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daniel-walter-hill · 3 months ago

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Crucial Golf Skills Every Junior Player Needs to Learn

Golf is a game of precision, patience, and practice. For young players, mastering essential skills early can set the foundation for a lifetime of enjoyment and success on the course. Here are some of the critical skills every young golfer should focus on to improve their game.

The Fundamentals of a Proper Grip

A solid grip is the cornerstone of a good golf swing. It influences the direction and flight of the ball, making it crucial for young players to get it right from the start. There are three primary types of grips: the overlapping grip, the interlocking grip, and the 10-finger grip.

Overlapping Grip: Also known as the Vardon grip, this is the most common grip among professional golfers. The pinky finger of the trailing hand (right hand for right-handed golfers) overlaps the index finger of the lead hand (left hand for right-handed golfers).

Interlocking Grip: In this grip, the pinky finger of the trailing hand interlocks with the index finger of the lead hand. This grip is often recommended for players with smaller hands.

10-Finger Grip: Also known as the baseball grip, all ten fingers are placed on the club without overlapping or interlocking. This grip can provide more control and is sometimes recommended for beginners.

Young players should experiment with each grip to find what feels most comfortable and provides the best control.

Perfecting the Stance and Posture

A balanced stance and proper posture are essential for a consistent and powerful golf swing. Young players should focus on the following key elements:

Feet Position: Feet should be shoulder-width apart, with the lead foot slightly flared outwards to allow for a full hip rotation. Knee Flex: Knees should be slightly bent to provide stability and balance. Spine Angle: The spine should tilt forward from the hips, not the waist, maintaining a straight back. This position helps with balance and power during the swing. Weight Distribution: Weight should be evenly distributed between both feet, slightly favoring the balls of the feet rather than the heels.

Developing a Consistent Swing

A consistent swing is vital for accuracy and distance control. Young golfers should break down the swing into its key components to practice effectively:

Takeaway: The first part of the swing, where the club is taken back from the ball. This should be done smoothly and in a one-piece motion, with the arms and shoulders moving together.

Backswing: During the backswing, the club should be brought up and back while maintaining a straight left arm (for right-handed golfers) and a 90-degree angle between the left arm and the club shaft.

Downswing: The transition from backswing to downswing should be smooth, with a focus on generating power from the hips and legs, not just the arms.

Impact: At impact, the clubface should be square to the ball, and the weight should be shifted to the lead foot. The hands should lead the clubhead through the ball.

Follow-Through: A full, balanced follow-through is crucial for maintaining direction and power. The swing should end with the torso facing the target and the weight fully on the lead foot.

Mastering the Short Game

While driving the ball long distances is impressive, the short game is where scores are truly made. Young players should dedicate ample practice time to chipping, pitching, and putting.

Chipping involves short, low-trajectory shots that are typically played from just off the green. Key tips for effective chipping include:

Club Selection: Use a wedge or short iron to control the trajectory and roll of the ball. Setup: Stand with feet close together and weight slightly on the lead foot. The ball should be positioned just back of center. Stroke: Use a putting-like motion with minimal wrist movement. Focus on making clean contact with the ball and controlling the distance.

Pitching involves higher-trajectory shots played from further off the green. Important aspects of pitching include:

Club Selection: Use a sand wedge or lob wedge to achieve the desired height and spin. Setup: Stand with feet shoulder-width apart and weight evenly distributed. The ball should be positioned in the center of the stance. Stroke: Use a slightly longer and more wrist-involved swing than for chipping. Focus on controlling the height and spin of the ball to stop it quickly on the green.

Putting is perhaps the most critical skill in golf, as it directly affects the score on every hole. Key putting tips include:

Grip: Use a grip that feels comfortable and allows for precise control of the putter face. Stance: Stand with feet shoulder-width apart and eyes directly over the ball. The ball should be positioned slightly forward of center. Stroke: Use a smooth, pendulum-like motion with minimal wrist movement. Focus on maintaining a consistent tempo and hitting the ball squarely.

Understanding Course Management

Course management is about making smart decisions on the course to maximize scoring opportunities and minimize risks. Young players should develop a strategic approach to each hole, considering factors such as:

Club Selection: Choose clubs based on distance, wind conditions, and hazards. It's often better to play conservatively and avoid trouble. Shot Placement: Aim for the safest parts of the fairway and green, even if it means playing away from the flagstick. Playing to Strengths: Recognize personal strengths and weaknesses, and plan shots accordingly. For example, if a player is confident with their short game, they might choose to lay up rather than risk a difficult approach shot.

Mental Toughness and Focus

Golf is as much a mental game as it is a physical one. Young players should work on developing mental toughness and maintaining focus throughout the round. Key aspects of mental training include:

Pre-Shot Routine: Develop a consistent pre-shot routine to help focus and reduce anxiety. This might include visualizing the shot, taking practice swings, and deep breathing. Positive Thinking: Stay positive and focused on the present shot, rather than dwelling on past mistakes or future outcomes. Patience and Resilience: Golf can be frustrating, but it's important to stay patient and resilient. Learn to bounce back from bad shots and maintain a steady, calm demeanor.

Building Physical Fitness

Physical fitness plays a crucial role in a young golfer's ability to perform consistently and avoid injury. A well-rounded fitness program should include:

Strength Training: Focus on building strength in the core, legs, and upper body to generate power and maintain stability. Flexibility: Incorporate stretching exercises to improve flexibility and range of motion, which are essential for a full and fluid golf swing. Cardiovascular Fitness: Engage in aerobic exercises to build stamina and maintain energy levels throughout the round.

Seeking Professional Instruction

While self-practice is important, young golfers can benefit greatly from professional instruction. A golf coach can provide personalized feedback, correct swing flaws, and offer tailored drills to improve specific areas of the game. Regular lessons and practice sessions with a coach can accelerate progress and build a strong foundation for future success.

Mastering the essential golf skills takes time, patience, and dedication. By focusing on the fundamentals, developing a consistent swing, honing the short game, practicing smart course management, building mental toughness, maintaining physical fitness, and seeking professional instruction, young players can significantly improve their game and enjoy the many rewards that golf has to offer. With these skills, young golfers will be well on their way to achieving their full potential on the course.

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corebionics · 8 months ago

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Hitting a driver is one of the most exciting shots in golf, but it can also be one of the most challenging. Here are the basic steps for hitting a golf driver: Setup: Start by setting up your stance. Your feet should be shoulder-width apart and your toes should be pointing towards the target. The ball should be placed just inside your left heel (for a right-handed golfer) and your weight should be evenly distributed between your feet. Grip: Grip the driver with your top hand first, positioning your thumb on top of the grip. Then, place your bottom hand on the club, overlapping your top hand. Make sure your grip is firm but not too tight. Posture: Your spine should be straight, and your shoulders should be relaxed. Tilt your upper body slightly away from the target to help create the proper angle of attack. Backswing: Begin your backswing by turning your shoulders and hips away from the target. Keep your arms straight, and your wrists firm. Make sure you don't sway your body or head back and forth. Downswing: Start your downswing by turning your hips back towards the target. Your arms should follow, with the clubhead lagging slightly behind. As you approach the ball, begin to release the clubhead and follow through towards the target. Follow-through: After you've hit the ball, continue your swing towards the target. Your weight should shift onto your left foot (for a right-handed golfer), and your chest should be facing the target. Remember, hitting a driver takes practice, and it's important to work on the fundamentals of your swing to improve your consistency and accuracy.

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fredtwomey · 9 months ago

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Basic Lessons of Golf

Certainly! Here’s a breakdown of some basic golf lessons that beginners typically start with:

Grip:

Start by holding the club with your non-dominant hand (left hand for right-handed golfers, right hand for left-handed golfers).

Place the grip diagonally across the fingers, with the thumb pointing down the shaft.

Wrap your fingers around the grip, ensuring a comfortable yet firm hold.

Position your dominant hand below the non-dominant hand, creating an overlapping or interlocking grip.

Stance:

Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart.

Position the ball in line with the instep of your lead foot (left foot for right-handed golfers, right foot for left-handed golfers).

Bend your knees slightly and tilt your upper body forward from the hips.

Keep your spine straight and your weight evenly distributed between both feet.

Posture:

Maintain a relaxed posture with a slight bend at the waist.

Keep your chin up and your eyes focused on the ball.

Allow your arms to hang naturally and comfortably in front of your body.

Ensure your shoulders are parallel to the target line.

Alignment:

Position your feet, hips, and shoulders parallel to the target line.

Use a club or alignment rod on the ground to help visualize the target line.

Aim the clubface at the target, ensuring it’s square to the target line.

Swing:

Begin with a smooth takeaway, keeping the clubhead low to the ground.

Rotate your shoulders and hips away from the target while maintaining your posture.

Transition your weight to your back foot as you reach the top of your backswing.

Initiate the downswing by shifting your weight onto your front foot and rotating your hips towards the target.

Keep your arms extended and wrists firm through impact, striking the ball with a descending blow.

Follow through with a full rotation of your body, finishing with your chest facing the target and your weight on your front foot.

Short Game:

Practice chipping and pitching to develop touch and control around the green.

Focus on maintaining a consistent tempo and rhythm in your putting stroke.

Experiment with different clubs and techniques to find what works best for you.

Know More

#Golf

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golfswingdoctorca · 11 months ago

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Mastering Your Golf Swing: 3 Easy Steps to a Professional Swing Plane

A powerful and consistent golf swing is the Holy Grail for every golfer, whether you're a seasoned pro or a weekend warrior. One key element that can significantly improve your game is achieving a professional swing plane. The golf swing plane refers to the imaginary surface that your club head travels along during the swing. A precise and well-executed swing plane can lead to greater accuracy, distance, and overall performance on the golf course. In this guide, we'll explore three easy steps to help you achieve a professional swing plane and elevate your golf game to new heights.

Step 1: Establishing a Solid Setup

The foundation of a professional swing plane starts with a solid setup. Begin by addressing the ball with your feet shoulder-width apart, ensuring that your weight is evenly distributed between both feet. The ball should be positioned in line with the instep of your lead foot, allowing for proper alignment. As you take your grip, make sure your hands are positioned directly below your shoulders, promoting a neutral and natural stance.

Next, focus on maintaining a straight back with a slight tilt at the hips. This posture sets the stage for a more efficient and on-plane swing. Visualize a straight line running from the club head through your hands and up to your shoulders – this alignment is crucial for achieving a consistent swing plane. Take the time to perfect your setup, as it forms the basis for a professional swing that can be repeated with accuracy.

Step 2: Mastering the Backswing

The backswing is a critical phase that sets the stage for the downswing and impact. To achieve a professional swing plane during the backswing, prioritize a one-piece takeaway. Ensure that your club, hands, and arms move together as a cohesive unit. This promotes a smoother transition and helps keep the club on the desired plane.

As you initiate the back swing, focus on turning your shoulders while maintaining a stable lower body. Avoid excessive lateral movement, as it can lead to inconsistencies in your swing plane. A common mistake is over-rotating the club face, resulting in an open or closed position at the top of the back swing. To counter this, practice a controlled and controlled rotation of the shoulders, keeping the club face square to the target line.

Step 3: Executing a Controlled Downswing

The downswing is where the magic happens, and achieving a professional swing plane at this stage is crucial for a powerful and accurate shot. Start the downswing by initiating the movement from the lower body, allowing the hips to lead the way. This sequence promotes a natural inside-out swing path, contributing to a more on-plane delivery to the ball.

Focus on maintaining a smooth and controlled tempo throughout the downswing. Avoid the temptation to rush, as it often leads to a loss of control and balance. As you approach impact, ensure that your hands lead the club head, allowing for a crisp and well-connected strike. The goal is to deliver the club head to the ball on the same plane established during the back swing, resulting in a consistent and professional swing.

Conclusion:

Achieving a professional swing plane is within reach for every golfer, regardless of skill level. By mastering the basics of setup, back swing, and downswing, you can build a foundation for a repeatable and effective golf swing. Consistent practice and a focus on these fundamental steps will lead to improved performance on the course. Elevate your game and experience the joy of a professional swing plane with Golf Swing Doctor – the key to unlocking your full golfing potential.

#professionalswingplane #golflessonsblogs #golfgame #swingebook #3easystepsbook #sportsbook #ebook #golfbook #onlinegolftips

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pxgblog · 1 year ago

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5 Tips to Master Shoulder Movement in Your Golf Swing

Still mastering the mechanics of your golf swing? Looking for a way to hone your game even further? Do you wish you could get more distance on your shots? All of these can be improved by working on your shoulder movement. Yes, your shoulders.

By perfecting the shoulder mechanics of your swing, you can take your game to the next level. Suddenly, your shots with drivers and fairway woods will feel much stronger and smoother. Here are a few tips to keep in mind to help elevate your game.

Turn, Don’t Tilt

A lot of golfers tend to fake their way through shoulder movement. Instead of using their shoulders to build power, they tilt their spine on the backswing. When you do this, you’re relying entirely on your arms for strength and losing accuracy because your posture is out of balance.

