#or just an pattern of connected swirls blooming out of a point under my skin

[lillybean730]

i used to draw on my arms all the time when i was bored, felt like doing it again now

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Waltzing with the Wallflower

I give you this humble offering of a tale bought to you by a writers brain that would not let her go to sleep until a rather ungodly hour. 

A period(ish) era AU. A warlord in a mask and a Princess very much out of her element.

Masterlist

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Waltzing with the Wallflower

The venue was a pulsating decadent display dripping in fine damask and brocade silks. The rich colours added to the overindulgent opulence of the night. This was the biggest night of the year and the most sought after one to receive an invitation for. This was a time when it didn’t matter who you were, if you didn’t know someone who could get you in, you weren’t getting past the entrance.

The high vaulted ceiling shimmered with the light reflecting from the fine crystal chandeliers and shadows danced as elegantly as the ones taking a turn on the dance floor courtesy of the many candles lit around the room for added ambience. The orchestral music harmonised with the murmurs of conversation giving way to an overtly sensual undertone being created.

Everything felt amplified tonight as people mingled hidden comfortably behind their ornate masks. Here was the one night the silent battle of the class system crumbled. Conversation flowed freely between the people gathered alongside the wine and champagne. Platers of exquisite finger foods travelled on gleaming silverware as it was transported around the room by the hired help.

As beautiful as it was and as mouth-watering as the food looked one hapless princess had found she had lost her appetite entirely. This was a far cry from her usual environment working as a maid in a governor’s house. To say it had been a shock to be handed the invitation would have been an understatement.

It had felt like a fantasy to see such intricate embossed golden filigree on the expensive cardstock displaying the venue’s address in bold calligraphy that almost send a pre-emptive warning of things to come. She was aware that her employer had a predisposition to play games and this was clearly another way for him to seek enjoyment witnessing someone struggling to tread water so clearly out of their depth. She had pushed those thoughts to the side and was determined to make the best of the night. It was after all a once in a lifetime party.

Of course, that was what she had planned. But naturally, there is a reason why there is such a saying about the plans of mice and men. Nervousness had taken its root in her stomach and even behind her ornate mask, she could feel herself crumbling under the pressure of the extreme shift in social rank. It was a concern severely lacking in foundation as for this one night she along with the other guests were all stripped of their positions and prestige. Tucked safely behind their masks for one night only they were all equal. Still, the feeling of an outsider looking in was a hard one to shift and she found herself edging more and more towards the candlelit recesses of the venue.

She was thankful to have been lucky enough to borrow a gown for the evening. The plain burnished silver bustier clung to her giving a comforting sensation of being hugged. The silver fabric travelled elegantly over her hips gathering like tumbling waterfall to one side revealing a contrasting black fabric that when it moved revealed a hidden pattern that was picked out by the changing light and movement as she walked. To be honest, everything she had on was currently on loan from the governor’s daughter. Once she had found out that her maid had received an invite to the masquerade, she began excitedly dressing her up like a giant doll.

A small sigh escaped her lips as she watched the prestige of the evening swaying to the harmonics of the string orchestra in a Venetian waltz on the dance floor. The gentlemen leading the ladies in the swirling dips and twirls as they enjoyed their night's dalliances.

“Pardon me but I believe you dropped something, my dear.” An elegant monotone voice disrupted her daydream and she turned to find a gentleman standing next to her. His crisp white formal wear accented with teal embellishments was breathtakingly striking but it was his mask that drew her attention most of all. Unlike the majority of the other guests, his seemed to be a homage to an animal spirit. Crackle glazed tones of cream and burnt gold. Highlighted in subtle shades of brown blended out in such a way that almost made you wish to touch it and see if it was real fur. Its pointed ears and elongated snout covered just enough of his face to keep all but his chiselled jaw and bowstring lips covered. A gloved hand was being extended to her and she noticed that he had hold of one of her silver hairpins.

“Oh! Yes, thank you.” She reached out only to have her own hand miss its mark. The lips of the masked man had been pulled into an alluring smile. The eyes behind the mask sparkled as they remained locked on her.

“Allow me to fix it for you. I would hate for you to lose such a fine piece again and I fear it might be too difficult for you to do so without some help.” His voice was soft and slow. It felt like a spell was being cast as her body apparently moved of its own accord and turned to allow him access to her long black hair. The briefest of touches brushed over her neck as his long fingers combed through her locks, arranging it so as to attach to the pin more securely.

“You have beautiful hair, my dear.” His voice was so close that it felt almost as if it was being dripped like honey directly into her ear. A pleasant if unexpected sensation tingled down her spine in response to him.

“Thank you, Sir. You are too kind.” Blushing slightly, she turned to him again and gave a polite bow with her head.

“Are you not dancing tonight?”

“I fear I would be too clumsy in a place such as this to do any song justice.”

“Nonsense. If anything is to be at fault this evening it would be the man who failed to showcase your beauty.” His tone was so adamant and sincere it caused her breath to catch in her throat as she looked at him. “If you are concerned with crowds perhaps a turn in the garden would help calm your nerves. It seems such a shame to cloister yourself away in the shadows when you were obviously meant to move in the light.” Once more he elegantly extended his gloved hand to her. Accepting his hand in a veritable trance-like state the pair moved to the large baroquian windows leading to the gardens.

The chilled night air caressed her skin as she was led down the stone staircase of the balcony into the beautifully manicured gardens. The scents of the nocturnal flora carried on the wind like the music from the ball, wrapping around her mind like an irresistible piece of trickery that tempted her to forget herself completely.

