricted as I limited agitating the water around me. I waited with bated breath as the Akula swam circles around the exit, I peered timidly out as I no longer detect its presence. So, I make the decision to slowly rise to the entrance of the cave. I make the dash, but the Akula notices the disruption and flings itself in my direction, a terrified gargle escapes my throat as I weave hastily through the outcrops narrowly avoiding its snapping jaws.

In my adrenaline-fueled state, I didn't notice another join the fray. Until a muffled roar is heard from the Akula as it flees back deeper into the cave system. I burrow myself into the coral hiding from my painful death as I go to release more oxygen into my mask, my hands fumble with a pierced tube and my eyes widen in realisation.

My oxygen supply is drained and I'm so far from the surface.

My panic only spikes further as piercing blue eyes peer down at me cuddled up in the coral like a child.

It was a Metkayina patroller, he was mounted on an Ilu as he scowled in my direction, his rapid signing not going unnoticed.

I gingerly raise my hand and sign 'I mean no harm. I'm with the Omaticaya, gathering medicinal herbs for our injured, but can you help me to the surface I need to breathe…'

He shook his head frustrated but for a moment I could see the disbelief in his eyes at my fluency. 'You do not belong here tawtute, let alone in a protected area, go back to the forest.' But his eyes soften when he sees me start to go blue, my eyes pleading as I point to the surface. He sighs exasperated as he snatches my arm and hauls me into his chest atop his Ilu, jetting to the surface. My vision gets splotchy as we break the water, my mask luckily taking in the air again with no issue.

As I fill my strained lungs again, I'm abruptly shoved off the Ilu and dunk under momentarily pouting as I surface and gazing up at the Navi with a smug look on his face. He points his finger at me.

"Do not touch tawtute, it is a protected site and you're too close to the village" he states, shaking his head. "Go" He states his finned arm pointing back to shore.

"Sorry I didn't see the marker, I'll stay away, promise." I put up my pinky finger momentarily before realising he wouldn't know what it meant. He leans back, a hairless brow raising in suspicion.

"Silly tawtute…" He mutters under his breath before urging again "I'll accompany you home just to make sure that Akula leaves you be. I don't want your pitiful death on my conscience." He states "But you're swimming yourself…"

I laugh "Fine by me" I say before setting back on course. I paddle on the water's surface beside the Metkayina on his Ilu, swimming in silence for most of the way. I'm broken out of my thoughts as his words pierce the silence.

"What are those on your feet…" He questioned, with an ounce of curiosity evident in his tone. I gaze back for a moment checking for any foreign matter.

"Flippers. Helps me swim faster and easier, kind of how your feet and tail help you through the water." I say casually, lifting one from the water to flaunt it with a smile, his face scrunching up as water flicks him in the face.

"I see…" His words were cut short as my home was spotted over the water. Nestled into the mangroves and covered in my hand-woven cloths and netting.

"Well, here's my stop" I sigh as I pull myself up into the mangroves and onto the net platforming.

A curious hum leaves his throat as he gazes at my abode. "Looks somewhat like our villages… yet so tawtute." He mumbles scratching at his nape.

Honestly, over the past hour, I have grown fondness for this Navi. I can't help but blurt out "(Y/n)." His eyes shoot to me confused. "My name… it's uh (Y/n)" I state my cheeks flushing.

"(Y/n)…" He takes a moment letting my name digest "Rukan…" he replies before abruptly diving on his Ilu and swimming off in the direction of the village.

"Rukan…. What a nice name" I smile before heading inside to preserve the moss and notifying Norm of a successful expedition.

Enjoy the next chapter in my Masterlist! & join the taglist

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arachnixe · 1 month ago

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The Forest's Covenant

The Old Forest is never silent. Life is noisy, regardless of whether one has the ears to hear it. The ebb and flow of animal calls form a murmuration that, at intervals, yields the stage to the quiet susurration of leaves catching the wind. Even lower, beneath the notice of all but the most careful listeners, the trees creak and rumble with their own song.

Nevertheless, when a distant thunderclap breaks the forest’s natural rhythm, the moment afterward holds its breath in anticipation of rain that will not arrive.

Another peal, now closer, makes a liar of the clear sky above. The two beget children—a violent crackle, a hiss as from some titanic serpent, a series of still-louder booms in rapid succession—and in their wake, the most energetic of the forest’s noisemakers find it prudent to relocate themselves.

With the roar of a terrifying predator losing its fight for survival, something unknown and unimaginable slices a fiery wound through the canopy of trees, crashing heavy and lifeless from the heavens to carve its grave as a scar in the earth. The titan’s blood pools underneath it, soaking the forest floor with poisonous alchemy that transforms once rich soil into lifeless dirt that will never again sustain life. Its presence here is wrong, unwanted, an unforgivable intrusion.

A mind like that of the Old Forest is normally a slow thing, thoughts blooming on the time scale of seasons, but the outrage of such sudden trauma spurs the awakening of something deep within itself.

For the first time in an age, on a creature sharper than any woodman’s axe and twice as unforgiving, a set of eyes opens.

The Resinate, as it calls itself��for it is among the rare few woodsbound souls which are namewise—pulls a shawl of moss across its spindly form and contemplates the intruding corpse. This titan is no beast, it decides, nor spawn of planes beneath or above. It is a child of axe and saw, born of man and imbued with their fire. Yes, and imbued with language too, though the Resinate alone has the eyes to recognize such a thing, but densely packed as it is, such writing rebuffs all efforts to read it.

Man has grown more clever than before, but their collective memory remains as short as ever, that they should again choose to breach the terms of the forest’s old accord. Artificial thunder continues to roar, by now farther away from here, but not too far to detect—and therefore not far enough.

The Resinate leans forward, dragging the tips of its slender fingers along its subject’s metallic skin, contemplating the situation laid out for its appraisal. The intruder is not singular. There will be others. Therefore this thing must be better understood; new lore must be extracted from it.

Ah, now here is some true excitement, enough to make a witch hum in anticipation! Let its house plant itself here, in this scarred glade, bringing its wonted tools and comforts. Let the work begin!

First, the dissection, with grimoire open and ink prepared for meticulous note-taking. Everything must be catalogued, from the lowliest shard of bone-metal and droplet of toxic ichor to the largest of the still-intact organs. To peel apart the outer layers without damaging the subject is a challenge that requires new keys to open locks of novel construction, for which the Resinate sets to work designing and carving the set of tools it needs.

The witch of the Old Forest labors without rest while shadows glide over its house, deepening and eventually overtaking the sunlight, only for dawn’s return to pierce darkness once again, falling through windows to land on the newly exposed—and quite shattered—body of a flesh-and-blood child of man impaled within the crumpled wreckage of their metal host-body.

This too, is meticulously catalogued among the rest of the notes. One child of man reduced to operating as the organ of another. One child of flesh, one of metal. The witch hums and taps its claws on the floor of its house, unable to contain its excitement. What a lovely, lovely, lovely turn of events! Base necromancy is—well, not exactly trivial, but well within the Resinate’s sphere of knowledge, and anything lingering within the mind of this little symbiont will undoubtedly speed the learning process.

Patch the meat with pliable root and vine, let witchsap flush stale blood away, find soul’s lingering tether and bind it with ancient knot, sew sunlight and morning dew into the threads of this creature’s mind, and pass key behind lips to twist the whole thing open and awaken that which had passed into death.

The man gasps for air, wheezing language almost immediately. A feather-light touch of the threads joining mind to witch, and the Resinate begins unfurling meaning from sound.