So, instead of tilting your spine, turn your shoulders. At the end of your backswing, your chest should be facing backward with your shoulders perpendicular to the ball. Complete the rest of your swing in slow motion until you get a feel for turning your shoulders without tilting your spine.

Rotate Your Hips, and Your Shoulders Will Follow

You don’t have to have gymnast-level flexibility to increase the range of motion in your shoulders. All you have to do is get your whole body involved in your swing.

A tip that can help is focusing on your hips. Just by moving your hips, it can feel easier to turn your shoulders, and you get more full-body muscles involved in your swing. Let your hips work with your shoulders and experience the difference it makes.

Front Shoulder Down, Back Shoulder Up

To get a good angle on your swing and maintain the proper planes of motion, your shoulders are going to angle as they rotate. Your goal should be a downward angle, with your lead shoulder pointing slightly down at the top of your backswing while your back shoulder points up.

If there were a straight line connecting your shoulders, that line would point toward the ball. That way, you aim all the force you’ve generated in the right direction.

Pull Your Club on the Backswing

A common source of shoulder problems is the movement of your club during your backswing. If you start your motion by pushing the club across your body with your lead arm, it’s hard to get your shoulders to turn smoothly.

Instead, make a concerted effort to pull the club back, starting with your rear shoulder. Not only will this naturally lead to a turn, but it will also get stronger muscles involved that can help you generate more power every time you swing your golf drivers.

Even Out Your Shoulders on the Downswing

As you start your downswing, you want to keep your shoulders involved and moving. This is the part of the swing where you need to square up and bring your shoulders back to parallel with the target line.

Essentially, do everything in reverse. Drop your back shoulder level with your front, rotate your hips and shoulders forward, and face your chest towards the ball as you make contact. The motion of bringing your shoulders back to their initial position at the address helps you make contact with the ball exactly where you want to.

Practice these tips every time you hit with your drivers and woods at the driving range, and watch as your performance gets better and better.

About PXG

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Now that you’ve mastered shoulder movement get clubs that add even more distance at https://www.pxg.com/

Original Source: https://bit.ly/3uvr4iH

#golf wedge sets

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sendaswing · 2 years ago

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Lesson 156 - Over The Top

The classic golf instruction subject, when the golfer’s swing path is Over The Top. It makes crazy golf instructors like me compare a teeter totter shoulder tilt the swing path in the downswing. Wild. But one of the easiest flaws to diagnose when watching a new swing submission is WHEN does the body begin to turn in the downswing.Turn too early? Over The Top. Turn too late? Get stuck, bail…

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#golf #golf instruction #golf lesson #golfer #online golf lessons #PGA #Send A Swing #sendaswing

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copias-thrall · 3 years ago

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Back in Black

for @transmascmist who wanted a fic where you help Mary dye his hair. (1.7K)

It’s not a secret.

It’s not like Mary keeps up with his beauty regimen with any consistency to hide the blonde roots that peek out from his scalp—and the dirty blonde happy trail that merges with his slightly darker curls is a dead giveaway—but there’s some unspoken agreement amongst his fans and friends that Mary has black hair.

Like his coffee.

Like his metal.

(Shut up.)

But the pandemic has seen a downswing in his already lackluster hygiene, and he’s given up on the pretense that he’s a raven-haired beauty and not a pasty edgelord. At one point, he hadn’t washed his hair in 3 weeks, and when you’d fussed at him, he’d grumbled that it was just a waste of shampoo at this point.

So you hadn’t pressed.

And he doesn’t look bad. His subtle blonde—darkened by age—compliments his pallor. It makes him look…softer. Approachable.

But you’ve never made any bones about your extreme preference for tall, dark, and growly, so when you look at him now, it’s wistful.

You decide it’s time to take matters into your own hands.

He comes back from a sundries run, the canvas grocery bag he covered in patches—because he has a reputation—clutched tight in one hand as his other yanks off the fangs mask.

“They were outta yellow onions, so I got red. An onion’s an onion, but I know you got opinions.”

He’s still divesting himself of coat and scarf and boots, so he doesn’t initially see you from where you’re perched on the arm of the couch in a robe and latex gloves.

“I—” He turns, and his eyes finally land on you and linger on the robe—open just enough to show a hint of bare skin.

His smile curls into a smirk.

“Missed me?”

You snap your gloves.

“I have something fun planned for us.” He bites his lip as his eyes again find the sliver of skin, and you point to the bedroom. “Take your clothes off and meet me in the bathroom.”

You have just enough time as he undresses to shuck the robe and to pull your hair-dye shirt on that when Mary skitters into the bathroom in his worn boxers to find the barstool (that he somehow stole during a blackout drunk before your time) and you clothed, his grin turns into a scowl.

“The fuck?”

“Sit.”

You point down at the seat, and he crosses his arms.

“Make me.”

You cross your arms and cock an eyebrow.

His scowl turns into a full-fledged glower, but he sits with a huff.

“I hope you weren’t looking for dick later,” he grumbles, and you ignore him as you begin to smear on the Vaseline.

He closes his eyes as you smooth the gel to cover any exposed skin that might come into contact with the dye. His crossed arms slip down, and his body relaxes as you work until he’s nearly swaying with you.

You get the frame of his face and around his eyebrows; you massage some into his ears and the hinge of his jaw; you coat the nape of his neck and around to his clavicle. It’s only when you go for his shoulders does he squirm.

“All right, ok. No one’s gonna care about stains down my arm. I already feel like you could squirt me through a keyhole.”

“It’s good for your skin,” you say as you wipe the excess off your gloved fingers with a towel.

Mary’s eyes catch yours in the mirror, and he grins. “So’s my jizz, but I don’t see you rubbing that into your face.”

You flick his ear, but he just cackles at you.

As you shake the application bottle to mix the dye, Mary idly runs his fingers through the gel in swipes and swirls before sniffing it and then wiping it off on his bare thigh.

“Try not to wipe it all off before I even start, Mare.”

“Well, fuck. Hurry up then, yeah?”

You grin beatifically at him before grabbing his hair and yanking his head back.

“Hot,” is his only response.

As you start finger-combing his forelock back, Mary’s eyes flutter shut again. You apply a line of dye at his hairline—Mary shivering slightly at the coolness of the cream—before working it through his hair. There’s a brush somewhere, but: eh.

Once the top of his head is saturated, you tilt his head right to get behind one ear, then left to get behind the other. You work the acrid-smelling dye across and into his hair, saturating the tresses, and he sighs.

Gathering the length of his forelock to the top of his head, you murmur, “Forward,” and Mary tilts his head down. The applicator makes a sputtering gurgle when you try to squeeze out more, and you grumble; you put your thumb over the nozzle so you can shake the contents down, and Mary waits patiently. The cream comes out easily on the next try, and you rub it into the scrub at the back of Mary’s head.

Mary lets out a little Mmm of pleasure.

You make a note to give him more scritches in life.

“I'm almost done, Mare.”

“K,” he murmurs, still leaning forward with eyes closed.

You do a quick assessment of coverage. There’s still plenty of dye left, so you’re generous with slathering any tufts or areas that seem spotty.

“Ok, I think…” You take the hair claw you’ve clipped to the bottom of your tee and secure the “bulk” of his hair on top of his head.

Mary cracks an eye open. “Yeah?” His eyes go to his reflection, and he turns his head this way and that, inspecting.

“Turn,” you say as you twirl a finger. He spins slowly, carefully as to not jostle loose the precarious clip. “Close your eyes?”

Both eyelids close before flying back open.

“Do not put a dye-'stache on me. Last time, that shit took days to come off.”

You smile sweetly at him. “That was heavy-duty marker, and that was because you passed out piss drunk on the couch. You know the house rules.”

But he jabs a finger at you.

“I will retaliate.”

Chuckling, you raise your palms up in surrender.

“Jeez, Mare. I just wanna do your eyebrows.”

His eyes narrow in suspicion, but he closes them again.

Leaning into his space, you carefully apply the black to both brows, smoothing the excess off with your pinky. You shift back to assess, and your eyes can’t help but notice the enticing way his lips are parted. Smiling, you press your lips to his.

He makes a surprised noise, but returns the chaste kiss, his hands reaching out to pull you into him further by your stained shirt.

“You’re gonna get dye everywhere!” you giggle.

“Fuck it,” he growls. “We got twenty minutes to kill.”

You slip into his lap and let him deepen the kiss.

His arms end up covered in black streaks and your face is a mottled mess by the time the 20min is up. Mary points to your face and cackles, and you smear black above his lip, anyway.

One (1) shower—and vigorous scrubbing later—the two of you emerge pink and flushed. Mary grumbles about it, but he keeps the conditioner in for another 20min before letting you wash it out in the kitchen sink with the sprayer.

You’re too busy using the dishtowel to squeeze out the excess water to notice Mary has the sprayer in hand, and when you get smacked in the face with the warm spray, all you can do is shriek in outrage.

“Goddamnit, Mary!” you screech as he whoops and keeps spraying despite your best efforts to block the stream.

Knocking the nozzle out of his hand only succeeds in water getting all over the floor, and in your attempts to go for the facet and Mary’s attempt to regain control of the sprayer, the two of you slip and fall in a heap on the linoleum. You scream in frustration, but it turns into a laugh, and soon Mary has you pinned under him as the two of you lie in a damp pile on the wet floor.

Mary’s light chuckle turns into a purr as his eyes take you in.

“I think we oughta get out of these wet clothes,” he rumbles as he nips at your lips. “As much as I’m enjoying—” he plucks at your sodden top “—the clingy look.”

Before he even realizes what’s what, you’re peeling off the shirt to smack him in the face with a wet thwap. By the time he’s done letting out an indignant squawk, you’re already in the bedroom and kicking your shorts free.

Mary appears in the door, face flushed and eyes bright. He takes in your bare form, and his smile turns predatory.

“I believe you promised me some fun,” he rumbles.

You just give him bedroom eyes and crook your finger.

He’s out of his clothes by the time he’s crawling over you and kissing you hard. When his bare skin presses into yours, he moans, and you swallow it down, your hands gripping into his arms and your blunt nails leaving red trails stark against his pale skin. The two of you are a rolling tangle of limbs that don’t stop pushing and pressing and pulling until you’re both left breathless, sated, and wet with…sweat.

As you lie there, catching your breath and letting the sweat dry from your skin, you glance over to find Mary running his fingers through his now-dry hair.

“Watcha doin’, Mare?” you ask, and he turns toward you, shrugs.

“Soft.”

It’s not often that Mary’s hair is totally free from glue—one vanity he kept up despite the overall drop in effort—and right now it’s freshly conditioned to boot.

You shift over to crowd into his space, and he opens easily, letting you drape yourself over him. Knocking his hand out of the way, you take over carding fingers through his locks, and Mary sighs before his eyes slip closed.

You're running your fingers through his silky strands, but you're looking at him as you murmur, "Very soft."

#mary goore #fluff #gender neutral #mild spice #my writing #original post

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chibistarlyte · 4 years ago

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tomorrow is another day

“I think you should see someone, Shouto. A professional. They can help you,” Rei says, and Shouto can hear the quiet confidence in her words. Words spoken from experience. Who would know about this kind of thing better than her, after all?

Shouto nods wordlessly, pulling back and finally looking at his mother. She smiles softly down at him, and tucks some of his disheveled hair away from his face. “Is it scary?” he asks, already feeling the trepidation at the possibility of sharing his innermost thoughts and feelings with a complete stranger.

Rei nods slowly, her smile fading somewhat. “Yes. It can be scary, at first. And painful. Your emotions will be all over the place for a while. But…” she pauses, placing both her hands on Shouto’s cheeks to make sure she has his full attention. “Talking about this, working through it with someone who is trained to help people like you and me...it’s an important step to take so you can heal.”

here’s part 4 of my depressed!todo series with slowburn endgame todobaku. in this one, shouto talks things over with his mama and they decide together that he needs to seek professional help in the form of a therapist.

all my love and appreciation to kat @sunshineijirou for betaing this for me, and just generally being a wonderful human. ilysm friend!

you can read the fic under the cut or here on ao3! you can also find a masterlist of all my bnha fics here!

Shouto wakes to the smell of…breakfast?

It doesn’t smell like a Japanese breakfast with all the traditional fixings, but more like an American-style breakfast. The overwhelming aroma of bacon cooking in a skillet is what Shouto can pick out the easiest.

He blinks his eyes open, immediately squinting them shut again when bright sunlight stabs into his eyeballs. Shouto groans and pulls the blanket over his head—wait, blanket? He doesn’t remember having one of those before falling asleep.

Come to think of it, when did he fall asleep? He has no recollection of the end of the previous night. The last thing he can remember is listening to Midoriya laughing—his best friend squished next to him on the couch as the class watched a comedy film of some sort…

Shouto chances opening his eyes again in the relatively safe darkness beneath the blanket, and slowly creeps his head out to give himself a chance to adjust to the light.