Stopping in an area that seemed to be planted mostly with roses and a large fountain, the gentleman released her hand. The loss of connection brought her out of her befuddlement. The light of the moon above eerily lit the area touching the flower petals around her making them look more delicate and otherworldly. Caught up in her observations she had failed to notice the gentleman until the movement of him was caught reflected in the water beside her.

“Are you feeling better my dear?” He was maintaining a respectable distance from her but somehow observing him on the surface of the mirrorlike water made her feel like he was embracing her.

“You bought me here because you were concerned for me?”

“Naturally.” His eyes behind his mask almost appeared to glow by moonlight. She had thought it was a trick of the light before but those eyes really were like finely crafted yellow glass.

“Pardon?”

“Cultivated beauty pales in comparison to natural creation. Take these roses for example.” He removed his gloves one finger at a time slowly enough that the movement of it made her swallow thickly aware of the subliminal sexual desire it stirred inside her. His bare pale hand touched the very edge of the blooming flower tilting it towards his masked face. “There is no denying their elegance and beauty but any fool can cultivate that kind of thing with enough time and money.”

“They are beautiful.” She unconsciously moved to his side gazing at the same flower sighing.

“Are you aware of the saying beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dear?” He paused for a few moments. Her large upturned eyes moved from the rose to him the stars from the sky above them swimming in the two pools of ink. “To me, these flowers are nothing more than poor man’s delusion. The real beauty can be found beyond the confines of such a thing.” He guided her towards the garden wall brushing aside the trailing ivy and clematis to reveal a hidden window. The small hollow arch had a sprawling view of a meadow that appeared to be right out of a fairy tale. “Wildflowers are always so much more alluring to me. After all, they are the ones that fought to survive against the odds of the fates themselves. No two are alike and the uniqueness of them tells a tale that binds one’s heart.”

“That is very poetic.”

“It is but one man’s truth.” There was something painful in his tone. As he looked out at the meadow sharing the view with her, she felt as if she was observing for the first time in her life a tortured soul. “Well, my dear. Would you care to dance?”

“You wish to dance with me, Sir?” He dropped the blanket of flowers back hiding the secret window once more.

“Why are you so surprised?” His question floated in the air over the rumbling chuckle that tumbled from his lips after it.

“I fear I am not good enough to be a very good dance partner.” The nerves she had felt at the ball were back with full force except this time her heart was also thumping in her chest as if providing her with a beat to march to her own destruction.

“I told you before my dear it is the responsibility of the man to showcase his partner’s talent. You need merely to entrust your body to me and let me take the lead and let me show the world how brightly you can shine.” The imperceptible shift as his body aligned itself to hers was so smooth, she did not realise they were dancing until she felt the slight warmth of his hand in hers.

She was lost in the soft spell he appeared to have cast over her. Even the faint sound of the fountain in the garden had melted away as she handed over control of her body to him. His body kept perfect time with hers as he drew out an elegance form her that she had no idea even existed. He was holding her like she was a delicate piece of art so fragile that she might break at any moment but he was also firm and commanding enough to guide her body effortlessly around the flowerbeds in a silent waltz in the moonlight.

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[alitheamateur]

The Grind-Chapter 10

Warnings: Violence. 

Round Two

Mendez wasted no valuable time in attacking Colton when the bell for the second round rang out. Three left jabs connected to Colt’s rock-hard jawbone, and he rattled his head as if to shake off the confused stupor clouding him.

“Don’t let him back you into the cage, Colton!! Get off the cage!!” Mac coned his mouth to project the cries of instruction.

The newly named “punisher” masked his stubbled cheeks and doubled over, flexing his abs to lessen the blow of the jabs he was suffering at the hands of The “Matador” Mendez. Colt was able to duck beneath the repetitive one-one-two-one-two pattern and escape. Danny turned swiftly on his right foot to directly meet a lightening surged, spinning back fist produced by Colton that couldn’t have been more perfectly executed had it been wrapped in a floppy red bow. The fastens of the championship belt were metaphorically loosening from the waist of the current title holder. Mendez collapsed wobbly to land at the feet of his assassin, while the rest of the room, myself included, rose in entirety for confirmation that Mendez was rendered unconscious.

A mumbled “shit” rolled over my bitten tongue when he scraped his busted body off the mat, and I realized there was still some fight left in him. Too much for my liking, as a matter of fact. Colt detected Danny was standing on loose bearings, fully primed to finish him off so that referee could lift his likely shattered hand in victory.

“Brett, I’ve taken many a hit like the one Ritter just slung, and I can promise you that Dan doesn’t even know where the hell he is right now.” The retired fighter turned announcer crumpled his nose as The Matador staggered clumsily about the confines of the cage.

Beads of sweat waterfalled from Colton, while it appeared he had turned Mendez’s sweat to blood now. Crimson mist from the brutal blow veiled my Colt’s face in sprayed decoration, leaving him to resemble a battling Spartacus. He was hunting the afflicted animal of his adversary, who was obviously giving his best efforts to remain untouched the dwindling minutes of the round. Effort that sadly for Danny was in vain as his Punisher cornered him with panther like reflexes, unleashing combative hammer fists to his crouched torso. A strident roar more chilling than that of any jungle predator crawled from Colton’s straining, veined throat as he was peeled away from Danny, who was now quaking in the momentary safety of his corner until the next bell rang out beginning the third round.