��…Stinger-12. Do you read me? I’m down. My coordinates are… wait, I don’t… AI link is… I can’t see.”

Confusion is typical for the newly resurrected. Difficult to get more than chaos and prayers from their mouth at first. Easier in the beginning to simply taste what sparks the mind conjures.

Now here, pull petals apart with a delicate touch. Mind’s sweet nectar dances across the tongue, and ah, this man seems to be female, which is a useful truth to inform the color of language required to address her. And there, more clarity: these babbling prayers are directed at a Handler, something of a divinity or god-king. She laments the loss of her symbiotic other half, the precise nature of which is difficult to extract from thought alone. The steel-child is a creature of language, and it will require language to explicate.

“Listen to me, girl. I am Handler now, and you may direct your prayers to me.” As it speaks the word “Handler,” the Resinate plucks the corresponding string in the man’s mind, drawing all of her associations with the word toward itself.

Her eyes open wide, filled with awe and adoration mixed with not-unexpected lingering confusion. “Girl? I’m, ah, what do you— what does that— wait, why would you call me— did my psyche profile—?”

No, that’s too much confusion, now mixing with fear and other strange emotions. The Resinate bristles with irritation. It should have spent more time digging for a name rather than choosing a generic form of address. This is a derailment.

“Very well, I will not address you as ‘girl.’ You will be my Fig Wasp. Does that name suit you?” The witch does not bother waiting for an answer, simply choosing to pluck the string tied to the girl’s identity at the moment it speaks her new name. “Yes, it does.”

“U-understood. My call sign is Fig Wasp.”

With another mental gesture, the Resinate indicates the partially dissected metal corpse. “And what do you know about your Fig?”

Fig Wasp’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly, not from any effort to resist the command, but at a loss of what to say. Her mind is a torrent of truths both relevant and irrelevant. She struggles to organize the information hierarchically, not understanding the witch’s motivations well enough to decide what to prioritize and therefore not knowing where to begin.

Moreover, the previous mistake addressing her as “girl” continues to distract, the memory of its words knotting in a hideous tangle of social dynamics and threads of selfhood that the Resinate has little interest in unraveling.

It taps its claws together in thought. Most of Fig Wasp’s mind is pleasingly regular, the effects of repetitive conditioning wearing tidy trails in her mind almost to the level of base instinct, but all her training is centered around her symbiosis and her god in order to make her well suited to her niche. The Resinate might simply tidy up the rest of it, yes? Tastefully trim the most inconvenient growths of selfhood and those social connections with the rest of her species, leaving only the fresh, lively bond with her new identity as Fig Wasp and with her new Handler and with this Old Forest.

Fig Wasp speaks at last, but her words are halting and disorganized, and the witch silences her with another gesture. How satisfying that she obeys without hesitation! Yes, it needs to craft new keys with which to open the girl’s mind for pruning, but some things, it decides, can remain.

It must craft one key for the heart, the center of connection. One at the base of the skull, where thought meets feeling. One at the spine, where mind blooms into action. One at the forehead, the door between self and other. A key for each season of the year, for each beat of the heartsong, for each limb of the beast, for each eye of the world.

The work takes time, as it always does, but the girl’s anxiety calms when the witch declares its intent to make her a better instrument. She even offers her help, though she could not possibly understand the process. Well, Fig Wasp could possibly help in severing her own limbs, mangled and knotted as they are with the wreckage of her other half, but aside from the practical concerns about the girl’s ability to finish that task, the Resinate’s pride demands it handle the remainder of its dissection and extraction itself.

Fig Wasp is well trained, embracing the pain of change—both the lesser pain of the amputations and the greater agonies of the keys—her mind alight with hope that she might be honed and corrected.

Better. Oh so much better. At last she is capable of stilling her mind and body until they are called upon to assist her witch. She possesses within her a memorized litany of “specs” and “regulations” and more, the arcane words she recites filling page after page of the Resinate’s grimoire. The witch’s detailed dissection notes transform into carefully annotated diagrams with references to particular chapters and verses of the canon. At last, true understanding begins to take shape.

“Your symbiosis is your strength,” the witch observes, graciously naming the obvious so that its new pet might follow this train of thought. “A union of the grown and the constructed. By ritual you are clumsily shaped to better suit that which was constructed to fit a generic form.” The Resinate taps its claws in thought. “I can do better, but I must not alter the fundamental essence of the union.”

Fig Wasp stands in silence, content to know that—whatever her fate—she will have a role to play in the Resinate’s plans. New arms grown of living wood refresh a half-empty teacup on her witch’s desk.

“Only four limbs? No. Your symbiosis could be more complete.” The Resinate sketches vague organic shapes on paper. “I could grow your roots directly into your other half, let you entwine yourself deeply inside in lieu of rebuilding such things as ‘pedals’ for ‘feet’ and similar such pairings: a more permanent symbiosis.”

The threads of the girl’s mind light up with connections, as they always do when the topic of her symbiosis is addressed, providing the witch with a helpful reminder.

“No, of course. That contradicts the Book of Pilot, Chapter Eighty, Verse Three. You are meant to assist in the care and grooming of your symbiont, for which you must regularly exit your integrated state.”

With a slash of the pen, the first sketches are discarded, and new ideas emerge to take their place.

“If not the mandrake, the undine might suit as inspiration. A thing of different forms, you might flow as water, become as blood in the other’s veins, only… ah, I would have to alter its construction far too much for my liking.

“Though of water, there is also the selkie, who sheds one form for another as suits her whim. Not precisely what I need, but the details may be altered for my purposes.”

Lines of ink dance across the page, rough sketches evolving into increasingly specific forms.

“My hybrid alraune, whose roots will know the insides of her symbiont with perfect intimacy, who can shed that skin and emerge from blooming flower to serve multifarious needs. Yes, and with hands to assist me in healing your symbiont’s body.” The witch of the Old Forest turns to its pet project. “You will enjoy your new body.”

The pet project recognizes an implicit invitation for a response. “Yes, Handler. I will.” She cannot resist squirming just a bit, despite her discipline, as sleeping elements of her personality recognize an opportunity and begin to awaken.

Despite its own contempt for man, the Resinate finds itself endeared to this one—perhaps because it has already begun thinking of her as what she will become—and it chooses words it knows the girl aches to hear.

“You have a new mission, Fig Wasp. Procure target ingredients from the forest and escort them safely to the rendezvous point—this house—so that I may poison what remains of your humanity and fertilize what must grow in its place. Precise mission objectives will be delivered, ah, momentarily once I write them down.”

“Acknowledged. Search and delivery run. Standing by for transmission of target data.” The girl’s eyelids flutter, her eyes rolling back slightly as her mind lights up with pleasure at performing this ritual.

After receiving her list, she takes off at a dead sprint. Well, whatever her enthusiasm, it will take quite some time to find the necessary botanicals. Some of those herbs have grown rather clever lately, and outwitting them should prove a challenge.

This gives the Resinate time to begin reading the language comprising the mind of the titan. It is complex, many-layered, simultaneously fragmented and impossibly tangled in itself. The Book of Ay Eye, which holds dominion over this creature’s brain, barely scratches the surface of the complexity the witch finds here.

Without possessing authority over language itself, this would be impossible. As it stands, the task is merely extraordinarily difficult. The injuries sustained here require agonizingly precise rewriting of the most minute sigils the witch of the Old Forest has ever seen. Moreover, the better-protected organs of the mind will require still more careful rewriting, like a book that needs its central themes inverted without changing the word count of any given paragraph.