He’s still on the couch, cuddled up in the same corner he’d been in last night, but now with a blanket that he doesn’t remember having when he’d dozed off.

And the smell of bacon is getting stronger. If Shouto listens closely enough, he can hear the sizzling of food in a skillet.

He stretches his arms out to loosen his muscles up, cramped from being squished against the arm and back cushions of the couch. He looks around the common room, a bit surprised to find himself alone. He would have thought at least some of his classmates would be up already—Iida immediately comes to mind, or Sero, or Shouji. Shouto remembers seeing them around in the early hours when he’s up before he wants to be.

Bakugou, as well, is an early riser.

Shouto turns his head enough to look over the back of the couch toward the common room kitchen, where he sees a familiar blond classmate standing in front of the stove with a spatula in his hand. Before Shouto is conscious of it, a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

He lets out a bit of a strained noise as he rises from the couch, curling his toes against the floor as he stretches his legs out, muscles sore from being curled up on the couch all night. He grabs the blanket and wraps it around his shoulders like a cape, holding it closed with his fists at his collar bone, and slowly pads across the wooden floors to the kitchen.

Bakugou seems to notice his presence, because his head shoots up and red eyes glare at Shouto from the other side of the countertop that divides the kitchen from the rest of the common area.

“Get your rest, sleeping beauty?” the blond teases with a smirk, not waiting for Shouto to respond before turning his attention back to the contents cooking on the stove.

A blush heats up Shouto’s cheeks before he can even think to fight it down. “That’s...a new nickname. No ‘icyhot asshole’ or ‘half-n-half bastard’ today?” he asks, coming up to peer over the countertop and see what Bakugou’s got cooking in his skillets.

Bacon, eggs, sausage, shredded potatoes, pancakes...yeah, total American breakfast.

“I’m feeling extra nice today, don’t get used to it,” Bakugou says as he flips each of the pancakes expertly in their pan. They’re perfectly golden brown on the side that had just been cooking, and he’s poured them in such precise discs that Shouto thinks they belong in a food magazine.

“I’ll take what I can get,” Shouto says with a small, easy smile. He likes this, likes when he and Bakugou can talk like actual people—friends— without arguing about stupid things.

Bakugou looks up for just long enough to catch Shouto’s smile, then averts his gaze almost immediately and his face reddens considerably.

Must be the heat from the stove, Shouto thinks as he comes around the raised counter and goes over to the fridge. He pulls the door open wide, looking for some cartons of his strawberry yogurt drink.

“Oi, who the hell said you could come in here while I’m cooking, asshole?” Bakugou asks over his shoulder, glaring at Shouto once again.

“I’m not even in your vicinity,” Shouto says with his head still buried in the fridge, the hand not holding his blanket cape closed shoving aside various bottled drinks and leftover containers belonging to his classmates. He lets out a small noise of success when he spots his stash of drinks, all labeled “Todoroki’s—Do Not Touch <3” in Uraraka’s bubbly handwriting, and grabs one. When he closes the fridge, he looks up to see Bakugou plating his breakfast.

Shouto spots two plates on the counter next to the stove, and he tilts his head in confusion. “Who’s the second plate for?” he asks as he pokes the little plastic straw through the foil-covered hole on his drink carton. “Is Kirishima coming down to join you?”

Bakugou pauses, a spatula full of eggs halfway to the plate. “No, Shitty Hair is still sleeping,” he says, neither elaborating nor sparing Shouto a glance.

The blond continues to move food from the stove to the plates, distributing even portions between the two. Shouto just stands there and watches, sipping his yogurt drink and hoping Bakugou will clear up this mystery by explaining himself.

Bakugou digs through the drawer where the eating utensils are stored, pulling out a pair of forks and knives instead of chopsticks and setting them atop the plates. He picks up one plate in each hand and steps up to Shouto. Shouto watches as Bakugou takes a deep breath before lifting his head and staring resolutely up at Shouto.

“Here,” Bakugou says, holding out one of the plates to Shouto. “You’re going to see your mom or some shit today, right? You should eat something that’s not total ass crap before you go.”

Shouto stares wide-eyed at the offered plate, some strawberry yogurt dribbling out of the tip of the straw and down his bottom lip when his mouth opens in surprise.

“Well? You gonna take it or what, dickhead? I’m not gonna fucking stand here all day holding it for you,” Bakugou prompts, thrusting the plate forward. Shouto is forced to let go of his blanket to take the plate before his breakfast spills all over the floor. Instead, his blanket takes the hit, sliding off his shoulders and pooling around his feet on the floor.

“Holy shit, you’re a fucking disaster,” Bakugou sighs, leaning down to pick up Shouto’s blanket while still expertly holding his own plate without dropping a single morsel of food.

Shouto hastily uses his sleeve to wipe away the mess on his mouth, both of his hands occupied at the moment, then extends his arm out to Bakugou. Bakugou drapes the blanket over Shouto’s arm and shoves his way past the taller boy. He claims one of the tables closest to the kitchen, plopping down with an annoyed-sounding huff and digging into his breakfast without much ceremony after muttering a small, "itadakimasu."

Shouto stands there in the kitchen for a few moments, staring down at the plate heaped high with food in his hand. He bites the inside of his lip and his gaze shifts to Bakugou—well, Bakugou’s back, since the blond has chosen to sit facing away from Shouto.

What has Shouto ever done to deserve to be in Bakugou’s good graces? He almost doesn’t know how to reconcile this within himself, the worthiness it takes to be acknowledged by Bakugou.

Shouto blows out a shaky breath, feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

He quietly pads over to the table Bakugou has chosen for himself, taking the seat directly across from the prickly boy. He gently sets his plate down and readjusts his blanket around his shoulders before he sits down.

Bakugou pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth, cheek puffed out as he stops chewing just to watch Shouto with an unreadable expression.

“I hope you don’t mind my company,” Shouto says quietly, glancing up at Bakugou through his bi-colored bangs.

Bakugou watches him before letting out a sigh through his nose and finishes chewing what's in his mouth. “Do what you want, I don't fucking care,” he says dismissively before shoving another forkful of food into his mouth.

The two eat in silence after that. It isn't an uncomfortable silence, just a little tense. Not because of any negative feelings shared between the two of them, but because Shouto feels like he should say something but he doesn't know what.

There are a lot of things he wants to say to Bakugou, namely to thank him for cooking breakfast—which is delicious, as expected from the perfectionist boy—but…ever since last week, when Shouto was in the deepest part of his depression downswing, Bakugou had been…extremely…present? Like, everywhere Shouto would turn, the other boy was there, even if they weren't directly engaging with each other.

Shouto doesn't know if Bakugou truly is around more, or if he's just…more aware of him now. Either one is a vexing concept to Shouto.

"Thank you, Bakugou," Shouto finally says, moving his eggs around the plate with his fork. "I really appreciate you doing this for me."

Bakugou makes an indecipherable noise in response, something that's a mix of a grunt and a whine. "Yeah, yeah, don't get used to it. I just had to cook all this shit before it fuckin' expired."

Shouto cracks a smile, somehow finding Bakugou’s deflection of his gratitude…endearing. "Right…" he says, agreeing aloud but Bakugou doesn't have him entirely convinced.

They finish their breakfast without any more words exchanged, and Shouto drops his blanket around Bakugou’s shoulders when he leaves the room to head for the elevators. He smiles to himself when Bakugou lets out an indignant yell and throws the blanket back at Shouto, missing him by a mile.

Shouto knocks softly before he opens the door to his mother's room.

"Oh, Shouto!" Rei greets her son, setting down her watering can and coming over to him as he closes the door behind him.

“Hi, okaasan,” Shouto says, hesitating before slowly reaching out and pulling his mother into a hug. Rei’s arms come up under his armpits and rest on his back, and she places her head against his shoulder.

“You’ve grown again, haven’t you?” Rei asks, pulling away to look up at Shouto’s face. She places a gentle hand against his right cheek, her thumb rubbing the soft patch of skin beneath his eye.

“Maybe another centimeter…” Shouto says quietly, infinitesimally leaning into his mother’s touch.

“Well, come and sit, your sister brought me some green tea cookies yesterday, you should have some,” Rei says, leading Shouto to sit on one of the chairs by the window.

What a blessed day, Shouto thinks, to have Bakugou’s cooking in the morning and Fuyumi’s baked goods now. The one thing he misses the most from home is his sister’s cooking, which he’s been deprived of since living in the dorms.

“I might sneak some back with me to the dorms,” Shouto says as he takes a seat. Rei sits on her bed across from Shouto, retrieving a large box full of cookies from her side table. She holds the box out to Shouto and he takes it gratefully, gently opening the lid and taking out a few cookies to nibble on.

“How is neesan?” he asks quietly, holding one of the cookies close to his mouth but not taking a bite just yet. “I haven’t spoken to her much this week.”

And that’s definitely an understatement, Shouto mentally chides himself. Not only has he not spoken to either of his siblings in over a week, he hasn’t even seen his mother in two weeks.

He doesn’t want her to know that the reason he skipped out last week is because he had no will to live.

“She’s doing fine,” Rei says with a light smile. “She tells me her class is going on a field trip to the aquarium next week. Her students are thrilled.”

“That does sound fun,” Shouto agrees with a nod, nibbling at the cookie. He still doesn’t make eye contact with his mother. “And Natsu-nii? How is he?”

“Natsu is fine, too,” Rei answers, her smile fading somewhat. “He came to see me a few days ago after his midterms were finished.”

Shouto hums, not really knowing what else to say at the moment. He retreats into himself a little, his mind berating him.

It’s your fault you haven’t talked to your brother and sister this week. You’re so selfish. You should have at least texted them, instead of moping like a miserable little weakling.

You can’t always expect them to reach out first.

They don’t even like you that much.

Shouto sighs, shoving the rest of the cookie in his mouth. Maybe if he concentrates on chewing, he can drown out the bad thoughts.

You didn’t even visit your mother.

You’ve disappointed her yet again.

When Shouto swallows his cookie, it feels like sandpaper in his throat.

“Shouto...is...is something wrong?” Rei asks, breaking the ice that seems to have chilled the room. Shouto finally dares to look up at her and sees the worried expression on her usually serene face.

“N-No, I mean...yeah…no...maybe? I don’t know,” he stumbles over his words in a way that is very uncharacteristic of him. He rubs a hand down his face and sighs. “Okaasan, I...do you ever just...feel...empty? Like you have nothing inside of you, and you exist outside of your own body?”

Rei seems taken aback by his question, which makes Shouto clam up immediately. He hunches over in his chair, crossing his ankles and staring at the floor to avoid making eye contact. “S-Sorry, forget I asked, it’s nothing—”

“I do, sometimes,” Rei answers softly, interrupting her son’s attempts at backpedaling. “I used to feel it a lot more back when...everything happened. It’s not as bad now.”

Shouto lifts his head just enough to peek at his mother through his dual-colored bangs hanging in front of his eyes.

“My doctors have told me that dissociation—the out-of-body sensation—is a trauma response,” Rei continues in a gentle voice. “In order to protect ourselves, our minds can shut down and force us out, so that we don’t have to face or acknowledge our emotions or...what’s really going on around us.”

Shouto’s breath hitches.

“Have you been feeling this way lately, Shouto?” Rei then asks, serious and soft, with no judgment in her eyes.

Shouto silently nods, begging his eyes to cooperate and not allow his tears to fall.

“Is that why you didn’t come see me last week? And why you haven’t talked with Fuyumi or Natsuo?”

Shouto nods again, sniffing and wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. “I feel like...I don’t know, like...I don’t deserve to? To see you, to talk with neesan and Natsu-nii. I keep having...thoughts…”

“What thoughts?”

God, Shouto shouldn’t be saying any of this. He shouldn’t be saying any of this to his mentally ill mother. What if he triggers her by talking about all these ugly feelings inside of him? What if, by giving these thoughts a voice, they turn out to be true? What if—

“What thoughts are you having, Shouto?” Rei asks more insistently, though her voice is still quiet and calm. Comforting. Soothing in a way that Shouto doesn’t feel like he deserves from her.

“I…”

It’s then that Shouto breaks completely. He drops his uneaten cookies to the floor and hides his face in his hands as he quietly cries, trying not to make a sound because if he does, then his father will hear and—

No.

Endeavor isn’t here. Endeavor is far, far away from here.

It’s just him. Just him and his mother.

His mother.

His mother...who burned him because he looks too much like his father.

His mother, whose life he ruined just by existing.

“Shouto…”

Shouto barely registers Rei coming over to him and pulling him into a hug, his head against her stomach. He just cries and cries and cries, as silently as he can manage, while Rei runs her delicate fingers through his hair in a small attempt at comfort.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry...I’m so sorry, okaasan…” Shouto chokes out, the words falling out of his mouth faster than he can catch them. “I’m no good...I can’t...I just…”

Rei just holds her son, soothing noises brushing through her lips as she combs her fingers through his hair, rubs her hand up and down his back in a comforting manner. Shouto gasps and heaves as he sobs, and eventually, he runs out of tears to shed.