Colton’s posse catered to his unsteady breathing chest by smashing ice packs to his pecks, and blotching back muscles, leaving Mac to pour water into his gapping mouth. My eyes drooped in mesmerizing ignorance upon the realization of what the world of competitive fighting really entailed. Men who chose this career path were born with the hearts of gladiators, and unfaltering dedication that I deeply admired. When I wisped back to the present moment, my dilated eyes were matched with the two belonging to Colton. His mouth drawn into an expressionless line, jaws flexing in tension, he held onto my gazes for only a moment, however long enough to feel as if I would suffocate from the intensity. It was like he wanted to assure me that he knew I was there, and where exactly. And that he was okay.

One Sunday over brunch at his favorite greasy diner he shut up my harassment of questions.

“You’re gonna have to cool it with the worryin’, woman. Have some faith in me, ight! When you tell me about a story you been workin’ on you don’t hear me sayin’, ‘You sure you wanna do that?’ or ‘that’s a lotta pressure, baby.’ Because I know how amazing you are at what you do, and I got total confidence you’re gonna make that story your bitch. I appreciate the concern. Honestly love, I do. But it’s gonna be fine, I promise ya’.” And in his eyes, tonight in that ring, he reiterated that very same Sunday brunch pep talk.

 Round Three

Colton had appeared to have jumped the proverbial hurdle described as Danny Mendez. Now, we just needed to cross that finish line, and cross it first. There was no way Dan could withstand another round like the previous two, physically or mentally. He was all but a whipped pup whimpering at his master’s feet by this point, but Colt had to finish him. Seal the deal, as they say.

“C’mon, baby. C’mon, baby,” I chanted through clenched teeth, my nervous hands clasped to each side of the chair to protect my newly manicured nail polish from being whittled away in edginess.

Light hands were being tossed between the two men, nothing quite connecting initially. However, when Mendez carried out a right hook resembling Rocky  himself to Colt’s left cheek, he was triggered. From several feet back, separated by a metal cage, a waist high barricade, and two rows of people, I had chills from the look on his face. Raw rage was swirling in Colt’s blue eyes that must be like mood rings because I would swear with every ounce of me that they melted to a muddled charcoal grey shade as his murderous ferment grew.  Blow after blow. Swing, after swing, after swing rained from his hands of steel, some connecting, most not. His overpowering fury and lack of control was swelling all too quickly.

A wonky, sloppily executed move sent him clumsily into the grasp of Mendez, who perfectly seized the fluky opportunity. When Colt nearly knelt to reach for the leg The Matador, his nose and sharp cheekbone crashed to the thigh of Danny. The muscled, male flesh grappling along the blood tarnished canvas was more jumbled to me than the most abstract piece of Picasso. Finally, when the bodies settled a little, I was able to distinguish better what was unfolding. The Punisher’s clearly weakening forearm was constricted between the bulging limbs of Danny.  I subconsciously lunged out of my seat, for a millisecond forgetting what my role truly was here tonight. Not Colton’s girlfriend, not a woman concerned for the well-being of the man she loved, but a columnist for the Pilot. So, as quickly as I was up, I was regretfully seated, left to repel the blazing desire I had to hop that padded retaining wall and run to where Mac stood to be at the side of my Colton.

His face buried into the upper body of his attacker, who was using his hooked arms to ease Colt’s elbow to the back side of his neck. Silencing the uproar of the crowd, and the desperate grimaces coming from the ring, and I could almost hear the tendons buried under my boyfriends tanned skin creaking in stretch, nearing a tear.

“FOLKS IT IS HAPPENING RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW. If you’re not seeing this one first hand boys and girls, you should be! Danny with the flawless Kimura Lock, Brett. Will Ritter be able to escape this one?” The analyst screamed.

We’d been over arm bars, bare naked chokes, bow and arrow chokes, triangle chokes. Many nights I spent cross legged against the ring post watching Colton perform, and escape nearly every martial arts submission known to man. But the word Kimura didn’t draw any recognition when I heard the broadcaster scream it to the world. Seconds as long as the day ticked, ticked, ticked by. 44 seconds remaining… 41…….. 35……….. Suddenly, the tapping of a submissive hand to the mat. 

A hand strapped in black gloves. Gloves marked Ritter. Mendez was ceased by flailing hands of the ring official, signaling the end of the battle. His victorious hand raised to display, mouthpiece hanging out the left of his lip. In all my life, you could’ve never convinced me this egotistical, loud mouth, headache of a man would commit the act he did next. Squatting to his still face down, defeated opponent, Danny looped his arms under those belonging to Colton, hoisted him to his feet, and embraced him with patted hands into a hug. He had secured their heads together with a palm to crown of his submitters head, and began preaching unheard praises in his ear. Colton responded with knowing nods of appreciation, and the pair were torn apart for the official call from the referee. Not hanging around to partake in the celebration of his defeat, Colton snuck through the opened door of the cage, seeking the escape to his dressing room, away from the shutterbugs in his face, and microphones chasing him. I hoped maybe his eyes would happen to fall my way, wanting to gift him with a smile of support, or even a frown of understanding. But when the pace of his slightly bowed, unmistakably masculine gait increased toward the tunnel, never raising his face from the floor, a heap of strife bloomed in the pits of my stomach.    

 Regretfully I had to stay & witness “almighty” Mendez once again take the belt back into his slimy hands. This reign was beginning to smell stagnant to most of the fan base across the board, and Colton seemed to be the knight with the best chance at snagging the crown right from his head. Much, much to my surprise, Danny’s first post-victory radio interview began with the unexpected praises of one Colton.

“First of all, I want to thank Ritter for giving me what may have been the most challenging match of my life. The pendejo prick can throw a jab, I’ll give him that.”