Now here is a thrill to exceed even the girl’s enthusiasm for her little rituals! This could take a century or more of dedicated study to fully unravel, delving into wholly unexplored corners of man’s lore. Ah, to take a new kind of mind and learn to garden it, help it blossom in harmony with the rest of the forest—at last the Resinate finds a challenge worthy of the heights of its power!

Yet… how unfortunate that the Old Forest needs results on man’s schedule. Nothing for it but to divert the flow of time, just a touch, just around this house, just enough to solve this puzzle. Wicked as such a spell might be, a witch is a thing that does what it must, and if it must take on the debt intrinsic to such defilement of the natural order, well, this wouldn’t be the first time.

When the Resinate’s assistant returns, it is to a house that has aged visibly. The structure sags more in some places and has become wildly overgrown in others. Her timing is a touch awkward, with the old door warped and demanding a hearty shove to force open while a new door is yet green and unready for use.

The Resinate, however, is not only prepared but eager to begin. It fills the house with a hum that vibrates through every branch and gnarl, its sense of anticipation having reached a fever pitch. With tools arrayed and cauldron bubbling, the work of excising Fig Wasp’s wretched humanity begins.

Flesh dies. A seed is planted.

---

When next the old covenant of man and wood is violated by such forgetful creatures, Wasp and Fig are fully grown and prepared to unleash appropriate retribution. Her mission: to refresh man’s memory with blood.

It is not for the forest to remember specifics of any individual clash between itself and man. The Resinate, for itself, is disinterested in such details. Many are the eyes of a witch, and not all of them are tasked with watching merely that which already has come to pass. Thus, Fig Wasp’s success is foreseen and the “how” of it dismissed as triviality.

They return home, titanic frame slipping between branches with no more than the rustling of leaves signaling the landing. A body of intricately engraved steel and stone kneels on its plinth, lowering its upper half, from which the bulb of a huge flower blooms and deposits the witch’s favorite wasp.

With delicate grace, she uncurls and arches one almost-human leg to meet the ground, followed by the other. Her body shines with the vigorous green of new spring growth, glistening with nectar like morning dew. Well, the witch has no heart to speak of, but something inside reacts to the beauty of its own creation. Appraising eyes gliding across the sight, it cannot help but recall the birds who drink greedily of such sweet nectar.

The Resinate catches itself and silences its humming, stills its claws. An excess of imagination can be both gift and curse for a witch, and it must maintain some self-control. In any event—

With a running leap, the pretty alraune collides with her witch, tangling limbs together in an embrace that shatters the Resinate’s train of thought. The witch makes a mental note to train the girl not to leap upon it when excited.

“All the humans are dead, Handler! Except for letting one retreat, just like you said.” The girl giggles, a sound no less melodious than birdsong. “She doesn’t even know she’s carrying my seeds.”

“Well done, pretty thing.” Praise summons a shiver of pleasure from dear Fig Wasp, and the witch finds itself gripping her tighter in response. “Good pilot. Good girl.”

How unexpectedly enjoyable to reward its creation, feeling her whole body quiver with each kind word while her sweet aroma saturates the air. Ah, imagination takes flight once again, and the Resinate decides to expand its notion of just how much “handling” it might justify engaging in.

#empty spaces #my writing #witches #mechs

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sanctus-ingenium · 1 year ago

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heya! I'm wondering, from where do you reference clothing for your art pieces? (Specifically for Inver!) I enjoy the outfits you draw your characters in

hii so for the fancier victorian-era outfits i used a whole bunch of sources but among them the metropolitan museum costume collection, this is a great online gallery of historical costume that you can search by era. you can also find illustrated fashion plates from the era to get a sense of how people styled the outfits, facial hair, accessories etc. here's one for hats i used. i also followed the twitter account WikiVictorian which.. due to new twitter policies you can't view accounts while not logged in, but it looks like they have a pinterest and also instagram?? anyway great resource, posted a lot of dresses, furniture, and historical recipes with sources & context.

(cut for length)

but those dresses and stuff are for the upper classes. For ordinary people i just googled what I knew every old lady wears: shawls

this is a galway shawl which is like. THE thing every single person wore back in the day and if you check out the wiki page it's a great reference for what patterns & dyes would have been used. from there you can find historical photos. i love photos like this which show a whole scene in context with people from multiple generations hanging out (yooo check out the Sparch in the background!!). now I know this isn't 1860s stuff, but the fact is that fashion doesn't move so fast for people like Clarion who live on a farm and have to make their simple clothing items last for a lifetime or more.

for the military outfits I mainly just googled 'military outfit 1860s' and iterated (groundbreaking). for things to be accurate i tried to pick reference illustrations drawn during the era.

i figure you might mean specifically the ancient Inver stuff so for them I used a lot of old illustrations and stuff from art history class in school. this era is more in the region of the 1500s. here is a kind of kitchy site which nonetheless has real-life examples of some of the clothing i drew. this painting is in my list of references (sorry for the stock image link but it's one of the nicest online reproductions of it) and you can see the guys on the right wearing the same léine that i've drawn Finbarr in. once you know the time period & what the various outfit components are called you can search them more easily. now the headdress i've drawn Finbarr wearing (Olivier wears it as well!) is in fact a real thing, it's the Petrie crown broken in half.

the crown is not of the same era as the other outfits because i'm not so interested in historical accuracy as much for these guys (booo).

for Olivier I searched for old French armour from the same historic era as Finbarr, I know less about the history of Brittany so kind of just copied what I saw with some small alterations (because he wears werewolf armour, which is not a thing irl).

#setting: inver #i know there's a website for renting costumes that goes around every so often on tumblr but i find them really lacking in menswear usually

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specialagentartemis · 2 years ago

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Black Women writing SFF

The post about Octavia Butler also made me think about the injustice we do both Butler, SFF readers, and Black women SFF writers by holding her up as the one Black Woman Writing Sci-Fi. She occupies an important place in the genre, for her creativity, the beauty and impact of her writing, and her prolific work... but she's still just one writer, and no one writer works for everybody.

So whether you liked Octavia Butler's books or didn't, here are some of the (many!!! this list is just the authors I've read and liked, or been recommended and been wanting to read) other Black women writing speculative fiction aimed at adults, who might be writing something within your interest:

N. K. Jemisin - a prolific powerhouse of modern sff. Will probably have something you'll like. Won three Hugo awards in a row for her Broken Earth trilogy. I’ve only read her book of short stories, How Long ‘Til Black Future Month? and it is absolutely story after story of bangers. Creative, chilling, beautifully written, make you think. They’re so good and I highly recommend the collection. Several of her novels have spun out of premises she first explored through these short stories, most recently “The City Born Great” giving rise to her novel The City We Became. Leans more fantasy than sci-fi, but has a lot of both, in various permutations.

Nisi Shawl - EDIT: I have been informed that Nisi Shawl identifies as genderfluid, not as a woman. They primarily write short stories that lean literary. Their one novel that I’ve read, Everfair, is an alternate-history 19th century that asks, what if the Congo had fought off European colonization and became a free and independent African state? Told in vignettes spanning decades of political organization, political movements, war tactics, and social development, among an ensemble of local African people, Black Americans coming to the new country, white and mixed-race Brits, and Chinese immigrants who came as British laborers.