When he’s quieted down, Rei only pulls away enough that she can tilt Shouto’s head up to look him in the eye. But he averts his gaze, won’t meet her eyes. Her thumb catches some of the stray tears crawling down his cheek.

“I’m sorry, okaasan,” he whispers, his voice breathless and shaky. “Sometimes, it’s...everything is just too much and I…”

Rei waits patiently for him to continue.

“I just...want to die…” Shouto says so quietly he isn’t sure if he actually spoke at all. But his mother pulling him into another hug is all the confirmation he needs that she has heard him loud and clear.

“Shouto...do you have anyone you can talk to about these feelings? A friend, a teacher, a counselor? Someone?” Rei asks. Shouto shakes his head, buries his face in the soft material of her sweater vest.

But that’s a lie, Shouto thinks. He does have people he can talk to. Midoriya, Yaoyorozu, Iida, Uraraka, Kirishima…

Bakugou.

“I really worried all my friends last week,” Shouto says, his voice muffled by Rei’s sweater vest. “I...wasn’t myself and I...I tried to hurt myself. I did hurt myself,” he admits, feeling the guilt and shame bleed into his veins once again, as if they had never really left in the first place.

Rei hums to assure him that she’s listening, and Shouto is grateful for his mother’s supportive presence, even if she isn’t saying anything at the moment. He knows this must be a lot for her, to hear that one of her children feels so awful about himself to want to…

“Heal…” Shouto echoes, averting his gaze.

“You have so much pain inside your heart. I see it, Shouto. I see it in you, in Fuyumi, in Natsuo. I see it in myself every time I look in the mirror. But you can move past it. You can learn to cope with it in healthy ways. You’re strong...you’re too strong to give up.” Rei slowly drops her hands from Shouto’s face, only to take his hands that have been tightly wound in his lap. “I know you can do this.”

Shouto nods hesitantly, unclenching his fingers and letting his mother twine hers in his. His hands ache, his right hand covered in frost and his left hot and sweaty.

But he holds onto Rei’s hands like his life depends on it, and looks her in the eye once more.

“What do I need to do?”

Shouto returns to the dorms much later than he anticipates. After talking at length with his mother about his depressive episode from a week ago and the intrusive thoughts that plague both his waking and his sleeping hours, they’ve come up with a tentative plan. Shouto is to speak to Aizawa-sensei about seeing a UA-employed counselor. He has a soft deadline of sorts to complete this task—Rei had told him that she hopes he'll talk to his homeroom teacher by the time he comes to see her next week.

Shouto sighs, slipping his shoes off by the front door of the dorm building. He passes by some of his classmates on his way to the elevators, actually stopping to say a quick hello to Jirou and Kaminari who are sitting on the couches with their guitars. Tokoyami is also in the common area, at a table reading a book while Dark Shadow flits around and keeps watching for something outside. He waves to them both before he makes it to the elevator.

When he gets inside, he punches the button for the fourth floor.

For some reason, Shouto feels an unwavering need to see Bakugou.

The elevator pings and the doors slide open, and Shouto marches to Bakugou’s door with a grim but determined expression.

When he knocks on Bakugou’s door, his knocking is quiet and concise with only three raps of his knuckles on the door.

It takes a minute, but Bakugou eventually opens the door and scowls at Shouto. "What," he says, not even a question.

"Can I come in?" Shouto asks almost shyly, opening his bag and pulling out a small plastic container of Fuyumi's cookies his mother had given him to bring back. "I...have these for you."

To Shouto’s surprise, Bakugou doesn't turn him away and actually backs up into the room, opening his door wider to allow Shouto passage. "What, you wanted to pay me back for cooking you breakfast this morning?"

Shouto blinks, looking at Bakugou as if the blond had just grown another head. Did...did he just admit to cooking Shouto breakfast?

"Sort of," Shouto says quickly, opening the container and pulling out a cookie. "My sister made these, and I remember how much you liked her cooking when...uh, when you and Midoriya came over for dinner at my house that one time…"

"What is it?" Bakugou asks, taking the cookie from Shouto and examining it closely, even sniffing it to determine its ingredients.

"Green tea cookie," Shouto says, watching Bakugou take a bite. Shouto smiles when Bakugou’s expression changes to something between being pleased and impressed, and the boy shoves the rest of the cookie in his mouth.

"Not bad," Bakugou says, looking at the crumbs stuck to his palm before looking around the room for something to wipe them off with. He spots a small towel sitting at the top of his gym bag by the bed, going to grab it and wipe his hand with it. "Might have to snag the recipe from her."

"I can text her and ask for it," Shouto offers, waiting until Bakugou is finished cleaning his hands before handing the closed container to him. "And...you can have the rest of these. I brought them for you, specifically."

Bakugou looks surprised for about a split second before he smirks, taking the container. "You…sure you don’t want any for yourself? Seems fucking stupid to give them all to me when your sister made them."

Shouto can feel his face heating up and he has to keep a lid on his Quirk before he lights himself on fire. Since when has his Quirk been so hard to control? And for that matter, Bakugou hasn’t said anything remotely close to embarrassing. Why is Shouto feeling so flustered?

"It’s okay, I had plenty while I was with my mother," Shouto says, clenching his hands into fists now that he doesn't have the cookie container to fiddle with. "I…also just…wanted to see you, I guess."

"What the fuck? Why?" Bakugou says, and to Shouto’s shock, he doesn't sound angry at all. Just…confused.

About as confused as Shouto feels at the moment.

“I don’t know…maybe…” Shouto rubs his hand over his face, slicking his hair back for just a moment before it falls back into his face and covers most of his vision. “I…had a talk with my mother…about, you know, last week.”

Bakugou seems to stop breathing as soon as Shouto mentions last week, eyeing the half-n-half boy with trepidation.

“Um…can I…sit?” Shouto asks, curling his toes against the rug.

“…Sure,” Bakugou replies hesitantly, gesturing in the general direction of the bed. He himself goes over to his desk, setting the cookie container next to an organized stack of textbooks and notebooks. He pulls his chair out and sits down, straddling the seat and propping his arms on the seatback. Finally, he rests his chin on his arms and watches Shouto curiously.

Shouto just sits on the floor, cross-legged, tucking his feet under himself as far as he can.

“You could sit on the bed, you fucking dingus,” Bakugou says. “It’s not like you haven’t been in it before.”

It takes about a millisecond before both boys register what had just come out of Bakugou’s mouth, and both their faces turn red as tomatoes at the implications.

“Uh…anyway,” Shouto clears his throat, and sets his hands in his lap, joining his fingers and twiddling his thumbs in his nervousness. “I…I don’t know why I wanted to tell you specifically all of this, but I felt like you deserved to know since. Well. You helped me so much, when I needed it the most. Which I still can’t thank you enough for, by the way,” Shouto says, looking up at Bakugou and offering him a tiny but grateful smile.

Bakugou squints his eyes at Shouto before he looks away, cheeks still adorably red. He scratches at the back of his neck. “Tch…whatever, no need to thank me. Literally anyone else would have done the same thing if they were the ones watching you jump off your fucking balcony.”

Shouto’s smile turns a little sad, then, and he looks down at the floor. “I’m…sorry. That must have been frightening to deal with.”

A long silence settles between them, then, a silence that weighs heavily in the air with all the things unspoken between them.

“What I wanted to say…” Shouto begins, buckling under the pressure of the silence, “is that…my mother made me promise to talk to Aizawa-sensei about seeing a therapist. One here at school.”

Bakugou watches him warily, raising an eyebrow in question.

“And, uh,” Shouto swallows before continuing, “I…was hoping you could…come with me to talk to him? Since you were there when I jumped.”

The request takes Bakugou by surprise, if his openly shocked expression is anything to go by. Shouto doesn’t think he’s ever seen the boy’s eyes so wide.

“Sorry, I know it’s a lot to ask—” Shouto says, but his words get cut off by Bakugou’s somewhat indignant response.

“Don’t you have other friends that can go with you for ‘moral support’ or whatever shit this is about? I’m sure fucking Deku would be thrilled to help you, since he has such a bleeding heart for every person on the goddamn planet.”

“That’s not the point,” Shouto says, taking a deep breath to speak again before being cut off by Bakugou once more.

“Then what about Four Eyes? He’s always tryin’ to take responsibility as class prez or whatever, or fuck, even Round Face, she’s so fucking happy and bubbly all the time—she’d be good for that. Or, like, Ponytail? What about her? Aren’t you bougie BFFs or some shit?” Bakugou sounds borderline hysteric at this point, listing off Shouto’s other friends as people much better suited for this task than himself.

But…

“But they’re not you,” Shouto says simply, staring at Bakugou with nothing but sincerity in his eyes, his expression. “I want you to go with me, Bakugou. No one else.”

Bakugou ducks his head behind the back of the chair and breathes out a deep breath through his nose.

Shouto bites at the inside of his lip. This is a mistake. A very big mistake. Yet he can’t find it in himself to take the words back. He means it—he wants Bakugou there with him when he has possibly one of the most important conversations of his life. “You…if you really don’t want to, then you don’t have to. I’m not going to force you into anything, Bakugou.”

Bakugou tilts his head up just enough to peek at Shouto over the top of his arms. He remains silent, but his expression is thunderous. From what Shouto can see of it, anyway.

“Just…think about it? And let me know what you decide,” Shouto says. He waits a few moments for Bakugou to say something, but when no more words come out of that foul mouth of his, that Shouto for some reason finds endearing, he sighs. He pulls himself up off the floor and adjusts his bag to sit correctly on his shoulders. “Sorry for bothering you. Enjoy the cookies.”

Shouto ignores the snort Bakugou gives him in response, making his way over to the door. He opens it to leave, but pauses, looking back over his shoulder at Bakugou. The blond is still sitting in his chair, glaring daggers at the floor, his eyebrows creased so far down that Shouto’s surprised they don’t permanently stick like that.

Sighing one more time, Shouto exits the room and clicks the door softly closed behind him. He’s tired, and needs to get things ready for school tomorrow, so he heads up to his own room feeling much heavier than he did when he arrived back at the dorms.

It isn’t until a couple hours later, as Shouto is laying out his futon for bed, that his phone chimes with an incoming message.

He goes over to his desk and picks up his phone, opening up the text messaging app with a few taps of his thumb. His eyes widen when he sees who the text is from.

“Bakugou?” Shouto says aloud, clicking on the conversation to read the message.

fine, i’ll go with u. but we’re talking to aizawa-sensei after school tomorrow. i’m not letting u put this shit off, got it?

Shouto smiles as he types back a quick response.

got it. thank you, bakugou

yeah, yeah, whatever, shut the fuck up.

see u tomorrow in class

His smile grows a little wider, and Shouto has to hide his mouth behind his hand to keep from letting out a small laugh.

yeah...see you tomorrow

#todobaku #todobaku fic #todoroki shouto #bakugou katsuki #my writing

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semperintrepida · 5 years ago

Text

A Call to Paradise

Fifteen thousand drachmae. That was the price of the information Kassandra sought from the pirate queen, Xenia. After paying her crew's wages, and a shipwright to fix up the Adrestia after the beating she took in Keos, Kassandra only had 14,541 drachmae left to go.

Xenia knew she could name an astronomical price because Kassandra wasn't just some misthios who'd come crawling out from the backwaters anymore — she was Kassandra the Eagle Bearer now, and everyone in Greece knew her name after what she'd done in Korinth.

Killing the Monger had made her famous.

She no longer needed to look for jobs — jobs came looking for her. She'd already dismissed several messengers whose offers didn't pay well enough. Then Barnabas had handed her a letter that had put them on a course to Mykonos, where she now stood on a beach of fine, white sand, listening to him talk about the Silver Islands.

"Two sides of the same coin, these islands," he was saying. He pointed to the island on the other side of the channel. "That's Delos, sacred birthplace of Artemis and Apollo. And this," he said, throwing his arms out wide, "is Mykonos, where people do everything that's forbidden on Delos."

"Sounds like my kind of place—"

"I thought you might like it."

"—but the party will have to wait. There's work to be done."

He frowned slightly. "Gods forbid we enjoy a single moment on this glorious beach."

She'd enjoy nothing until she had 15,000 drachmae in her coffers and not a single coin less. "Read me the note again?"

"'Eagle-bearing misthios,' — that's you."

Kassandra rolled her eyes and made a keep going gesture.

"'Podarkes, cruel leader of the Silver Islands, takes money from our pockets and food from our mouths. All to feed his in-sat... in-sat-i...'"

"Insatiable," she suggested. The writer of the letter was well educated.

"Yes! 'His insatiable thirst for power.'"