Despite the uniquely gracious compliment, the guy still rubbed me the wrong way.

The arena emptied quite quickly, and most of the media frenzied their way to the locker room area for the press conference, coveting to be front row. But I was very familiar with how anything “post” event played out. The athletes and/or coaches usually took their painfully precious time for our brains to rot in waiting, then when they did eventually decide to grace us with their usually self-proclaiming marvelous appearance, it would include all of answering maybe two questions, before storming out. So clearly, I was in no hurry and I figured I had a solid half hour to check on Colt beforehand.

Beth, Michael, and Mac stood identically against the cold concrete of the walls, arms folded about their chest. His mom acknowledged me first.

“Liv dear, hey there!” she drew my hands into hers. “How are you? I’m sure as disappointed as we are…”

“It really is a shame. He had it won, too! He has nothing to be ashamed of though, that’s for sure! Even Mendez was kinda singing his praises out there. Guess that’s just how the world of fighting goes sometimes, unfortunately. How is he?”

Beth never released my hands when looking to her sternly quite husband standing to the left of her.

“Kid won’t see anyone, honey. Got Mac here guarding the door like a rabid dog. This is pretty typical for him. ‘Specially after a loss.” Michael seemed accustomed to said behavior from his son. Annoyed, but accustomed nonetheless.

Beth on the other hand, looked as if she was profoundly saddened that her baby boy didn’t need his momma during a time like this. Her lips tucked in, forehead scrunched in concern.

“Maybe I can raise his spirits a bit, hm?” I gently brushed my soft thumbs to the tops of her hands in efforts to comfort her, then released her hold.

Before I could even wrap a finger around the sliver handle of the door he was hiding behind, Mac’s forearm dropped even between my waist level and the door, reflexes like that of a cat on a tin roof.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I can’t let you go in there. Just doin’ as I’m told, you understand.”

Those rules didn’t apply to me, silly Mac. I’m the woman he loves for crying out loud! I’d hate to be you when he finds out you’re keeping me away for him, ya’ poor sap.

“Just tell him I’m here, Mac. Please?”

His eyes grew to resemble large, glossy marbles and he exhaled in annoyance, disappearing into the room. I combed and teased fingers through my hair, and casually reapplied a layer of Chapstick to my now festering lips resulting from the nervous biting throughout the fight. No sooner than the door had latched behind him, Mac had stepped back out into the now hectic hallway.

“I uh… I’m sorry, Miss Liv. Colt doesn’t wanna see anyone right now.”

“Did you specifically tell him it was ME, Mac,” I quizzically pried, laying both hands over my chest.

“Yes ma’am. Mentioned you by name…” He was bashful, almost embarrassed for me, and probably half pissed at his buddy for appointing him the bearer of bad news.

Shame flushed me head to toe. I would’ve buried my head six feet in the sand that very moment, mortified with humiliation. Let me clarify, I could’ve buried Colton himself six feet under the cold dirt first, then my head. My thumb started to flick my pointer finger, a nervous tick engaging.

“Oh darling, don’t take it personally, okay? The boy will be all apologies once he snaps out of this little tantrum he’s throwing. I’m sure if it.” Beth said unintentionally patronizing.

“No, no. Um… it’s totally fine. Yeah, um.. I’ve gotta get to the post conference anyways so… Beth, it’s so, so good to see you both. Maybe we can meet you guys for breakfast or something in the morning before you head home?”

I could feel my throat tightening with the extreme effort I was giving to hold the dam of tears from bursting. I wasn’t even necessarily hurt, it was the fact that he had made me look like an absolute fool, and in front of his parents, nonetheless. Now, I’m sure they saw me as just another spineless, dense airhead hanging on the coattails of their handsome, prized son.

“Good to see you too, girl. You be careful gettin’ home now.” Michael pointed a finger in my face, while patting my shoulder with the other.

The uneven patter of my heels echoed down the hall, denying the invitation to the pity party they were about to throw for me. The pouting baby wouldn’t face me? There would be no escaping me at the conference though. In just mere minutes, he’d be at my journalistic mercy, with a watching crowd. And he may just take his thrashing right then & there. The groveling look of remorse on his face would more than likely be worth the embarrassment.

TAGS: @torialeysha @eap1935

[impfiltration-archive]

The Victory Garden

Some drabble fun for @ardentsoldier​ because an idea I sprung up with them filled my head up with so many mental pictures that I needed to scrabble it all out

Warnings: Self-indulgent and too many plants

Haxus has never been much of a gardening person; overall, he found himself rather neutral when it came to any matters of botany. 

There were some Galra that were raised on colonies with lush vegetation, and it wasn’t uncommon for the cadets recruited from these lands to try and smuggle ferns or grasses into port. As a sort of momento to remind them of home. Others were raised in the protective hulls of civilian cruisers, and could get anxious when their world opened up to forever-rolling hills and way-too-tall trees teeming with unknown life. 

Haxus, on the other hand, was raised along the banks of Dreia-55. He found beauty in ripples and comfort from the sound of water running over rocks, but the ugly weeds and spindly trees that grew along the shoreline? He never developed any attachment to them, thus his sense of neutrality. 

He has found a new, twisted fascination in gardening, now, though. The Lions, you see, had elemental alignments, and this seemed to be transferred to their paladins.  

Some have asked if that was just an Earthling thing—they’ve come across a number of aliens with peculiar, evolutionary features—but the Champion never bled the sparkling, black goop he does now when first under their care. Which brings us back to the gardening. 