Nnedi Okorafor - American-Nigerian writer of Africanfuturism, sci-fi stories emphasizing life in present, future, and alternate-magical Africa. She has range! From Binti, a trilogy of novellas about a teenage girl in Namibia encountering aliens and balancing her newfound connection to space with expectations of her family; to Akata Witch, a middle-grade series about a Nigerian-American girl moving to Nigeria and learning to use magic powers she didn’t know she had; to Who Fears Death, a brutal depiction of magical-realism in a futuristic, post-war Sudan; to short stories like "Africanfuturism 419", about that poor Nigerian prince who’s desperately sending out those emails looking for help (but with a sci-fi twist), and "Mother of Invention" about a smart house taking care of its human and her baby… she’s done a little bit of everything, but always emphasizes the future, the science, and the magic of (usually western) Africa.

Karen Lord - an Afro-Caribbean author. I actually didn’t particularly like the one novel by her I’ve read, The Best of All Possible Worlds, but Martha Wells did, so. Lord has more novels set in this world—a Star Trek-esque multicultural, multispecies spacefuture set on a planet that has welcomed immigrants and refugees for a long time, and become a vibrant multicultural planet. I find her stories rooted in near-future Caribbean socio-climatic concerns like "Haven" and "Cities of the Sun" and her folktale-fantasy style Redemption in Indigo more compelling. And more short stories here.

Bethany C. Morrow - only has one novella (short novel?) for adults, Mem, but it was creative and fascinating and good and I’d be remiss not to shout it out. In an alternate-history 1920s Toronto, scientists have discovered how to extract specific memories from a person—but then those memories are embodied as physical, cloned manifestations of the person at the moment the memory was made. The main character is one such “Mem,” struggling to determine who she is if she was created from and defined by one single traumatic memory that her original-self wanted to remove. It’s mostly quiet, contemplative, and very interesting. (Morrow has some YA novels too. I read one of them and thought it was okay.)

Rebecca Roanhorse - Afro-Indigenous, Black and "Spanish Indian" and married into Diné (Navajo). I’ve read her ongoing post-apocalyptic fantasy series starting with Trail of Lightning, and am liking it a lot; after a climate catastrophe, the spirits and magic of the Diné awakened to protect Dinetah (the Navajo Nation) from the onslaught; and now magic and monsters are part of life in this fundamentally changed world. Coyote is there and he is only sometimes helpful. She also has a more traditional second-world epic high fantasy, Black Sun, an elaborate fantasy world with quests and prophecies and seafaring adventure that draws inspiration from Indigenous cultures of the US and Mexico rather than Europe. She also has bitingly satirical and very incisive short stories like “Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience” about virtual reality and cultural tourism, and the fantasy-horror "Harvest."

Micaiah Johnson - her multiverse-hopping novel The Space Between Worlds plays with alternate universes and alternate selves in a continuously creative and interesting way! The setup doesn’t take the easy premise that one universe is our own recognizable one that opens up onto strange alternate universes—even the main character’s home universe is wildly different in speculative ways, with the MC coming from a Mad Max-esque desert community abandoned to the elements, while working for the universe-travel company within the climate-controlled walled city where the rich and well-connected live and work. Also, it’s unabashedly gay.

And if you like audiobooks and audio fiction (I listened to The Space Between Worlds as an audiobook, it’s good), then Jordan Cobb is someone you should check out. She does sci-fi/horror/thriller audio drama. Her works include Janus Descending, a lyrical and eerie sci-fi horror about a small research expedition to a distant planet and how it went so, so wrong; and Descendants, the sequel about its aftermath. She also has Primordial Deep, about a research expedition to the deep undersea, to investigate the apparent re-emergence of a lot of extinct prehistoric sea creatures. She’s a writer/producer I like, and always follow her new releases. Her detailed prose, minimal casts (especially in Janus Descending), good audio quality, and full-series supercuts make these welcoming to audiobook fans.

Nalo Hopkinson - a writer who should be considered nearly as foundational as Octavia Butler, honestly. A novelist and short story writer with a wide variety of sci-fi, dystopian futures, fairy-tale horror, gods and epics, and space Carnival, drawing heavily from her Caribbean experiences and aesthetics.

Tananarive Due - fantastical/horror. Immortals, vampires, curses, altered reality, unnerving mystery. Also has written a lot of books.

Andrea Hairston - creative and otherworldly, weird and bisexual, with mindscapes and magic and aliens.

Helen Oyeyemi - I haven’t read her work but she comes highly recommended by a friend. A novelist and short story writer, most of her work leans fairytale fantastical-horror. What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours is a collection of short fiction and recc’ed to me as her best work. White is for Witching is a well-regarded haunted house novel.

Ashia Monet - indie author, writer of The Black Veins, pitched as “the no-love-interest, found family adventure you’ve been searching for.” Magic road trip! Possibly YA? I’m not positive.

This also doesn’t include Black non-binary sff authors I’ve read and liked like An Owomoyela, C. L. Polk, and Rivers Solomon. And this is specifically about adult sff books, so I didn’t include Black women YA sff authors like Kalynn Bayron, Tomi Adeyemi, Tracy Deonn, Justina Ireland, or Alechia Dow, though they’re writing fantasy and sci-fi in the YA world too.

And a lot of short stories are out there in the online magazine world, where so many up and coming authors get their start, and established ones explore offbeat and new ideas. Pick up an issue (or a subscription!) of FIYAH magazine for the most current Black speculative writing.

#books #book recs #science fiction

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literatooru · 4 months ago

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pairing: gn!reader x miya osamu

flufftober 2024!

Divination has never been Osamu’s favorite class. He always finds himself feeling drowsy; and whether it's because of how it seems to make the hours dreadfully drag on and on, or because of how the professor’s voice mixed with the heavily perfumed smoke that wafts all around the slightly claustrophobic room, he’s not sure.

He had only chosen it because it was easy to fool the professor by making up “predictions” of the future, as long as a tragedy or two (or five) were added. But by Merlin, sometimes he wonders if he should have picked Arithmancy or Study of Ancient runes to at least keep his brain a little more active. He’s also unsure as to why it’s even taught at all, considered that, at best, it’s viewed as a flawed and feeble “art” by most. He thinks it’s more of a fraud.

The only perk he could think of was that at least he got to spend an hour (or two, if he was lucky and had double period) with you.

Osamu heaves a sigh as he climbs the silvery ladder and looks around the crammed classroom. He blinks a couple times to adjust his eyesight to the new, crimson lighting, the corners of his lips automatically quirking up when his eyes finally land on you.

He makes his way to you, evading the dozens of small, circular tables filling the classroom. Once he reaches you, he lets the strap of his bag slide down his arm and it lands on the rug with a muted thud, then sinks onto the little round ottoman right across from yours.

“D’ya think she’s gonna make us continue the dream diary?” he says as a greeting.

You rest your chin on the palm of your hand as you let out a groan. The classroom slowly starts filling up with students, all of them disrupting the silence with animated chatter.

“I hope not. I barely managed to make up enough of them last year,” you mumble, blinking slowly as drowsiness immediately starts taking over you. “I wish we could open a window. It’s so stuffy in here.”

“Psh, ya really wanna disrupt yer Sight like that?” he says with humor.

Osamu busies himself pulling out his textbooks, dropping the heavy tomes on the table with a small huff and rolling his shoulder where his bag had been slung over.

“Ah! My darlings! I could sense you had all finally arrived,” Professor Trelawney speaks in that typical misty tone of hers, rearranging her shawl delicately. “Welcome, welcome. Oh, no need for those today, my dear,” she says, gesturing at a student that had just pulled out one of his textbooks. Osamu purses his lips and carelessly drops his own books into his bag. “I am aware that everyone’s minds seem to get rather foggy after a prolonged break."