Kassandra already knew what the letter said, but she'd wanted him to read it, so he could see the crude map sketched after the words.

We are a modest but fierce group of rebels, who'd pay you handsomely to help us overthrow our vile oppressor. I pray the winds guide you swiftly to our shores, misthios. Our people are dying.

-Kyra

"What do you know of the places marked on that map?" she asked.

He pulled the letter closer to his good eye, and studied the markings. "The first is a camp along the northeastern coast. That's easy to get to. The second... I'm not so sure. It's a hideout that looks like it's... underneath the city."

"It's time I met with this Kyra."

"I'll have the ship ready in case we need any... immediate departures."

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that — at least not before she'd had a chance to load the Adrestia up with some of the silver that gave these islands their name.

.oOo.

The entrance to the rebel hideout was hidden in the outskirts of Mykonos City. She'd needed to study the map closely to find the forested outcropping of rock and boulders that hid the crack leading to the hideout itself.

It was a near-perfect spot for a bunch of rebels to hide. It was also completely unguarded.

Kassandra slipped between the rocks, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The cave was cool and dry, and she shivered from the sudden drop in temperature after the muggy heat outside. Far below, she saw the yellow gleam of torchlight, and she began picking her way down a rickety set of wooden steps towards it.

She could hear laughter as she approached — and was that singing?

The path led to a large, brightly-lit chamber. Inside, a trio of men sat around a fire, drinking and singing. There were others as well, men and women, perhaps fifteen in total. None seemed sober enough to put up much of a fight.

She stepped into the torchlight at the chamber's entrance, and said, "I'm looking for the one called Kyra."

The men around the fire jumped up unsteadily and grabbed their spears. She could have killed every one of them if she wanted. Instead, she let them wave their spearpoints at her throat.

"I've come in response to a call for help," she said, saying every word slowly enough for even a drunk to understand.

There was a flash of silver, then the sound of a knife thunking deep into the wooden beam next to her head. The blade had come within a handspan of her nose.

Kassandra exhaled, expelling her rising irritation along with her breath. "You missed," she said flatly, her eyes following the knife's path back to its source.

What Kassandra found was a woman standing at a table a short distance away, one hand frozen in follow-through, the other tilting back an outsized cup to drain its contents into her mouth before she slammed the cup onto the table. She was slender, with the whipcord build of a hunter. Not particularly tall. Dark hair, dark eyes — defiant eyes that were not at all pleased to see a stranger intruding in her hideout.

And it was her hideout, to be sure. She prowled towards Kassandra, moving with compact balance, and Kassandra thought of a lynx on the hunt, all slink and stretch and focused belief, until those great paws extended, and the claws came out...

"Are you here to spy, Athenian?" the woman said, coming to a stop just outside Kassandra's reach. "Or maybe you're Athena herself, dressed in a dirty disguise?"

"I came here to help a 'fierce group of rebels,' but all I've found is a bunch of drunks."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Podarkes has spies everywhere. This is the first night we haven't been fighting for our lives in weeks... and suddenly, you show up."

Kassandra pulled the letter from the pouch at her belt and held it out. "This is why I'm here. It's your symbol, right?"

The woman flushed, a quick, hard bloom of color that shaded the lines of her cheekbones the color of wine. "You're the Eagle Bearer? My apologies, misthios. These are dangerous times for anyone at war against the Athenian empire. I am Kyra."

"And I'm Kassandra."

"Kassandra," she repeated, as if tasting the sound of it. "They say you killed the Monger of Korinth... and that it wasn't even close."

"I did."

"Podarkes isn't nearly the fighter the Monger was, but he's been hiding like a coward behind an army of Athenian soldiers. We've never been able to get close enough without taking heavy casualties. This is why I sent for you."

"I came here to help you deal with one man, not go to war against an army."

"Which is why I sent word of our rebellion to Sparta, too."

A wise precaution. "And did Sparta answer your call for help?"

"Thaletas — one of their polemarchs — brought soldiers with him from Sparta, but he's lost many of his men. I've lost many men. Podarkes has been hunting us down without mercy. We're all that's left of the resistance."

"Then you can start by telling me how many—"

She heard footsteps running down the wooden walkway behind her. Heavy steps, belonging to someone big. Kassandra turned, her hand reaching for her spear.

A burly man burst into the chamber. "Kyra," he said, hunching over as he caught his breath. "Thaletas and his men were ambushed on their way here. They need help."

"Podarkes, you bastard." Kyra looked about ready to leap into battle all by herself.

Kassandra held out a hand to stop her. "You and your rebels are too drunk to fight. Leave this to me."

"If you think I'm going to miss a chance to kill Athenians, you're the one who's drunk," she said, waving away Kassandra's hand as she walked past. She took a sword down from a nearby weapon rack, and swung it left and right as her feet naturally settled into a balanced stance. She'd be competent with it at very worst, and Kassandra's estimation of her rose. Satisfied with the weapon, Kyra nodded at the burly man and said, "Praxos, lead the way."

These rebels were about to show Kassandra what they could do.

.oOo.

Most of the rebels in the hideout were too drunk to swing a weapon without chopping off their own feet, but the handful that were sober enough ran swiftly through the forest on hidden trails they all seemed to know well.

Even that burly brute Praxos moved well for a man his size, and he led them up and over a ridgeline. As they crested the top, the forest cover abruptly stopped, like a green blanket sliding back to reveal a grassy, dun colored hillside that sloped down to the road in the valley below.

The road ran along the edge of another forest that covered the hillside opposite, and men were fighting in a grassy strip between the road and the trees. The Athenians must have attacked from the forest's cover, but the Spartans had held their own: the two sides were evenly matched. The chaotic sound of iron striking iron made Kassandra's blood surge, like a lodestone drawn to metal. She lengthened her strides, easily catching up to — and then passing — Praxos, and as she flew down the hillside, she felt a shadow at her shoulder. Kyra, matching her every step of the way.

Kassandra drew her sword as she came across two Athenians facing off with a lone Spartan, and she timed her arrival to match the Spartan's next attack. As he thrust his javelin at one Athenian, she swept through the other one and cut him down before he could swing his sword.

She kept moving, saw an Athenian kneeling over a fallen Spartan with his sword raised to strike, and she ran up behind him and grabbed him by his armor, dragging him backward and tossing him aside. She turned to finish him off, but Kyra was already there, her blade cutting across his throat.

Their eyes met, and Kassandra nodded once, quickly, one wolf acknowledging another before they rejoined the pack and the chase.

She drew her spear and went hunting.

A big Athenian wearing a helmet with a captain's crest pointed his axe at her and charged. She ducked under his first swing and jumped sideways to avoid his second, and she sliced his arm with her spear as his momentum carried him past. She faced him and waited. Jumped away from another swing. Waited again, trying to goad him into a downswing. Dodged again, and waited, infinitely patient. And when he finally swung his axe over his head and down, she turned sideways to avoid its chopping path and used her spear to pin down its shaft just long enough for her to swing her sword in a tight circle and bury it deep in his side.

She kicked him off her blade and scanned the field. The momentum had shifted in the rebels' favor, and the few remaining Athenians broke away from the fighting and began running for the trees.

"Let the cowards go!" A man's voice rang clear and commanding over the battlefield. Voices like his were as familiar as her spear. She'd heard similar voices countless times, in the training grounds, markets, and forums of Sparta, long ago. The cadence of a Spartan polemarch was like none other.

Kassandra searched for the voice's source, but it took no effort as Kyra led her eyes right to him. It was time for Kassandra to meet the Spartan commander.

Kyra ran up and clasped his arms in hers, and Kassandra had the sudden feeling of intruding into a private moment. She slowed her pace, then flicked the blood off her sword and spear before sliding them back into their sheaths. Better to approach with quiet blades, while his men stood around eyeing her warily.

The polemarch was covered in blood, dust, and bits of grass, and he was missing his helmet. His dark hair was braided in the style favored by Spartan soldiers, and his brow was prominent over fine features. Apparently Sparta had been busy stamping out copies of men like Stentor.

"You're alive," Kyra said to him.

"We took a few injuries, but none were killed, thanks to you." His hand lingered on Kyra's arm. Interesting. Seems he'd arrived on Mykonos and made himself right at home.

He turned to Kassandra. "You fight well. Spartan?"

"I was. But that was a long time ago," she said.

That caught Kyra's attention, and Kassandra felt herself being studied with renewed interest.

He grinned at Kassandra. "Spartan blood is eternal, stranger. What's your name?"

Kyra answered for her. "Thaletas, this is Kassandra. The misthios I told you about."

Something flickered within his eyes, and Kassandra wondered if her name had brought him an echo from the past as the rhythm of his voice had done to her. But he merely bowed his head with a formal stiffness and said, "They call me Thaletas. I was polemarch to the Spartans here."

"Was?" Kassandra asked.

"Our ship was sunk, and those who survived have been fighting ever since. There are only a few of us left." He sounded weary.

So these were the only remaining Spartans on Mykonos. There couldn't have been more than fifteen of them. Not even enough for a single row of a phalanx.

"I'm sorry for the loss of your brothers," she said.

He nodded. "As long as I can hold my spear, it'll be pointed straight at Podarkes. We'll find glory in vengeance."

"And I hope we can count on your blades, misthios," Kyra said.

They certainly couldn't count on pure numbers. Kassandra had seen maybe thirty fighters in total between the rebel and Spartan forces. Podarkes would have thirty men in a single outpost.

"My blades are yours," she said.

Could two blades and thirty rebels topple the leader of a nation? Kassandra was going to find out.

.oOo.

Later, after the Spartans had taken their wounded back to their camp, and everyone else had returned to the rebel hideout, Kassandra stood beside a large table, contemplating a large map of the Silver Islands while Kyra and Thaletas argued over what the rebellion should do next.

"How long till Podarkes finds us?" Thaletas said, stabbing his finger into the map. "We're right under his nose!"

"His nose is so high in the air, he couldn't find the Statue of Artemis if she hit him in the ass."

"We know where he lives. I say we knock down his door and run our spears through his face."

That would be a suicide mission. Kassandra rubbed her temple with her fingers, trying to keep her face from showing exactly what she thought of his suggestion.

Kyra threw her arms up. "That's a terrible plan."

"The Spartan phalanx is impenetrable in a ground assault."

"Not when there's only twelve of you!" Kyra said, sharply. Then she softened her tone. "You think with your heart — that's what I like about you. But you're a general to those men now. You need to think with your head."

Kassandra knew it was only a matter of time before one of them asked her to weigh in on the matter.

The polemarch's voice began to rise. "All you do is hide in caves and lurk in shadows. We didn't come here to hide. We came here to fight."

"And we will. But right now we're outnumbered. We must be strategic. Kassandra, what do you think we should do?"

The choice was obvious. "Kyra's right. Attacking Podarkes head on would be suicide."

Thaletas's fist hit the tabletop so hard it shook the flame out on one of the lamps resting on the map. "Sailing here was suicide. Right now, my men are on the beach. That's where I'll be."

"Thaletas, don't," Kyra said, reaching for him.

"When you decide you actually want to win this rebellion, come find me." He pushed her hands aside and stomped past her, heading for the exit.

Kassandra rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand after him. "Spartans."

Kyra looked at her. "You would know, I suppose." She shook her head and her lips curved into an amused smile. "But don't mind him. He'll feel better after he kicks something." She reached for the surviving lamp and used it to light the one that had gone out. The skin of her forearm stretched over fine bones and smooth muscle, and her hand wore the scars and callouses of an archer. She was definitely no servant or farm girl — someone had taught her long ago to draw a bow and swing a sword. It would be interesting to know who.

"How many men do you have now?" Kassandra asked.

She blew out a quick breath of frustration. "Twenty. Thaletas has twelve." Her hand swept over the map. "If we could somehow convince the people we had a chance at taking Podarkes out, more might join us."

"And Podarkes has hidden himself where?"

"Not hidden as much as fortified. He's holed up in his house, surrounded by guards. We've tried stealth. Poison. Everything has failed. He even brought in new slaves from Athens, ones with no ties to Mykonos..."

"So they'd be harder to persuade into helping an attack from the inside."

"Exactly." Kyra's eyes burned in the lamplight. "After our last attempt failed, he put every one of the servants to the sword."

Kassandra had seen enough cruelty to know that Podarkes was just one of its many faces. "We'll need to flush him out of his hole. Get him moving out into the open."

"Do you have any ideas?"

"A few. But I need some time to think on them."

"Don't take too long, misthios. Thaletas might try to beat you to it."

Clever, trying to pit her against Thaletas. "You and your men should get some rest tonight," she said. "Because tomorrow, we're going to get right to work."

.oOo.

Kassandra emerged onto the deck of the Adrestia just after sunrise. Night's cloak had faded to a chilly, pale blue light, and the crew was beginning to stir as the morning's watch arrived to take their posts. She paused next to a burning brazier on the deck, enjoying the brief moment of warmth against her skin.