While fighting the Green Paladin, her (As opposed to the “his” they presumed) little drone knocked him over into the engine well. He was plummeting to his death, cursing his ignorance—why had he let himself underestimate an enemy just because of her baby-fat face—when he managed to snag himself on one of the ledges that narrow the drop. All the momentum went straight to wrists, making him keen in a way he hasn’t since interrogation-exposure training, but as the Galra mantra goes, “Victory or death,” so he clambered back up to the catwalk. 

Having lost his sword during his fall, Haxus had nothing but his agility and claws to finish his mission. So.. Actually, scratch that, since it seemed like he also had the element of surprise on his side. He found her running mad down the halls, cycling through the different files on her gauntlet and oblivious to his stalking. He was quick to slink up left and nick her along the side. 

He smirked, already counting down when his venom would make her to keel over with a whimper like a sick yupper, when all the sudden quiznaking plants burst out from her between her ribs—taking them both by surprise.

It started with an ivy-line that burst out before falling into a limp droop, followed by hard stems that twisted together into budding red ends that seal up all her cuts. Most bizarre of all, probably, was the a glowing, purple pulse that slowly seeped up the stalks protruding from the wound, outlining jagged lines of a nonsense pattern as it throbbed out. Likely the toxins meant to murder her, now being leeched out of her body.

It was unexpected (Was there any other word that fit?), but one of them was a child, and the other a solider who has been scarred again and again in learning not to lose focus. The battle was pretty much over by that point.

While she flailed and gawked at the leaves and stems spurting from her side, Haxus brought her down with a sickening thud, heel slamming against her breastplate. 

That seemed to bring her out of her stupor, since the paladin was actually trying to aim her bayard. Unfortunately for her, Haxus wasn’t playing any coy, battle games this time. His boot went crunch against her wrist, and her bayard scattered down the hall before it could take proper form. 

Then, in a fluid motion that could’ve only been trained into him, he brought out a magnetic pair of cuffs from his side-pack and slapped them onto her—ignoring her screech when he mishandled the hand that was very much bent the wrong way, now.

No mistakes this time.

With the paladin properly incapacitated, Haxus can’t help but admit that he finds himself rather.. curious about this strange occurrence.  

He walks a wide arch around her left, head tilted curiously before he bends down, glaring absolute contempt into her frenzied, tear-filled eyes. He at least meant to, but after neon-tipped clovers sprouted from wherever he dragged a claw over the girl’s face, there was no hiding his fascination. His fallen contender squirms, panting that sort of huff you only get under immense pain; still, the sprouts running down her cheek is a glaring blemish that absorbs most of the attention. 

Now, it’s important to know that Haxus is not exactly like Sendak. The Commander liked to play around with any of the more challenging adversaries they come across, whereas Haxus prefers his enemies cold and dead wherever he got a hold of them, but this little imp? The idiot child who nearly managed to wreck a 10,000 year long mission of the empire? The brat who almost hung all that humiliation on his shoulders? He’d be lying if he said it didn’t make giddy to watch her struggle and grimace. 

Besides that, he wasn’t quite sure how to kill her yet. Burning or spacing would probably work, but from what he’s observed, anything that could be inflicted right now would just result in more of those fauna-scabs or whatever they should be called. That’s when the twisted idea came to his head: Why doesn’t he start a garden?

He pressed the comm-piece fastened to his wrist before raising it up close to his face, hopefully muffling the girl’s sniffling about family this and help me that. “The saboteur has been aprehended; the mission is back on course.” 

Sendak replied back in a smooth voice. “Good.” Or was that a hint of relief he heard? “Get those engines back online.”

“Aye, Sir.” He waits for just the briefest of pauses. “There has also been a new development I’m sure you’ll find.. interesting.” 

Enter the greenhouse deck of the third fleet, some odd movements later.

A level like this is something you usually only find in specialized shuttles, given all the expenses and resources they require, but after returning the lions to Emperor Zarkon, they could’ve asked for commemorative luxite plates if they wanted to. But no, he was fine absorbing all the glory now fixed to his name (It came with so many benefits, like a bigger pension, a multitude of favors, his Commander’s pride), and requesting a housing unit for his little experiment. 

In there, Katie was more than less in a permanent kneel. Rather than shackles, Haxus had cut along her forearms and introduced the blood-smudged vines—all scrawling and numerous like veins—that spilled from her wounds to the soil covering any sign of metal floors. They had taken root quickly, keeping the girl bound to the ground like the life support system that left a mask strapped across her face, and multiple tubes either stuck into her back or arms. 

It all read her vitals or pumped in one nutrient or another. Whether she needs the oxygen-flow or not is debatable, but the specialists who examined her said it was better safe than sorry. Haxus could agree to that; however, he wasn't so attached to persevering this whelp's life that he'd let her medical needs to ruin this fine aesthetic of torture—meaning that all the blinking lights and vials those tubes are connected to were covered up by a thin layer of dirt, as well as the little viridescent buds littering the room.

One way or another, she was tethered to the ground and kept behind locked doors, where only those with the proper clearance could marvel at this spectacle:

Great big leaves flowing from her shoulder blades like wings, their ivory outline making wrinkles through the middle and enclosing the spry green that runs even deeper along their underside. Between these appendages sits big flower in per-bloom. 

The petals came together like a kiss, colored a pale pink turning fusa along its soft, frilly edges. As if guarding this rare beauty, a thorny batch of navy blue stems that fade into a softer blue around each pointed end circle it; although, some of them flowed past their ward. Several spill over her shoulders, others warp themselves into her remaining hair, while the rest stretch over an iris moss that runs down the girl's spine. Knobbly, bark patches infringe its borders before reaching well beyond her girth, housing all sorts of exotic plants that make up odd colors and shapes like small bushels of flowers with dovetail petals and patterned leaves. 