“All the incense does a rather fine job as well,” your friend mutters under his breath, and his smile grows when you stifle a chuckle behind your hand.

"I myself make sure to exercise my Inner Eye as often as I can,” the Professor continues. She pushes her large glasses further up the bridge of her nose, sniffing softly as she walks among the tables.

“We shall make a revision of the subjects we’ve previously touched, starting with the basics, just as a refresher. Pass me the large silver teapot, dearie."

A girl stands up from her seat to do as told as Professor Trelawney runs her eyes across the various shelves, grabbing a couple different things off them. “Now, everyone please collect a teacup from the shelf. I will fill it for you.”

Osamu and you stand up from your seats and walk towards the shelves, waiting in line to grab a cup.

“Hold on, I got it,” he tells you. He walks through the crowd, mumbling apologies as he gently nudges people aside, and he takes advantage of his height by reaching out to take two of the teacups and saucers from the top shelf. After that, he makes his way back to you and offers you the delicate china with a warm smile.

“Thank you, giraffe,” you say with a smile of your own.

“I presume you all remember how this goes. Really, the process is fairly simple,” the Professor says. She pours tea into the teacups that are extended to her. “Of course, reading the leaves is the complicated part. Only those that possess the Sight, such as myself—”

Her voice is drowned under the chatter as you and Osamu go back to your table and take a seat. You blow lightly on the scalding liquid, dark ripples disturbing the surface.

Osamu moves the teacup to his lips, gently places the rim against them, takes a small sip and immediately frowns.

“Oof!” he exclaims. His whole face soon scrunches up into a grimace as he takes a second sip without even waiting for it to cool down. “It could do with a little sugar.”

“More than a little.” You nod, coughing a little after taking the first sip. “I wish we could do this with butterbeer instead.”

“Man, what I wouldn’t do for one right now. It’s getting chilly.”

Once you both finally manage to down the bitter beverage, you each swill the remaining dregs around the cups three times with your left hand, then turn them upside down on the saucers and wait for the last of the tea to drain away before exchanging cups.

You reach into your bag to pull out your old copy of Unfogging the Future (which you had casted Reducio on to decrease its size until it matched that of a small dictionary’s) and place it on the table, flicking through the pages as you examine Osamu’s teacup.

“All right, hit me, partner. Exactly how many tragedies are in store for me?”

You roll your eyes with humor, shaking your head softly as you peer into his teacup.

“I see… a…” You squint your eyes and frown as you try to make out exactly what the shapes are supposed to depict. “An umbrella. According to what the book says it means ‘difficulties’. And I think that’s— an apple? No, wait, it looks more like a butterfly,” you mumble, rotating the cup and craning your neck with your lips pursed. Osamu snorts, earning a glare from you before you shift your gaze to consult your book. “Which means… success. And that over there could be a crescent moon, which means… prosperity. So I guess you’re going to struggle with something you’re working on but end up successful, and that’s going to bring you good things."

“I don’t think you’ve exercised yer Inner Eye much, have ya?” Osamu says with an arched eyebrow, and his index finger pressed against his lips to suppress a smile.

You scoff. Your eyes remain on him as you set the teacup down, then mimic his cocked brow and lean forward, closer to him.

“So you’re an expert now?” you ask.

You drum your fingers on the surface of the table as you watch his smile grow, and it’s almost infuriating how pretty he looks. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his entire face seems to light up, his eyes glued on you as he gives a sharp nod. Is it just you feeling a little lighter? Perhaps all the smoke and incense have finally gotten to you.

“‘Course. I have an innate ability for divination. M'great, great, great, great aunt was a renowned Seer. She used to read Tarot Cards for the Queen herself.”

You throw your head back with laughter, the sound filling Osamu’s ears and making him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He knows it’s not the environment he’s in—it’s because of you.

“Right, sure. Go on then.” You grab your teacup from the saucer and offer it to him, a look full of expectation on your face. “Tell me what the future holds for me, O' great Seer.”

Osamu huffs out a chuckle. When he reaches out to grab the teacup, his fingers accidentally brush yours. You jerk your hand back and he clears his throat. He stands up from his ottoman and walks over to you, halting once he’s right by your side. Osamu leans down, rests his elbows on the table and gets closer to make sure you can see the inside of the cup as well.

His arm brushes yours every time he moves it, and you you can’t help glancing at him every now and then. How have you never noticed he has such a pretty profile? Well, to be completely honest, his entire face is pretty. It’s just that you’ve somehow only just paid close attention to it. He takes a quick peek at you and smiles when he catches your eyes on him, making you immediately avert your gaze and lean forward so much that your nose is almost touching the teacup.

Osamu chews on the inside of his cheek. You’re so… adorable.

“See that, right there?” he asks quietly, index finger stretched out to point at what looks like… a dark blob. You shoot him a concerned, sideways glance, absolutely confused as to what he’s seeing. “That’s a hat. Means Improvement, if I recall correctly. And a sun and horseshoe right text to it! That means such improvement will also bring you great fortune and happiness.” He cocks his head to the side, his breath mingling with yours due to the closeness. His voice drops in volume, almost forcing you to get even closer to him—close enough that he can smell your perfume over the smokiness of the room. And it just smells so good that he has to stop himself from taking a very obvious deep breath. “A pumpkin…” he carries on, forcing himself to focus on the dregs rather than you. “A circle… huh.”

“What?” you murmur.

You had actually been so focused on his words that when you turn your face to look at him, you start when you find him so close to you. You feel warmth creep up your neck, and—yep, it’s definitely not due to the ambiance of the Divination classroom.

“It’s a good cup,” Osamu declares, tapping the rim with his index finger. He sets it back down on the saucer and places his left hand on the table, his right one moving to rest on his hip as he looks down at you, lips pursed as he seems to mull something over. “Maybe I should just pop the question then.”

“What are you talking ab—”

“Go out with me,” Osamu interrupts you.

You blink up at him once, twice; suddenly feeling so very grateful that you’re sitting down. You mouth wordlessly at Osamu, then blink once more.

“That’s not a question,” you manage blurt out when you finally find your voice. You’re not sure whether you should slap yourself or punch yourself in the face. Both options sound appropriate for the situation. Osamu Miya has just asked you out on a date and there you are, making a fool of yourself.

To your surprise (and relief), Samu smiles.

“Will you go out with me?”

You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, reaching for your discarded teacup and fiddling with it for a second just to keep your hands busy.

“I don’t know. What are you thinking?”

“That you will if you say yeah.” He adds a cheeky smile to his retort, earning a snort from you.

Smartass.

“And what if I say no?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Well, you can’t say no.”

“Why not?” You force a frown onto your face, if anything to conceal the nervousness threatening to take over you.

“Because, my dearie,” he begins, mimicking Professor Trelawney’s misty voice as he yanks the teacup from your hands and waves it in front of your face, “it’s written in the tea leaves.”

This time, the laugh that bubbles out of you is so genuinely filled with good humor that Osamu can’t help the smile that almost splits his face in two. Merlin’s Beard, he loves that sound. He’s willing to make himself look like an absolute idiot if it means getting to hear it again and being the reason for it.

“is it, now?” you say through your chuckling. “I didn’t see anything like that in my cup.”

“Because you don’t possess the Sight, unlike me,” Osamu retorts, tapping his index finger right between your eyebrows gently. “If you had broadened yer mind and casted yerself into the future, you’d know it. I saw it with my own two eyes— er… three?”

“You’re such an idiot, you know that, Samu?”