Barnabas was standing at the top of the gangplank, directing the changeover in the watch. He looked surprised to see her.

"Leaving already? It's barely sunup."

"I've places to go, people to kill." She'd meant to say it as a joke, but her words had come out more bitterly than she'd intended.

He crossed his arms and blocked her path, fixing her with a hard look. "You've been running yourself into the ground since we left Athens."

"I took weeks off in Argolis." Long days and nights waiting for her shoulder to heal, her frustration growing every moment she wasn't moving forward towards her goal. And even worse, within that forced rest, within the quiet of her thoughts, she'd had to think about the question the mad priestess Chrysis had asked her about killing: Do you enjoy it?

Barnabas wasn't having any of her answer. "Only because your shoulder hurt so badly you couldn't draw your spear. And even then, you spent that time chasing down every lost goat and missing person in the country."

"Someone has to earn enough drachmae to pay your crew."

"They're your crew too, Kassandra. They stay here because they want to work for you."

Kassandra had never given Chrysis an answer to her question; a lie by omission. Would the crew stay if they knew what she should have said? Would Barnabas stay if he knew the answer should have been yes, that she did feel pleasure in killing, that it was beginning to feel so good she could hear it calling like a Siren even now?

A bitter taste rose in the back of her throat. She'd found only one thing that would calm the queasy feeling that kept trying to make a permanent home in her stomach. "I have to find her."

Barnabas's look softened. "I know. They know. The gods put you on the path to your mother, but at this rate, you're going to make a mistake and get yourself killed."

"You know why I can't rest on this." She'd given him only a rough outline of the Cult's plans, but it should have been enough for him to understand her priorities.

"She's alive." He said it the same way he talked about the gods, with a steadiness that allowed no doubt to creep in. "I can't imagine how she wouldn't be — if she's anything like you are, the Cult should be fearful of her."

If Kassandra humored him, maybe he'd let her pass. "Perhaps you're right... What do you suggest I do?"

"Get yourself a room at the inn and sleep someplace more quiet than the Adrestia. Go find a beautiful beach to look at." Then he grinned. "Or maybe a beautiful woman."

An image came to mind, unbidden: defiant eyes and fine-boned hands.

She asked him, suddenly, "What's it like being home again?"

"You remember!"

She shrugged off his surprise.

He held his arms out and took a deep breath. "I don't know yet. But just being here feels wonderful! Hopefully I'll get a chance to see all my old moorings again."

"You'll have to tell me which olive grove you were born in," she said.

"The most beautiful one, of course!"

She reached out and clasped his shoulder. "Take some time and see if it's as beautiful as you remember. And let's keep a skeleton crew on board. The rest can rotate through leave and enjoy the islands — and tell them I'll pay well for information if they hear anything interesting."

"Aye, aye," he said, just before he pulled her into a sudden hug. "I know you're humoring me, Kassandra," he said quietly into her ear. "But think on what I said. You look exhausted." Then he let her go, wandering away towards the helm.

He knew her well enough to be right. She could feel the weariness running up and down her bones, as if they'd been cracked open and filled with lead. But even if she did what he asked, and found someplace quiet and slept, it would be a fitful, anxious sleep filled with unsettling dreams. Better to keep moving, to keep dreams and thoughts at bay with her focus. Always forward, one step at a time.

.oOo.

Kassandra leaned against the akroteria on the peak of the Temple of Artemis, waiting for Kyra to arrive at the appointed hour after sunrise. The priestesses had finished their morning rituals; the scent of pine and burnt offerings wafted up from the temple's sanctum. Soon the walkways would fill with people as the city began to wake up.

It wasn't long before Kyra appeared, walking up the path with her familiar, compact glide and that hint of sway at her hips. She gave no sign of having seen Kassandra on the roof as she passed by, nor did she seem worried about being seen herself.

Once Kyra had disappeared up the curving path, Kassandra leapt off the roof, rolling as she landed. She'd discovered something during her time in Argolis: she could leap from great heights and land without injury — heights that would kill most mortals. She didn't know if this was a gift from her bloodline or from her spear, but she wasn't about to jump off a cliff without the spear to find out.

Either way, it explained one of her life's great mysteries: how she'd survived the fall from Mount Taygetos. She'd always thought it was because she'd landed in a rather large pile of corpses.

She walked up the path and found Kyra standing at a small overlook, gazing out over the city. In the distance, Kassandra could see waves glinting in the morning sunlight, making silvery cuts in a sea of pale, milky blue. The surrounding hills were cloaked in deep greens, with glossy palm fronds near the water gradually giving way to spiky pines in the higher reaches. This island wore all of its colors in full, gorgeous force.

"Podarkes has made it hard for me to travel openly," Kyra said as Kassandra approached, "but I still like to come here to remind myself of what I'm fighting for."

"I was wondering about this as a meeting place," Kassandra said, gesturing around them.

Kyra turned to her. "Doubting my judgement already, misthios?"

"I'd call it curiosity more than doubt. You're the one who knows these islands."

"Most people are sympathetic to our cause, even if they don't want to involve themselves in it. It's the Athenians and their soldiers that worry me." She looked back out at the city. "Which is why I'm hoping you've brought some ideas with you."

"I have."

Kyra waited.

"You have your rebels. Thaletas has his Spartans. Together you're an unconventional army — the sort of army that needs unconventional tactics." She tapped a finger against her lips in thought, before asking, "How often do Athenian supply caravans leave Mykonos City?"

"Nearly every day. Food, mostly. Some supplies. The fort and outposts are already armed to the teeth."

"Know when the next run leaves?"

"No, but I can find out."

"Do that. And think about who among the people might need this food the most, because we're going to borrow it—"

Kyra raised an eyebrow.

"—and not give it back," Kassandra said with a smile.

"I like the way you think."

"Just wait till you see how I fight."

"I did, yesterday."

"That was just an appetizer... But I did appreciate getting to see your skill with a sword."

Kyra's flush was back, a light shading of rose across her cheekbones. It made her seem younger, and she must have known that it did, for she crossed her arms and said with irritation, "Did you think I wouldn't know how to swing a sword?" The youngling was showing her teeth.

"I didn't know what to think about my mysterious letter writer. You could have been anyone."

"And what do you think of 'your mysterious letter writer' now?"

"I'd like to know if I could beat her in a footrace."

Kyra laughed. "Is that it?"

"There's still time for more judgement."

"You'll get your footrace, I promise you that. But first, we clean out this caravan, and you can judge what you want from the bodies I'll leave behind."

"Then it sounds like we have a plan."

.oOo.

Kassandra sat at the top of an escarpment above the road to Miltiades Fort, hidden in a shadowed notch between boulders as she waited for the supply caravan. They'd brought only a handful of fighters, unwilling to risk the entirety of the rebel force, and though Kassandra couldn't see them, she knew there were men stationed at either end of the ridgeline. Kyra had concealed herself high in the rocks somewhere to the west, further down the road.

A shadow swooped across the face of the boulder next to Kassandra. Ikaros, flying just above her head. He let out a warning call, and his wings beat as he lifted himself higher before he banked in a turn towards the west. Her eyes followed the road to where it emerged from the forest, and she saw flocks of birds rising from the trees like smoke in swirling winds.

The first wagon appeared moments later. One soldier sat up front, driving a team of two plodding horses, while two more soldiers walked alongside. Eventually, five wagons rolled out of the forest; sixteen soldiers in total. The rebels were outnumbered nearly three to one. They'd wait for her to attack.

She bided her time with a statue's patience until the first wagon was below her, and then she leapt from the rocks onto the soldier driving it, ramming the spear through his neck and letting her momentum carry both of them off the seat and down to the ground, his body softening her landing. Her lips skinned back from her teeth into a wolf's grin as the world became clear and sharp, and the soldiers and horses around her began moving more and more slowly.

Horses ran past her; their lines had been cut in an attempt to keep the caravan from losing the wagons. Up ahead, soldiers fell one by one, arrow fletchings blooming in their throats. She could get used to this kind of help, Kyra clearing a path for her while she hunted the soldiers who'd taken cover behind their wagons.

She passed the second wagon, and saw a flash at the edge of the darkness beneath it. She froze, just in time for a spearhead to fly out, barely missing her thigh. She grabbed the spearshaft and yanked it back hard, dragging the soldier out into the open before she spun it out of his hands and pinned him to the earth.

Two more soldiers were crouched beside the third wagon. She drew her sword as they stood, slashed and parried their attacks, as an arrow bounced off one's helmet. Iron clashed. Her sword swept one man's blade aside while her spear found the weak spot between his chestplate and his belt, knowing it left her vulnerable to an attack from the other man. She spun around, her sword arm lifting to parry the strike she knew was already on its way — just in time to see an arrow punch through the man's throat. His eyes went wide, then he dropped to his knees, his sword falling from nerveless fingers.

Kassandra raised her spear and saluted the rocks above her in gratitude.

She cut her way through the soldiers at the fourth wagon, and when she reached the fifth, she saw that the pair of rebels stationed on that end had done their job.

The Athenians were dead. She stood in the road, basking in the warmth that had wrapped her in its silky embrace, as the blood of others dried on her hands and legs.

Kyra ran up to her, then quickly looked her up and down. "None of that's yours I hope," she said, nodding towards Kassandra's blood-spattered armor.

"Not a scratch on me. You?"

"My draw arm might be tired tomorrow, but it'll be worth it."

"Signal your contacts to take the wagons, and have your men strip the weapons and armor from the dead. We're taking it all with us. Let's move quickly, before the next patrol comes through."

From this point forward, no caravan would be as lightly guarded as this one, but they'd punched Podarkes in the nose, and reclaimed some of the food he'd stolen from his own people.

It was a small step forward worth celebrating.

.oOo.

Later that night, the hideout swirled with the spirits of celebration and libation. The rebels had claimed a small portion of the caravan's takings, along with a few jugs of wine. Now one of the rebels was seated in the corner, pounding out a complicated rhythm on a small drum, while the others had clumped together into small groups around the chamber.

Kassandra leaned up against a wooden pillar, sipping from a cup of wine. She'd gotten most of the blood out of her armor, and the cold stream-water she'd bathed in had chased the warmth and pleasure right out of her, leaving her numb and a touch queasy. The murderous craving was getting harder to fight, and where once she'd at least try to knock out common soldiers like the caravan guards instead of killing them, today she hadn't even bothered.

She took a drink, and the wine seemed to taste vaguely of copper.

She'd seen the rebels at work, and now she tried to dispel her dark thoughts by watching them at play, hopefully without any blades being pointed in her direction. Praxos, Kyra's big lieutenant, was seated at a table along with two other men, all of them howling with laughter as he told some tale. The drummer tapped out a one-handed beat as she drank from her cup, before launching into a rhythm that spiraled out in variation after variation, all looping around a constant thump like a heartbeat.

But it was Kyra her eyes kept wandering to, watching her work the room. She flew from group to group, a whirlwind of energy that left laughter and excited voices behind her as she passed. Her skill with sword and bow had earned her the respect of her men, but it was her attention that had won her their hearts.

Soon enough, Kyra's path around the chamber brought her near, and Kassandra found herself the target of that attention. "Lower your shield, Spartan," Kyra said as she approached. "Are all of you so damn serious all the time?"

Kassandra suddenly wanted to say No, she wasn't always like this. But after Argolis, she wasn't sure if this tendency to brood was her new normal or not. Better to give Kyra a safe answer instead. "It's been a long time since I've considered myself Spartan."

"Sounds like there's a story there."

"There is, but it's better suited for another time, I think."

"So mysterious," Kyra said, shading her voice darker to exaggerated effect.

"I think we're even in that regard."

That seemed to amuse her. "Oh? You have burning questions, misthios?"

"You could tell me how you ended up leading a rebellion."

Amusement turned into a scowl. "So I can justify my leadership to you, too?" How quickly her moods could shift, like spring weather: sunny one moment, stormy the next.

"That's not what I meant," Kassandra said. "Have I done something to make you think I doubt your abilities?"

Kyra studied her silently for a moment before saying, "No," along with an apologetic bow of her head. "I'm sorry. I'm just... used to having to prove myself, over and over again."

"You have the respect of your men. They'd follow you to Hades if you told them that's where the next battle would be."

"That didn't happen overnight. Even Thaletas needed to be... convinced."

"I'm not Thaletas."

"No, you're not." She looked thoughtful. "I imagine you've had to do similar convincing in your line of work."

"Sometimes. I'm just glad you haven't wanted to throw another blade at me."

Kassandra was beginning to enjoy making Kyra blush. This time, the color crept deep into her cheeks. "I know, I know. You came all this way, and I was cruel to you." She rotated her wine cup within her fingers, making its carvings of Pan and his retinue seem to dance. "But you did show up out of nowhere. I mean, look at you."

Kassandra waited for further explanation.

"You came swaggering in, ready to take on Ares himself. And I thought: Oh, she could be trouble... And then you were — but for Podarkes. He has no idea what's coming for him, and now I have hope again."