Even more of her back is claimed by succulents that build up like scales, or the swirling thistles, and while more flesh from her front has managed to survive, it is very much the same—like an overgrown garden bed. It stands much more shielded, though, having Katie’s own shadow conceal it; however, that also just accentuates the purple-ish, glowing outline of the different greenery dotting her stomach. 

Meshed with pale, smooth skin, it was all beautiful until you came to her human face—where green, leafy flakes slowly grew over her cheeks. As long as her mouth and nose were covered by the oxygen-mask, the girl’s eyes stand as her most prominent features, especially with the sad, mournful song those honey hues sang. They lost their watery beat a while ago—there were just too many tears—but they're the type of dim and tired seen on any work camp salve. 

Yet somehow they still manage to be expressive, as seen by the anxiety that filled them when the doors opened up to Haxus.

When she could still talk clearly—because the roots of all those stems and thorns hadn't grown into serrated, overlapping lines through her throat yet—she'd always try to make remark or another. Then, after the mask went on, she relied on her eyes to muster the same gusto or pleading she'd squeal before. Now, she just stared at him with an exhausted, half-distressed look, as if to ask, "What now?” 

That's how Haxus read it, and he responded in kind. "Don't wilt now, little Katerlily," he only called her the plant name he made up for her (Or more likely scrounged from her files) these days, "I brought a new addition for you."

Katie, no, the Katerlily would’ve burst into a sob right then if she still could. She didn’t want anymore, he’s already done more than enough—she can feel all these things growing through her insides. 

Unable to cry, she’s limited to staring insecurely at the potted seedling in his hands. It didn’t look like much, just an ugly, little weed, but where he usually just maimed her in some grizzly manner, then kept whatever grew out of those wounds watered, there were other times that he’d jam in different seeds or sprouts wherever he sliced her up to see what would bloomed. 

That’s how she ended up losing her voice to thorns, and the pads of her feet to sundew buds—perhaps the most excruciating points of her torture.

Haxus could feel her apprehension as she gawked, but that just made him light in the chest. It shows in his smug face, and the spring in every daunting step he takes around the room.

“I’m sure you’re going to love it. An.. acquaintance of mine gave it to me, after gasping on about some hackney metaphor all about how ‘it doesn’t look like much on the top, but the extensive root system underneath is beautiful all on it’s own’.” He paused to roll his eyes, quietly gagging to himself, too. He was never a fan of all the annoying poetics that people try to jam into every little thing. 

Haxus perks up, though, when he sees the Katerlily shuddering and trying to discreetly look over her shoulder to see what he’s doing, as if she doesn’t know exactly where this is going.

Just to goad her even furthur, he lets his dramatic pause swell some more, then walks up right behind her with a click, click, click of his heels. Her shoulders go rigid with how tense they are, and she keeps waffling between peeking or just letting her head hang—still unsure whether it’s better to watch or look away. It’s delicious enough of a sight to make him purr his words. “I’m sure you’d love the priggish sentiment it represents.” 

There’s a quiet shing of a dagger being unsheathed, and the Katerlily finally settles on nestling her chin as close to her chest as she can. It helps, she likes to tell herself, when you count, so she tries focusing on that instead of anything happening around her.

1, 2, 3—There’s a small clatter as Haxus lets the pot for his ugly plant fall, probably holding the newly uprooted sprout in his dagger-free hand—4, 5—What’s that shuffling?—6, 7.... 8.......

All the sudden there’s an eruption of pain from the small bit of space between her kidneys, where Haxus plunges his knife before pulling it back to create a pocket of fat and muscle. 

It feels so unnatural—she can actually feel Haxus’ fingers in her as he jams the sprout into the wound—and oh god, it hurts.

The Katerlily crumples into a series of screams. They’re muffled and strained from her mask and punctured voice-box, but they’re tortured screams all the same, and pair well with the way she contorts, arching her back with trembling shoulders and closing her eyes as tightly as possible.

Haxus watches it all with a cool, relaxed posture, making a quiet, “Oooh,” sound as he watched her skin meld over the protruding head of the weed then wriggle around beneath her first few layers of fat and muscle.

It was slow at first, that extensive root system from before was just starting to take root, then it erupted into fleshy ripples and the squishy sound that comes from guts. At that, the Katerlily thrashed about screeching, almost covering the beeping of monitors from someplace around the deck. If his ears weren’t so sharp, Haxus would’ve missed them, not that he was going to do anything about it. 

The beeping was the monitors indicating one health failure or another, but as far as he’s aware, this is a perfectly acceptable death for a rebel brat.  

Today’s not her day, though, since she’s still twitching when the bulging eventually stops. In another tick she’s limp and panting loudly, shaking like—for lack of better wording—a leaf. 

Haxus imagines she would’ve collapsed into a puddle of her own bile if in the position to do so, but she can only rest on sore knees while her head lolls around from what he presumes is a rapidly fading consciousness. 

Well, there was no fun for him here anymore. He kicks the little pot from earlier to the side and sheaths his weapon, letting his hand graze over some of the Katerlily’s leaves and branches as he strolls past her. “Well, I suppose a creature like you still requires sleep.” 

His claws come up to where her hair and thorns connect as he breaths out a quiet laugh to himself. “Let’s see if that’s still the case after we plant something in the back of your head.” It seems as if his victim is too tired to even try to flinch her head away, so he just tuts and leaves the greenhouse.