“A lucky idiot, I hope?” he says leaning forward a bit. “The Three Broomsticks, Friday night. You, me, and a couple of Butterbeers. I’ll wait for you outside your Common Room.”

And there it is, the smile he’s found himself longing for more times than he can count and that you’re convinces makes you like like an absolute idiot.

“It’s a date.”

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letissierdesigns · 5 months ago

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Working on the Fall

#class planning #coin collecting #embellishments #Ethereal Cashmere #hat knitting #hats #knitting #knitting with wool #lace knitting #new patterns #planning #shawl knitting #swatching

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yaltghoul · 8 months ago

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The timeline for Season 3 Part 1 has been bothering me all month, so I broke it down the best I can and guys, maybe I’m just stupid, but this is more rushed than I originally thought.

Let’s break it down.

SPOILERS BELOW:

So Colin comes back the day of the Debutante's Presentation. Presumably, that day or the next Penelope goes to Madame Delacroix to ask for a new wardrobe.

Now, in reality, a new wardrobe for a full Social Season would have included at least 10 simple dresses and 10 elaborate gowns, as well as gloves, bonnets, and shawls. A modiste with no or little assistants could, with no distractions, sew 10 dresses in a month, 10 gowns in about 3 months, and an additional 2 weeks for the accessories. Add in consultations (like the one we saw), design time, and fittings, and you are looking at approximately 4-6 months.

But we are not looking at reality, we are looking at Bridgerton, and we know that the time between when she consulted Madame Delacroix and the glow-up was the same time as the Debutante’s Presentation to the Queen and Lady Danbury’s ball.

Lady Danbury stated that her ball was the first of the season, which was usually held a few days to a week after Presentations. Let’s say, for the sake of giving the timeline the benefit of the doubt, that Lady Danbury needed as much time as possible to prepare for such an elaborate ball (and that Madame Delacroix is a superhuman who can sew a full wardrobe in a matter of days), let’s put that at a week.

We know Colin visited Pen the very next day to apologize, especially since the previous night’s Whistledown was published right after.

We also know Lady Whisteldown publishes Mondays, Wednesday, and Fridays, and from their conversation it can be alluded to that there was no second Whistledown column between the one where she called Colin fake and their first lesson. Meaning their first lesson was the next day.

For the sake of, again, giving the timeline the benefit of the doubt, let’s say the second lesson where we learn their Meet Cute story was two days later, and that she read the diary during their next lesson two days after that.

That puts the ball where it’s exposed that Colin is helping Pen as happening that night, and The Kiss the following day after Whistledown’s column talked about it.

The next episode Portia comments that Penelope locked herself away for a week. So her conversation with Eloise was a week after The Kiss.

Since her hair and outfit is different, I’m going to assume the Willow Tree conversation was the next day, and the party where she talks to Debling that evening.

The Balloon, we will say was one day later, and the Innovation Ball where Debling dances with Penelope was the following evening.

Debling calls on Penelope, and John calls on Francesca, the following morning. They are all wearing the same outfits at the Library Collection, so that was the same day.

We know “tomorrow evening” was Colin’s night of “revelry”, so Debling asks for Portia’s hand and Colin gets drunk the following day.

That puts the Queen’s ball and the Carriage ride as the day after that.

So according to my calculations…

Colin getting back to their First Kiss was two weeks. Their kiss to the Hot Air Balloon was 9 days, and the Debling only courted Penelope for 4 days.

First Kiss to Carriage was 13 days.

Man did not “fall harder”. Man plummeted at 180mph to the ground.

"These last few weeks have been a torment" sir, few weeks my ass it hasn't even been two weeks.

#bridgerton #bridgerton season 3 #polin #romancing mister bridgerton #colin bridgerton #penelope featherington

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its-poojagupta-shree · 1 year ago

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As the crisp winter air sets in, it's time to revamp our wardrobes with cosy and stylish ensembles that not only keep us warm but also make a statement. In this comprehensive guide, we will delve into the must-have picks for a fashionable winter season, exploring the best winter collection trends, where to buy Pashmina kurtas and velvet kurtis online in India and discover the convenience of purchasing winter wear clothing for women online. Let's navigate the world of winter fashion and ensure your wardrobe is ready to embrace the chilly season in style.

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lokisgoodgirl · 2 years ago

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Holy Orders [Avenger!Loki x Fem.Reader]

Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection A Link to my (new) Masterlist is HERE Summary: (17) Loki is working undercover as a priest in Rome. Ecumenical eroticism ensues. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Heresy. Smuttish. Latin. Priest!Loki. Language. (w/c 3.6k)

The door of your holiday apartment slammed behind you, cursing as you stumbled down a tiny step directly onto the cobbled street. It had been three weeks since the travesty of the Renaissance Faire.

After three days, you had accepted that Loki’s attention denial was not a phase. After five, the absence of his irritating teasing had you feeling an unusually bitter disappointment.

After seven, when he had left for Rome without even a courtesy farewell, you had woken in the night wondering the unthinkable. What if Thor was right?

And after twelve, you had begrudgingly accepted that you loved him.

There was a morning buzz in the air, jostling bicycles ringing lightly as the slap of your sandals sounded lightly on the aged stone beneath your feet. You hurried across the street, trying not to be run over by a moped speeding past, blowing up the back of your sundress. Jesus Christ, you thought; heart pounding before your lips curled in a secret smile. Father Laufeyson wouldn’t like that kind of talk, you laughed to yourself as you rounded the corner and Piazza Navona came into view.

For two weeks, Loki had been working undercover in a small church tucked out of the main bustle of Rome. His home had been the same ancient streets you now walked. And you wondered as you passed the marbled carvings of roman gods hanging against the circular fountains, if he had ever thought about you.

Of course not, he’s been busy, you chided yourself, hoisting the bag strap on your shoulder. When Rogers had assigned him this mission, apparently the laughs of the team could be heard two floors below. But as it turned out, Loki could be as convincing as a priest as he could be as a heartless arsehole. Now that his information gathering was complete, you had been sent to collect the evidence. You volunteered, idiot. A seamless pass-over. In and out, Rogers had said. Fuck, should someone have told him it was me that was coming? What if he’s mad?

You turned another corner, skilfully avoiding a group of tourists buried in a map. And what if he’s not? you thought; a thrill of wild anticipation blossoming in your belly.

“The Church of Santa Maria dell'Anima…” you murmured absent-mindedly, looking up at the flat exterior of the sandy coloured stone building.

As far as Roman churches went, it wasn’t a big draw - favoured more by the faithful local residents than photo-happy tourists. Perfect for a Hydra Vatican infiltration ring, you thought, pursing your lips as the eager congregation filed past you up the short flight of steps to the entrance. Swirling a white shawl around your shoulders, you took a deep breath of heavy, heated air.

Morning mass was about to begin.

You slipped inside the ancient wooden doors, a waft of stale coolness tingling over your skin. The breath seemed to evaporate from your lungs as your gaze drew up, eyes scanning over the high marble pillars and bright frescos painted floor to ceiling. Warm orange and gold infused the air, the sting of spiced incense filling your nostrils. The low hum of foreign conversation echoed around the church from people filing between the wooden pews, facing the altar. And there he was.

Loki Laufeyson stood with a long wooden taper clasped gently between his fingers, re-lighting candles by the far side of the carved stone nave. Strands of waxy hair fell around his cheekbones, illuminated by a hundred flickering flames resting in the metal display.

A thick green vestment embroidered with gold hung over his body down to his calves, making him look even taller than he usually did. Pure white shirt sleeves billowed around his arms, swaying gently as he continued his intricate work unphased.