"Good."

Kyra gestured around the cave. "You asked how I came to lead this rebellion. Podarkes executed my family when I was very little. I survived on the streets, raised by hunters, rogue warriors, and mercenaries like you. They're my family now. They took care of me, and now I'm taking care of them. And one day, I'll fire an arrow into Podarkes's black heart — payment for every Delian family he's destroyed." She drained the rest of her cup. "But enough about his evil, we should be celebrating tonight. Drink your wine, and I'll introduce you to everyone."

They did the rounds, Kassandra exchanging names and clasping arms and trading those nods common to warriors that meant We may have seen the same things in battle, but we're not friends. Like most fighters forced to work with mercenaries, they respected her blades but didn't trust her, which was fine by Kassandra. Trust was for leaders and commanders like Kyra. As long as the rebel fighters stayed out of Kassandra's way, they'd all get along just fine.

By the time they reached Praxos, he'd switched from telling tales to arm wrestling, and judging by the group gathered around the table he was putting on a show.

"He's always been the strongest," Kyra said, after he slammed another hand onto the tabletop. He hadn't even worked up a sweat.

But Kassandra had seen enough to want to have a go, and she said to Kyra, "Hold this?" as she handed over her wine cup and stepped up to the table.

"You wanna roll, misthios?" Praxos said, eyeing her from his seat.

She answered by sitting down across from him. She gripped the edge of the table with her left hand and rested her right elbow on the tabletop. His hand grabbed hers, a ham hand connected to a thick forearm and biceps that dwarfed her own. She'd have to move damn near perfectly to pull this off. The challenge made her grin.

One of the other rebels served as the referee, and he checked their hands, then began the countdown. "Tria... Dio... Ena... Go!"

The instant he gave the signal, she shot her hips forward and leaned back, pulling her hand up into a position of advantage over Praxos, and she turned her wrist, forcing his to bend back and negating his arm strength as she drove his hand down onto the table.

The man standing next to her clapped his hand on her shoulder. "By Zeus! I should have put money on you, Eagle Bearer."

Praxos extended his arm. "Good match, misthios. I'll be wanting another chance at you once I figure out how the Hades you did that."

She shook on it and said, "Anytime."

Kyra was staring at her. "That wasn't just brute strength," she said, handing Kassandra back her cup of wine. "Show me how you did it."

"Let's find a table, then."

Kyra led her to a table deeper within the cave, away from the commotion and bustle of the celebration. They sat down.

"Square up to the table," Kassandra said.

Kyra turned and aligned her body with the table's edge.

Kassandra rested her elbow on the tabletop. "Now take my hand."

They clasped hands, and the touch of Kyra's skin sent a jolt arrowing through her. It was like the first time she'd ever held her spear: the sudden rush of delighted wonder at the feeling of power hidden within it. The bones of Kyra's hands may have been fine and slender, but the muscles wrapped around them were surprisingly strong.

Kyra was studying Kassandra now, her dark eyes focused as her gaze swept over Kassandra's cheekbones and down her jaw. She seemed on the verge of saying something.

Kassandra cleared her throat. "This trick is all about leverage, about getting your hand into position on top."

"On top," Kyra repeated. Was that amusement glinting in her eyes?

"So what you have to do is drive your hips forward" — Kyra's fingers twitched in Kassandra's grip — "and lean your shoulders back as soon as you hear the signal to go. This'll pull your hand back over your opponent's."

Oh yes, Kyra was definitely amused, and Kassandra couldn't help but grin rakishly as she slowly demonstrated the moves one at a time.

"And what happens when I'm on top?" Kyra asked with practiced innocence.

"Victory will be close at hand." Kassandra suddenly twisted her grip, bending Kyra's wrist back and breaking her strength, before she forced Kyra's hand to the tabletop.

Kyra shook out her wrist, then plunked her elbow back on the table. "Let me try."

They clasped hands once again, and Kassandra felt a sudden flush of desire as their skin touched. The desire wasn't the surprise — the surprise was how good it felt, how it made her feel normal again, if only for a moment. The part of her that knew better understood there was something going on between Kyra and Thaletas, that she should tread carefully, that she needed to learn more about Kyra before she could interpret the signals Kyra was sending off.

There was another part of her that didn't care about any of that.

But she managed to contain herself the rest of the evening, aside from some mild flirting, and when the oil lamps began to run out along with the wine, she excused herself despite Kyra's attempts to get her to stay in one of the hideout's spare bunks.

She stepped out into the moonlight, a cool breeze rustling the tops of the palm trees and tugging at her braid, and gazed out over the forested hills.

It was a bad idea to mix business with pleasure in a situation as volatile as this one, but she wasn't sure she was going to be able to stop herself. Especially after she'd spent an evening feeling normal again for the first time in months. And what had Barnabas said about finding a beautiful woman?

Kassandra certainly had.

She took a deep breath that held the scent of flowers, and smiled.

Part of the Elegiad. Go back to the previous story, or on to the next...

#kassandra #kyssandra #ac odyssey #HEYO #guess i've been writing a stealth kyssandra fic all this time #expanding canon because i am greedy and WANT MORE #i can't fucking wait to write this relationship #i've waited 50k words for this #elegiad

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domesticatedantelope · 5 years ago

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adorn

Pairing: Logan x MC

Rating: Explicit | NSFW 18+

Word Count: 1500

Summary: The one where Mercy makes her love quite certain.

Kinktober Day 2: scars, body worship.

@brightpinkpeppercorn @choicesarehard @desiree-0816 @leelee10898 @client-327 @zaffrenotes @navigatorholmes @lovehugsandcandy @anxious-arliah @aworldoffandoms

Logan wears his scars like testimony.

Every misstep immortalized, penned into the splits between his knuckles, written in the jagged lines that carve across his ribs - harsh lessons he has learned the hard way, and even long after the bruises and the bleeding have healed over, all the scars remain.

Mercy makes certain that he wears her love as well.

Peach-colored kisses crown his neck and shoulders, monuments to her affection stained in fading lipstick down his skin. Her lips adorn his cheeks and both the edges of his smile, and when he reaches out to hold her face between his hands, she sets a kiss against each roughened palm. She lingers on the marks that span his knuckles as if she might somehow mend the damage there. She’s tended to a few of them herself, and she can still recall the rattle of adrenaline that trembled in her hands, his freshly bandaged fingers closing tenderly around her own.

Logan’s touch is just as gentle now as his thumb ghosts along her cheekbone, focus settling with obvious intention on her mouth. “Do I get to kiss you now?”

She almost lets him, sorely tempted by the open promise in his eyes; she knows that look and all the blissful things he offers with it, how quickly she can fall apart when she allows him to distract her. “Baby, I’m just getting started.”

He hums and nuzzles teasing teeth at the base of her throat. Over the years, he’s grown proficient with the tender places in her body, and it doesn’t take him long to find a span of nerves that trigger shivers down her spine.

That’s not playing fair.

“Behave yourself,” she chides him as the blush rises like clockwork in her cheeks.

Logan tilts a smirk at her. “I’m not so great at that.”

Her palm wanders and falls to rest over his heart, tracking the steady, rapid beat of it behind his ribs. “I think you’ll find a way to persevere.”

He laughs then, but the sound breaks off into a groan when Mercy rocks her hips against him. Callused fingers sink a blazing journey down her waist, curling in just deep enough to feel the pressure of his grip. Logan holds her with the certainty of passing time; his hands will find her body just like days will turn to weeks, to months, to seasons.

While he feels out the fullness of her hips, she maps the places where her teeth have marked him, too: faint red shadows in the vague shape of her mouth, bitten into sunbronzed skin when she was lost to climax.

(There was a time when she was horrified to find her own bite marks in bloom across his shoulders. He touches her like she is paradise made human, and she hurt him to the point of leaving bruises -

Baby, I’m so sorry.

But he laughed then, too. I’m not.)

She soothes them over all the same, planting soft apologies where she has been so careless. Her fingers drift the contours of his arms, travelling from faded love bites to a fissure of scar tissue that curves up his side, risen and pale against his skin. He fidgets restlessly among the bedsheets, watching her with rapt attention, following the slow progression of her touch. Something like hunger flickers in his gaze, teeth raking hard across his bottom lip.

She trails a path of lazy kisses down his ribs, and Logan shudders in response, sucking a breath in through his teeth. His muscles twitch beneath her fingers, tense with finely held restraint. He wants - oh, she can feel how badly - but he waits, impatient, groaning as she starts to trace the palm fronds inked in black across his hip. The mirror image of her tattoo claims him as her own, and when she splays her fingers out across those dark and branching lines, it feels like coming home again.

His scars are testimony, but he wears her love by choice.

The peach press of her lipstick, half-healed hickeys, black ink cast like shadows on his skin.

The soft look of relief that dawns across his features when she takes him finally in hand.

“Ha - Mercy -” His head falls back, throat working as he drags in empty air. The first touch of her lips and tongue coax shivers through his body, and he clenches gentle fingers at her hair, surging with anticipation before jerking back against the sheets. “Fuck, that feels amazing.”

Emboldened, Mercy sinks between his knees to take him further. She feels him throb against her tongue, a strangled whine lodged in his throat, falling apart around the rough sound of her name.

With shaking hands, he gathers up the dark waves of her hair, taking great care not to pull even as her tongue winds teasing pathways up the hard length of his cock. His eyes are transfixed on the sight of himself nudging past her lips, the slick wrap of her hand around the thickest part of him, every point where she attends to him with such tender devotion.

“Mercy…” Logan groans, a husky rumble fraying at the timbre of his voice. The flush of effort heats him through, desperation clear across his face as he arches beneath her. “Perfect, perfect, please…!”

She takes her time releasing him, kneading with suction as she lifts away, her fingers curling tight around the very base. Her head swims at the way he fills her grip, and she aches to think of how he feels inside of her, that breathtaking fit when he sinks home. Her body sings for contact, slick with craving, and she succumbs at last to her temptation, falling against his chest to claim his mouth beneath her own. His arm tugs her in close, trapping her between his hold and racing heart, frantic with need.

Urgency roughens his kisses. He nips with teeth and licks over the sting, letting his mouth wander the soft arch of her throat, slipping her hair aside to mark her shoulders. She was right - he’s horribly distracting - but that singular, possessive drive reverberates with every crashing heartbeat in her chest: take him, make him yours.

Mercy wets her fingertips against her tongue, dropping them in spiral circles down his cock before she leads him gingerly between her thighs. The weight of him prods hot against the raw folds of her sex, and then - oh god - she’s sliding down around him, seething out a gasp as she takes more and more and more of him. Her mouth spills open, shaping soundless whimpers when their hips slot finally together.

The first stretch always leaves her reeling, dizzied by the depth of their connection. Tears swim in her vision, laughter catching at the back of her throat, near delirious.

Sensing the tension in her body, Logan reaches up to steady her, soothing his fingers down the column of her spine. One broad hand settles at her hip, the other laced securely with her own as they begin to move together. She falls into a fitful rhythm, lifting, taking, every downswing dragging him against that dull, sweet ache inside of her, and she can only cling to him with frantic hands, dropping messy kisses to the scars across his knuckles.

His eyes roam greedily over her body, deference of the devout in one soft, longing look. The fingers at her waist dig in just short of pain and drive her down around him, urging himself deeper with a suddenness that steals her breath. Strain begins to burn among the muscles in her thighs, but she persists, pleading his name as he takes rough hold of her hips and fucks up into her.

Parting her lips, she sucks two of his fingertips over her tongue, and Logan jerks beneath her, choking out the sliver of a curse.

“Fuck, fuck, Mercy - I’m close, baby.”

She curls her hand into his hair, tilting his head to bite a moan against his throat. “Please,” she begs him, and her voice breaks with another harsh swing of his hips. “Logan, please. Let me feel you.”

He tears a gasp in through his teeth, pinning her against him as he comes, tension bunching in the muscles of his hips. He fucks a few last frantic thrusts, and Mercy shudders at the feeling of him spilling deep inside of her, the urgent pressure of his touch, the sound of his breath wrecked and labored in the wake of coming.

Panting, she prods exhausted kisses at his jaw, humming when he turns to catch her mouth against his own. His hands have gentled on her skin, already tending to the indentations that his fingers left along her hips. She’s soft, and she marks easily, dark bruises blooming down her thighs, but she has never minded them.

She doesn’t mind the blush he summons when he settles eagerly between her legs, or the smile that she mirrors back when he grins down at her; the blossoms that his teeth will surely leave across her skin; the slick of him still warm between her thighs.

Logan parts her legs and touches her with purpose, every loving stroke of lips and fingertips heavy with promise. From the slow and teasing pace his mouth sets down her body, she can tell he means to keep her here all night.

And by the time he’s finished with her, she is certain she will wear his love as well.