The doors slide close behind him, and his garden left to grow.

[warp6]

The Incongruity of Softness

I offered 5-10 sentence fics as a favor in return for readers of my WIP doing me the favor of giving me some extra feedback, and, as mentioned when I filled mia-cooper’s prompt, I’ve never kept a fic to a short word count in my life, sooo... This is this for the inimitable @jhelenoftrek. It ended up blooming even farther over the supposed sentence count than Mia’s and became enough of a Thing that I put in on AO3, which I decided to roll with since Helen wrote me not one, but TWO, fics when I was sick/sad about being Left On The Wrong Side Of The River this spring. So she deserves much thanks for that as well! <3

(And yes, I promise am still working on the actual WIP that started all this.)

Prompt: I don't see nearly enough writing about Chakotay building things. Can you write something about him in a wood shop for me?  Or making something with his hands?

content warnings: past battle/intense violence description; past major injury description; food mention

Fun Facts:

The Nechayev knitting joke is a bit of a mythology gag (let’s pretend I planned it that way rather than realizing the happy coincidence as I was already typing it out), since Natalija Nogulich is an IRL knitter!

Tomorrow today, June 24th, is, in fact, National Praline Day. Happy NPD!

Read on AO3, or...

The circular saw bites through the soft pine-like wood, spraying aromatic sawdust across the floor. The tarp spread over the carpet under my makeshift workstation shows off the pale specks like stars, except in the places where my feet have scuffed through the drifts as I work. If the tarp were a galaxy, my footprints would be...black holes? Exceedingly large black holes wider than Federation space?

Oh, well. No analogy’s perfect.

I have eight front chair legs cut--a much simpler process, merely trimming the ends of the pre-cut alien wood--and twenty-one days to cut these angled back legs and all the other pieces, and assemble the four chairs and their matching table. I could have made any other gift for the newlyweds, of course, any of them less time-consuming, but I wanted to do this. A family should have some furniture that isn't replicated.

Kathryn has been making a lace table runner, knitting the delicate pattern by feel. Sometimes as I pass by her door, I can hear her voice querying the computer about stitch count or pattern rows, and the calm tones of Voyager’s response. At our first dinner back in the mess hall after the mission, I told her--Kathryn, not Voyager--that she should save her time. After all, what crewmen would dare use a tablecloth made by their captain? She just laughed and told me we should visit the newlyweds for dinner, and then they’d have to. And when we’re there, Chakotay, you spill just a drop, just a drop of red wine on it. Then it’s no longer flawless, and they can use it when they have a gaggle of fat, rambunctious babies and they’re all throwing mashed carrots across the table.

I don’t know. I don’t think I’d risk staining a gift from my commanding officer, even if my other commanding officer messed it up first.

I would. If Admiral Nechayev gives me a table runner when we get home, I’ll use it.

Well, Kathryn, you’re not just anyone.

The last scrap falls from the end of the fourth back leg, and I blow the sawdust from it--more a ceremonial gesture than a practical one--and walk across the room to place it with the others. Every time I stand for a while, I forget the newly healed bones in my foot, and every time I start walking, the unevenness of my gait reminds me. Enough crew members were injured during the mission that, in consultation with the brides-to-be, we ended up postponing Mariah and Evelyn’s wedding by a month and a half, long enough to get repairs comfortably underway, and for most of the wounded to recover or at least get mobile again. And, last but not least, for some of us to catch up on our gift-making.

It hardly seems fair, Tom opined the other day, leaning his elbow on our table in the mess hall. You two are pretty much obligated to make a gift for everyone who so much as gets a haircut on this barge. Births…weddings…milestone birthdays… The Captain made her future assistant a baby blanket way back in our old glory days in Kazon space, and now you’re both roped into making cutesy gifts for the next few decades.

Some of us might consider that a stroke of luck, Tom, Kathryn drawled in return. We have a chance to exercise our creative abilities, much as you do with your holodeck programs. In fact, I can’t help but notice that you’ve presented a new holonovel or setting to just about everyone who has had a milestone life event on board.

Yeah, Tom, chimed in Harry. We can’t help but notice.

Well, that’s different. I’m always trying to hone my skills, and if I happen to be working on something I think someone might like around the time they’re having their bash, I gift it to them. It’s not as though I suckered myself into Starfleet arts-and-crafts for the next few decades. He leaned back, smirking broadly, and the young ensign sitting next to him stiffened, eyes widening as though she expected lightening to strike our table in retribution for a mere lieutenant calling his commanding officers suckers.

Kathryn, of course, simply rolled her eyes and laughed, and I had to duck my head to hide my amusement at poor Ensign Blain’s shock at the humor--or what passed for it--on display at the officer’s table. This was the first time she had sat at the same table as her captain, or at least, the first time she had intentionally brought her tray to the table where Kathryn was sitting for a full meal, as opposed to Kathryn sitting at her table for a few minutes as she made a few connecting-with-the-crew rounds.

I could tell, without a word from Kathryn, that the first time she went down to the mess hall after the mission, she was assuming she would be eating close to alone. That instead of officers and crewmen joining the table where she sat with whoever on the senior staff was free, they would be inclined to avoid her, consciously or not. I could tell by the resigned yet still tense set of her jaw; from the way she took her tray and retreated to the corner table, taking a chair facing out towards the viewport so that no one would have to look at her.