He looked deep in thought, a calm serenity bathing his sharp profile as he blew out the taper and watched the smoke waft aimlessly through speckles of swirling dust. Loki clasped his hands in front of him, flattening the luxurious fabric of his vestment against the washboard stomach you knew lay beneath.

He turned, bowing lightly towards the crucifix hanging above the altar before ascending the several low steps.

Fuuuuck, you thought; pussy suddenly throbbing. Your hand fumbled to the strap of your bag, lowering it and sliding subtly into the back row. A cold shock of wood pressed against the back of your bare knees, making you wince. When did I get so wet, you frowned; knowing exactly when, as Loki turned towards the congregation.

A bell chimed, summoning another priest from the side of the church. You drew the shawl tighter around your chest, feeling your heart thunder against the clench of your fist. A woman slid in beside you, tucking her hair nervously behind her ears before making a sign of the cross.

“Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo, Amen.” she murmured, running her wide eyes up and down the ridiculously handsome figure opening the large bible, poised behind the altar. You suddenly wondered if morning mass had always been this popular.

The low tinkle of bells echoed again as the service began. The crowd rose, fifty or so of the faithful bowing their heads as the undercover Avenger took centre stage.

He is loving this, you thought incredulously, seeing his arms rise at his sides. The drape of green and gold vestments shimmered in the light, a warm glow radiating upwards to his pale face bathed in morning bronze from the stained glass. The crowd before you sat down obediently on the lowering of his palms. You fumbled backwards, catching yourself on the edge of the long bench.

Loki’s stare ran over the congregation, covertly scanning every face like only his keen gaze could. It stopped on you, making your breath hitch. You thought you saw the tug of a smirk at the side of his lips, a glint in his eye. Or maybe it was the light.

The next twenty minutes passed in a religiously erotic blur, swathes of ceremonial chants in Italian at Loki’s command making your thighs squeeze together. Heresy, you thought; a shudder rolling down your spine as the god leant forward to kiss the gospel. I’d be burnt in the old days.

The second priest had blessedly taken over to give the sermon, the broken words you could understand not even registering as you watched Loki listen rapturously to the side in feigned interest. He knows I’m watching him, you scowled; realising that every casual smooth of his stomach, every clench of his perfect jaw was for you.

How you wanted to storm up the marbled aisle, grab his stupid fancy poncho in a fist and kiss him violently against the golden tabernacle. Might blow his cover, though; you thought, immediately thinking of what else you could blow as he gripped onto the tall candlesticks by the altar.

The vivid fantasy was broken as the congregation shuffled to a stand. The woman beside you adjusted her cleavage, shaking her hair back. Loki raised his hand. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.” he said, the practised words of prayer a chant - that velvet voice sinking through the heavy air like double cream. Even speaking in Latin, it was irresistible.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be your name

Your hips shuddered back against the wooden pew, bare skin of your thighs dragging against the grain. You recognised the tempo. How could you not.

“Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.” Loki spoke slowly, eye-fucking you menacingly from the top of the raised steps behind the lecturn. His lips hovered on ‘tuum’, a fizz of unstoppable need rising in your belly as you recalled its place in the prayer.

Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on Earth, as it is in heaven.

Dozens of voices chimed around you, their Italian lilt making the dead language sing. But it was only his earthen tones you heard. Only him.

It had always, only been him.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut, et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris” he rumbled in baritone, tilting his head.

Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive those who trespass against us

You raised your gaze to meet his, knowing it would be waiting as he stood with his large hands encasing the sides of the lectern by the altar. His eyes narrowed briefly, the subtle slant of his brows betraying his utter bemusement at your presence.

“Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.” he growled, the timbre of his voice making the woman beside you straighten. You could see her fingertips digging into the soft flesh between her knuckles, hands clasped in prayer.

And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.

How appropriate, you mused. You watched as Loki slid the bible from its place, holding it briefly aloft and placing a kiss against the leather before lowering it to his crotch in a gentle hold.

“Amen.” he murmured, solemnly; lowering his chin.

“Amen.” came the ringing response. “Amen.” you echoed slowly, squinting thoughtfully as Loki turned and sat with a smirk.

You sat back down, questioning everything. Did you think that when he saw you it would have been any different from how it ever was? That he would somehow wordlessly communicate that he was pleased to see you? That he had missed you? That he loves me too, you scoffed painfully; flinching as the organ sprang to life.

The communion procession began with those at the front of the church, each person pausing in front of the priest to receive god’s bounty. Loki and his counterpart held the small, circular host aloft, their lips moving before placing it on the recipients tongue. Kinky, you thought; before realising the woman to your right had risen and joined the slow moving queue. Fuck.

You shuffled behind her, rolling your eyes as she fiddled nervously with her hair, smoothing and re-smoothing the same strands. Your gaze wandered to the ornate figure of Christ hanging on the cross above the altar, his limp form getting closer and closer. Don’t look at me like that, you huffed to the disappointed looking Jesus; immediately switching focus to the floor beneath your feet.

“Corpo di Cristo…” a dark voice murmured. It was tinged with weighty intentions, thick memories of feral moans of unrestrained passion in your ear flooding your mind as you fluttered your lashes upwards. Loki’s eyes betrayed none of your history, his stare glazed; the twitch of one dark eyebrow the only indicator that he ever knew you at all.

“Amen.” you whispered hoarsely, parting your lips.

He placed the host gently on your outstretched tongue. Against your better judgement, you felt your lids flicker shut, the soft graze of his fingertip smoothing against wet muscle that longed for his touch.

It lingered, the melt of the wafer beginning to slide down your throat. His wide fingertip pulled imperceptibly at your bottom lip on its withdrawal, making your eyes shoot open. Loki’s brows raised, a light furrow reminding you that there was an entire congregation at your back. You gave a small nod towards him, scurrying around the front pews and back to your seat.

You could feel the burning heat in your cheeks for the rest of the mass, ten minutes feeling like an endless vat of time. The final blessing was, in reality, swift. A few chimes, swings of incense and murmurs of reverent praise and it was done.

Loki disappeared in procession with the other priest behind a door at the back of the church in a sway of luxurious, billowing green. The stillness of the holy space washed over you as attendees left in their own time. You checked your watch. Forty-five minutes. Had that been all?

The clap of your sandals against the marble floor echoed as you walked slowly around the walls, drawn to the beauty of the figures drawn by those long dead. You traced your fingers over cracks in the face of a rather grim looking Virgin Mary. “I know how you feel…” you whispered to no-one, feeling the plaster catch beneath delicate skin.

“I very much do not think you know how she feels.”

Your hand paused on the fresco, falling to your side as you turned. Loki stood resplendent before you, the folds of his holy garment making him look more achingly irresistible than he ever had before. You felt a frown crease your forehead, pursing your lips to stop a moan. It was worse up close.

Loki leant forward, casting a conspiratorial glance towards a small group of locals loitering by the door. “-due to the fact that for one thing, she is a virgin, while you...Agent...” he smirked. Your frown deepened.

“Keep your voice down.” you hushed, glancing over your shoulder. Satisfied, you looked back to Loki, his obsidian hair curled behind delicate ears revealing the white flash of his clerical collar. The bone structure you knew so well against the curves of your body sang in the mid-morning light through the windows, every iridescent inch of his skin glowing with tantalising radiance.

“I see you still managed to wear green.” you scoffed under your breath, making the priest chuckle lightly. “It’s Ordinary Time in the church calendar, Agent. Did you not read the briefing documents? It is the standard colour for the season” he drawled quietly, giving a reverent nod to his fellow priest heading for the door and the beckon of Rome beyond.