It was with fierce pride and gratitude that I watched as, instead, more crewmembers than ever joined her. The trend continued over the following weeks: crewmembers of all stripes, from the middle-aged officers who were Kathryn’s closest friends off the senior staff to young, mildly terrified crewmen and everyone in between. Some of them were awkward about looking at Kathryn, but to a person, they were tactful. And they were there. I was still walking with leg braces for the first few weeks while my crushed ankle bones regenerated, and it was at once surreal, touching, and hilarious to see two young lieutenants bounce out of their seats at once when I made to push my chair out mid-meal. Did I need more ketchup? Yamok sauce? Mustard a la Neelix?

Glancing at Blain that day, I found myself thinking of the long, tense week near the beginning of our journey when she’d been laid up in sickbay with an alien virus. It was before many tight friendships had had time to form onboard, and it was Kathryn who dressed in full bioprotective gear every day after her bridge shift and sat beside her very young officer, reading aloud and talking to her and dozing beside the biobed through the night.

Reaching the midpoint of the next back leg, I power down the circular saw and reach for the jigsaw. I can’t help but smile as I inhale the scent of the smooth, pine-like alien wood gained in that long-ago trade with the Tak Tak and watch the sawdust drift through the air like stars.

I killed five or six aliens on the away mission. At first, it was a firefight, dodging behind rocks and into sodden ravines, but we lost our weapons before long in the crush of bodies and the driving rain. After that it was a melee. Fists against skin, boots against teeth, bodies slammed into the mud and piling on top of each other.

The first two I shot, phaser set to stun, but in a half-drowned bog, with the lead pellets of the enemy weapons flying through the air, that was certain enough death. The next four I fought hand-to-hand, and it’s the last one I wrestled in the mud, the one who got his hands around my throat after I’d been shot, that I’m not sure whether or not I killed. There was a crack even over the sound of the rain as I got a knee into his chest and pushed, but I didn’t see whether his eyes went glassy or not. I didn’t see anything. I woke up in sickbay.

Five or six. The or bothers me. I took lives, and would like to know how many. But to choose a number would also feel wrong, as though I were trying to make something as real as life and death falsely pat for the sake of something as immaterial as memory.

So. I killed five or six aliens on the away mission. Kathryn must have killed a similar number in the melee, and at least a dozen more when she crawled into the enemy shuttle’s engine and triggered the explosion that ended the battle and ripped half of her face apart.

The chair legs have all come out well so far, the silken wood with its beautiful streaks and swirls cutting as easily as the pine they smell so similar to. I run my fingers gently over it as I set the penultimate back chair leg in the corner, wondering at the incongruity of this softness in hands that so recently spilled blood and broke bone.

I wonder if Kathryn feels the same dissonance, carefully knitting her domestic wedding gift by feel as the biobandage and headgear wrapped around her face do their slow work, regenerating muscle and cartilage and restoring the majority of her sight. I wonder if she has made a count of the lives extinguished by her actions and under her hands; if she has or’s, and whether she finds those uncertainties a torment or a comfort or besides the point. I wonder if the table runner will smell like her when it is finished, coffee and perfume.

The final back chair leg emerges from the alien timber, and I blow away the sawdust, setting the saw back on my makeshift worktable. Front legs and back legs are all stacked in the corner behind the couch. I’ll begin assembly after dinner, or failing that, after tomorrow’s shift--Neelix is hosting a dessert celebration tonight in honor of an ancient Earth holiday he rooted out of the database, National Praline Day. He declined to mention what Earth nation it was that set aside an entire day to honor pralines, but one thing is certain: like all of Neelix's cross-cultural culinary ventures, tonight will be an experience to be remembered.

I suspect that Kathryn will kick my ass if I walk over and imply she might need help getting to the mess hall--aside from her habit of self-reliance, Starfleet ships’ computers provide plenty of well-honed guidance for blind visitors and crew.

Still, we are both going to the same place.

I ring the chime right as the door opens and she emerges, stopping on her heel just before she collides with me.

“Come to escort your captain to dinner?” Her voice is amused, but with just a trace of warning.

“Come to ask if my captain will escort me.”

She chuckles and steps forward, reaching for me. Her hair swings near my face as she takes my arm, and I catch the scent of her, coffee and perfume.

“You smell like pine.” She is smiling at me, her lips curving upwards as much as they can around the thinner, contoured bandages covering the bottom of her face. “Were you working on the gift again?”

“Just now. Were you?”

“I was.” We step into the turbolift. “It’s relaxing, isn’t it? Working with one’s hands?”

“I’ve always found it to be.”

We ride in comfortable silence, which Kathryn breaks again as we step out of the lift. “Have I ever told you how much I appreciate that you make time for these things? Gifts; helping to coordinate celebrations? It’s not in your job description--well, not to this degree--and I appreciate you--” She pauses. “I could direct you to do a basic level of party planning, but...I could never order you to be the kind of XO who builds chairs for crewmen who are getting married. And I…appreciate that you are that kind of XO, Chakotay.” She’s already using her Captain Voice in preparation for dinner, all graceful humor and round speech-giving vowels.

“Kathryn, I think it’s safe to say that we both do more than a few things outside of our Starfleet regulation job descriptions.”

“Maybe so,” she allows with a light chuckle. Her footsteps abruptly slow as we approach the mess hall doors, though, and she halts just before they will sense out motion, turning to me and placing a hand on my chest.

“I’m glad we can do this,” she says softly. “I’m glad that, after everything, you’re still…we’re both still people who choose to do this.” With that, she turns back towards the doors and leads us through, gracefully unlinking her arm from mine as we mingle into the dinnertime crowd.

I’m glad too.