“They really think you’re one of them?” you said, turning towards a row of candles flickering to the side. Each one represented someone loved and lost, a prayer. A hope.

“Of course." he scoffed. "Father John Lockhart on pilgrimage from England. Why would they suspect?”

You ran your eyes down the silk embroidered vestment which hid his intensely muscular body. Just. The bulge of his biceps shifted beneath the billowing sleeves making your gaze hover. “Priests aren’t usually so…”

“Yes?” he goaded, raising an eyebrow in amusement. You dropped a coin in the basket, taking a candle and fingering the wick. “You don’t seem like the type, that’s all. I’m surprised you didn’t shapeshift.”

Loki chuckled. “My dear, you clearly don’t know Catholicism. A web of mysteries and contradictions which go far beyond their lore-bound texts...” he said, shifting so you stood with biceps pressing against each other.

“Are you considering a change of vocation then?” you quipped, playing with the wick between your fingers. He faced the wall of candles, but you could feel the stare of his eyes roaming the sliver of skin beneath the parted shawl. “Not quite.” he muttered absent-mindedly. “The reverence and theatrics are appealing I grant you, but there is far too much celibacy for my liking.”

The ghost of his breath skated across your collarbone, the unbearably small distance between you making every nerve in your body vibrate with desire.

“What are you praying for, mio figlio?” he murmured innocently under his breath as the wick of your candle caught flame from another. My child, you thought with a grimace, recognising the taboo of unmistakeable arousal deep in your pussy.

You watched the tear-dropped fire settle from its first rage, flickering gently as it came to terms with its place in the world. Setting it down amongst the others, you turned your chin to look up at him. The blues of Loki’s irises swam with green in the shadowed alcove, the dance of the candlelight illuminating him like a bygone Saint.

“Salvation.” you whispered quietly, voice catching.

Without knowing why, you bowed your head. The god’s fingers flew gently beneath your chin, tilting it upwards once more. His eyes were wide, lips parted as he inhaled softly. “Darling, I-”

“Padre?” a voice muttered tentatively behind you.

You and Loki both turned, seeing the fidgeting figure of the woman who had been your unknowing lust-buddy all through the service.

“Sì, figlia mia?” Loki replied gently, his hands disappearing back into the draped sleeves of his robes as he clasped them together. You rolled your eyes, pivoting back towards the wall of tealit flames. The thunder of your heart was a solid beat in your ears, pounding. His smooth voice rumbled in Italian, the sweet ministrations of his undercover persona clearly honed over the past two weeks. “Grazie Padre…” you heard the woman say, a tremble in her voice; before quick footsteps echoed away from you.

Loki chuckled, resuming his position by your side. “Impure thoughts about an inappropriate figure, apparently.” he whispered, barely contained glee bursting from the confines of propriety. “Wishes to make a confession to me personally at the next session. Imagine that. I wonder who it could be.”

“You are impossible." you sighed, a wave of jealousy roaring in your belly. "I bet you’ve been very popular here in that regard.” you said through gritted teeth, trying to focus on the wavering light of your candle. Salvation.

“Always so quick to judge.” he chuckled, drawing himself stoically upwards. “My dear, I am a priest.” he said, turning to face you. His nose was inches from your forehead, the empty church feeling stifling as the air settled around you both. “I have been a beacon of chastity...and contrary to popular belief, I do take my assignments seriously.”

Slowly, you met his gaze – the sincerity in his face, unmistakeable. “I didn’t think you took anything seriously, Father.” you said, mockingly; unable to stop yourself as you watched his eyes narrow at the words.

“Don’t you mean Daddy, Agent?” he smouldered, “Or am I nothing but a memory to you now with my brief absence?”

In two quick steps from his impossibly long legs, your back was flush against the nearest wall. The curve of the low archway hung dangerously close to Loki’s full height as he loomed above you. His forearm pressed to the marble cornicing above your head, trapping you like a lamb for slaughter.

A long sleeve of forest green shielded you from the gaze of a dozen judgemental statues, the collar around his neck straining against the weight of a hard vein that bulged ominously. “Why must you always think the worst of me?” he growled, the primal sound rumbling deep in his throat hoarse and wild. Familiar burning lust bubbled uncontrollably to the surface in those beautifully dangerous eyes as his chest heaved, daring you to respond.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you said, flustered as the shawl fell around your shoulders to the floor. Loki stepped closer, fingertips of the hand not affixed above your head squeezing into the flesh of your bare bicep.

“I think you know very well.” he spat, all traces of serenity gone as he blazed beneath a façade of restraint. “Why are you here? To taunt me? To parade yourself in front of me while you tease me with your endless games? Anyone else could have taken your place. Anyone.”

Your frown deepened, a deep ache blossoming in your belly as you tasted the rage on his every word. You shouldn’t have come.

“-Or am I wrong? Have you come to confess to me, darling?” he hummed goadingly, the feeling of his tips running down your aching skin making your shiver.

Sarcasm bit through his words, slicing through the intimacy of the moment. “And what better place? What better persona? Are you ready to admit your undying love for me and put this charade to an end? Or have your attentions wandered...”

A staggered breath surged in your throat as his hand traced down your cleavage, feeling your resistance falter. You could feel the swell of his hard erection through the drape of holy garb, the violence of his lust boiling beneath the shroud of theatrical consecration. The words were on the tip of your tongue- But then the game will be over for him. He will have won, you thought with a chill; And what then?

Loki’s brow furrowed, a jolt of his jaw taking you by surprise – like shaking off a fly. Whatever was in your head, he clearly didn’t want to hear it.

“And what about you…?” you managed to quiver through shaky breaths, your hands sliding tentatively over his shoulders. Loki tilted his head, confusion etched across his brow. In a brief second, you saw his bravado falter, features softening as he processed the possible meanings of your request. His tongue darted out, licking quickly over his cupid’s bow before biting his lip.

He shook his head, a solitary gasp of forced laughter gusting against your parted lips.

“I have just recalled I seem to owe you a certain...something, do I not?” he said casually, skating over his previous barbs as he tried to change the subject. You shuffled against the wall, attempting to pull him closer to you and failing. “More than one, actually.” you muttered, feeling the wet slick between your thighs grow hot. It was embarrassing how much you needed him. Above everything else, it was him.

“More than one?” Loki purred disapprovingly, tsk’ing as he raised an eyebrow. His hips dragged up your pelvis, every forbidden inch of his solid cock making you mad with need. You began to pant, as he thrust once against your torso. Creases had formed at the corner of his eyes; his outburst it seemed...forgotten.

He released the forearm from the wall above your head, a theatrical flourish of his arm making the heavy metal bolt across the doors of the church slam shut with an almighty clang.

“Here?” you gasped, feeling the embroidery of his sacred vestment scratch against your cleavage as he pressed his muscular torso against you. “But what about...you know.” You tilted your chin upwards towards the crucifix in explanation, the majesty of the surroundings somehow making you forget to whom you were pinned against.

“Don’t worry about Him, Agent…” Loki whispered, before his lips wrapped around your earlobe, sucking gently. “Mine are the only Holy Orders you shall be following today. Mine, the only sacrament your body desperately needs.” His dirty whispers hummed against your skin, falling deeper into waves of sin with each dark syllable. "Mine." he rasped quietly, the word melting against your breathy moans unheard, before fastening his lips to yours in a desperate kiss.

Continued in Holy Orders: Mercy Part of the Hostile F*cks Collection

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