#ride or die #choices ride or die #playchoices #rod logan #logan x mc #ns*fw #ship: grand larceny #day 2 and i'm already late sorry y'all we're only human!!!#wish me luck jumping somehow back on track #every time i write grand larceny my brain simply consists of 'logan mercy.. soft'#so here's a little body worship of the softest caliber #itswhathedeserves.gif #dom writes

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anghraine · 5 years ago

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“the jedi and the sith lord” - chapter fifteen

Last chapter:

“How are you going to find opponents for me?”

“Quite easily,” he replied, and reached for something under his cape, then tossed it at her.

Lucy caught it without thinking—and her hands closed around the hilt of a lightsaber.

This chapter:

The lightsabers hummed together, the familiar sound almost soothing. Despite her weariness and alarm, Lucy felt more comfortable, in a way, than in a long time. The lightsaber felt right in her hand, and the Force sharpening every sense and reflex felt right, and the dodges and parries and sudden attacks felt right.

I was born for this.

chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight, chapter nine, chapter ten, chapter eleven, chapter twelve, chapter thirteen, chapter fourteen

Lucy was so surprised that only muscle memory had her switching the blue lightsaber on and blocking the first strike. Instinctively, her feet moved into place, her knees bent, and her eyes and mind tracked Vader’s lightsaber.

She was already tired when he began the barrage of blows against her lightsaber; it would have put her at a disadvantage even if he hadn’t been over a foot and a half taller and far broader. She had half a mind to give up already, but her pride wouldn’t allow it. She scraped up some energy from only the Force knew where—probably the Force itself—and quickly blocked his next attack, then pushed forwards into the third form, slashing at him.

I was born for this.

“Good,” said Vader, right before shoving her backwards with a blow so powerful she could barely repel it.

Lucy saw it coming and still almost lost her footing, quickly shifting into the defensive sixth form while she re-oriented herself. The fact of the matter was that she couldn’t win a straight-up duel with him. Not in her current state, anyway, unless the Force willed it, and she felt pretty sure that the Force was with him as strongly as her—it only ran through her veins because of him, after all. Even if not, she had a sneaking feeling that the Force didn’t intercede with random practice duels. She had to think about it in some other way.

It might have been different in a more natural kind of place. But the room was large and mostly empty, without structures she could use to her advantage. She kept trying to block his flurries of strikes and forceful downswings, but she knew she couldn’t do it indefinitely. What advantages did she have, small as she was?

Half-distracted by her own desperate thoughts, she slightly lowered her lightsaber and then jumped out of the way of a sideways slice.

Dimly, she wondered if he’d actually have carried the attack all the way through. She wasn’t quite sure. She felt certain he wouldn’t kill her, but who knew what his Dark Side-addled brain would consider a useful reminder?

All right. She was small—but didn’t that mean faster and lighter, too? At least, it could.

Maybe.

Vader felt as impassive as he looked as he raised his lightsaber again. But Lucy turned hers off.

“You are unwise to lower your defenses,” he said sharply.

She smiled. “I’m not.”

With that, she rolled backwards, lightsaber still held loosely in her hand, and took off running at full speed for the familiar refuge of the platforms. For several seconds, she could feel his footsteps behind her, alarmingly near with his lightsaber still activated, but then he stopped.

Lucy, not trusting this, kept going up the ladder and sprang up onto the first platform, breathing heavily. Okay. She could do this.

She didn’t expect him to say anything else. He wasn’t really the kind to yell halfway across a near-empty room. But then, his voice sounded in her head, strong and clear.

You can’t run forever, Lucy.

I’m not, she thought irritably.

Is that so?

All right, this was strange. Really strange. It reminded her of Ben speaking to her in the Death Star trench, and yet felt different. Less spiritual, and more like … just talking. Neither Ben nor Yoda had ever said anything about that. Could any of them do it?

Cautiously, she ignited the lightsaber again as she stood there, recovering her breath and some little amount of energy. Vader didn’t even try to climb after her. She hadn’t really expected it, though she didn’t know what she had expected—certainly, however, it was not for him to stroll over to Ellex. He seemed to be saying something, though Lucy had no idea what.

Then he wheeled around and marched right over to a spot beneath the empty space at the center of the platforms. He tilted his head back to look straight at Lucy.

Prepare yourself!

What? How—

And suddenly, the patch of floor beneath his boots began to rise—and just kept going and going and going, until it was nearly level with the lower hanging platforms.

Oh, no.

Now she remembered Tuvié showing her that when she demonstrated all the controls, but she hadn’t thought of it until this moment. Lucy gulped as Vader easily jumped from the central platform to one hanging several feet above it.

She glanced behind her, considering a return the way she’d come, but that would be just running away and hoping to exhaust him before she exhausted herself. It seemed a particularly improbable hope right now, and anyway, it felt cowardly. She squared her shoulders and lifted her lightsaber, then ran and leapt forwards to meet him.

She’d certainly not anticipated a lightsaber battle in the air today. But that was exactly what happened. Lucy had to rely on every hour of practice up there to evade his attacks when she suspected she couldn’t block them, springing from platform to platform while her father inexorably followed.

Finally, her arm went completely numb and Vader knocked the lightsaber right out of her hand. It clattered somewhere on the floor beneath them, while the red lightsaber hummed at her throat.

Lucy looked at the lightsaber, and then at Vader’s unreadable mask.

“Damn it,” she said.

He seemed—she concentrated—something like amused, or at least entertained. Lucy scowled.

“A worthy effort,” said her father.

“For a failure?”

“Yes,” he said, which wasn’t exactly encouraging. “Consider it instructive.”

“Thanks,” said Lucy.

“Do you acknowledge your defeat?”

She nearly wrinkled her nose. “I guess.”

He waited, the lightsaber still inches from her skin. It was, though not frightening, certainly unsettling.

“Yes,” she grumbled. “I have fallen before your mighty skills, Lord Vader. Can I get down now?”

Finally, he lowered his lightsaber and flicked its switch, the blade disappearing. She breathed a little easier.

“Yes,” he said. “But be better prepared for next time.”

On the face of it, that sounded threatening, and she was pretty sure he meant it to. But it’d make her exercises so much more exciting! And the lightsaber in her hand had felt—it’d felt so good. She wouldn’t do anything to have it back, not by any means, but she was perfectly ready to do this. Lucy smiled again.

“I will, Father.”

With that, she retraced her usual path to the floor, her legs feeling like they’d barely hold her up once she landed. Her fingers twitched as she saw her—saw Anakin’s lightsaber lying on the floor not far away, but she knew better than to try reclaiming it.

Sure enough, when Vader returned to the central platform and it lowered to join the rest of the floor, he summoned his original lightsaber back to his hand, silently hooking it onto his belt. The silence didn’t feel awkward, though, and he slowed his stride enough that Lucy managed to walk beside him without feeling like her legs might give out at any moment.

“I have business elsewhere,” he said. “I trust you can entertain yourself in the meanwhile?”

“Sleep sounds really entertaining right now,” said Lucy. “How long will you be gone?”

“A few hours, in all probability,” he replied.

“See you tomorrow, then,” she said easily, and watched him walk away. When the door closed, she turned to Ellex. “Are you ready to head back?”

“I am ready for everything at all times,” Ellex said without hesitation.

Lucy supposed she should have expected that.

She shrugged and headed off, expecting nothing other than the usual. But halfway along the trek to her bedroom, Ellex gave a whirr that reminded her of Tuvié. Lucy bit her lip, wishing she knew at least what had happened to her. Had she been destroyed or simply punished? Was she suffering, in some droid way, even now? It had become easy to overlook that the face (well, “face”) that Vader presented her to was not the one he showed the rest of the galaxy, even here. That didn’t make either persona false, just—she shouldn’t allow herself to forget.

“Lucy Skywalker,” Ellex pronounced.

“Yes?” said Lucy.

“I am reconsidering you.”

At that, Lucy turned to stare at her, genuinely startled. “You are?”

“Yes.” Ellex gave a decided nod. “Of course, you are little danger without your weapon.”

“I think we’ve already established that.”

“However,” said Ellex, “I am nevertheless inclined to re-evaluate my judgment of what threat you pose. Few people have stood against Lord Vader for so long.”

Lucy felt pretty sure he’d been going easy on her, for a Vader value of “easy.” And she didn’t really want to think about the others Ellex had seen, the ones who hadn’t been able to stand against him, in the end.

“Thank you,” she said. “I think.”

In all the sessions after that, Lucy trained with the familiar blue lightsaber, both in her drills of the forms and the inevitable duels with Vader. She never knew when the duels would actually happen—sometimes the lightsaber came flying at her right away, sometimes in the middle of a stretch, sometimes at the end—but they always did.

Lucy never won, but she could feel herself improving, the duels growing longer and longer as she increasingly fell back on her training rather than haphazard impulses. Despite the losses, she thoroughly enjoyed herself. If she’d known this was what training with Anakin would be like—

But maybe it wouldn’t have been like this, if she hadn’t held out against the Dark Side. He still seemed to have given up talking about it, though she felt pretty suspicious about that. Either way, she couldn’t help but accept that this was training and she knew it. She wasn’t altogether sure what its actual purpose was (beyond ruling the galaxy, which would never happen), but he definitely had some end in mind.

Whatever it was, he seemed pleased with her progress. She could feel it in him, and sometimes he even said something to the effect in his severe way. Lucy tried to keep distrusting him, to remind herself of his plans and the fate he would bring to the galaxy if she surrendered her guard. In some ways she still did, but it was nearly as hard as facing the truth had been. If not for her fears for the Rebellion in general and Leia and Han in particular, and regret over Tuvié—two considerable if-not-fors, in fairness—she would have felt happier than ever before in her life.

If Anakin hadn’t turned to the Dark Side, maybe this was the life she would have had all along, and without the suffocating walls of the castle and constant supervision. But she couldn’t resent him too much for it. Without the Emperor, everyone would have lived different lives and made different choices. If she hated anyone, it was him.

About a month into this, her father said suddenly,

“Have you ever heard of Admiral Varti or Commander Jerjerrod?”

Lucy set down her biscuit with some regret.

“Uh, the names sound familiar,” she said, searching her memory. “I’m not sure—oh! Ellex and … and Tuvié mentioned them once, I think. Ellex thought you should slice their heads off or something.”

“That is, unfortunately, not a possibility,” said Vader.

“Okay,” she said, unsure where this was going.

“One or both are responsible for the attack on Bast Castle,” he went on. “They are close allies.”

“Oh.” Lucy allowed herself another bite of the biscuit, mildly curious about why he’d mention this to her. If she ever made contact with the Rebellion again, she guessed she could mention the names, but it didn’t seem terribly important.

“Moreover,” said Vader, “Jerjerrod was appointed several months ago to the Emperor’s secret project.”

Lucy’s attention sharpened. “It seems like that would be a secret, too. Who told you?”

“The Force,” Vader replied. “Some things have become … clearer to me, in recent months.”

She felt pretty sure that was the Light Side, though she knew better than to say so outright.

“Well, good,” said Lucy. “Does this involve me in some way?”

“It is possible that it will,” he told her. “It is not altogether uncommon for more ambitious figures in the Empire to quietly build up small private fleets. I believe Varti and Jerjerrod are doing so—have done so, in fact, and that this fleet is still growing.”

“The attack on us was the fleet?” she asked.

“A portion of it, undoubtedly,” said Vader. “Jerjerrod is not overburdened with genius; he may have found it entertaining to test his ships here, of all places. The real question, however, is whether he and Varti intend to use the fleet in some way against his enemies in the Empire—or against the Rebellion.”

Lucy’s mouth went dry. “Why wouldn’t they just use Imperial ships to attack the Rebellion?”

“If they manage to personally strike a blow,” said Vader, “their place in the Emperor’s favour would be assured—or so they may think. And consider that their ships were disguised as Rebel ships. They may have some plan that relies on further sabotage.”

Remembering who he was, she hesitated, then lifted her eyes to the mask.

“Father,” she said, “I can trust you with some things, but not the Rebellion. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I have extended a personal invitation to Admiral Varti to consult with me here,” said Vader. “If he accepts it, he will be here in about a week. For the sake of your Rebellion, you should be very wary when he arrives—and very observant.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “But why would you—”

“Dità juradiiyad,” he added. “They can guide you in this matter, as in everything.”

That, she thought, was a low blow. She almost invariably used Alsaraic with him; he almost never used it in return. Still, she’d learned to trust her feelings by now. He seemed to be telling the truth, as far as it went. But she felt like he was leaving something out, something important.

“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll be careful.”

The next morning, Lucy did not get up at her usual hour. Instead, a metal hand shook her shoulders until she woke to two red eyes gleaming out of the dimness.

“I haven’t done anything,” said Lucy.

“Yet,” said Ellex darkly. “Get up. Clothe yourself in something of inferior value.”

Lucy climbed out of bed, her mind still foggy. “Inferior …?”

“Whatever you encase your flesh in will likely take damage,” Ellex said.

“Oh.” Lucy blearily made her way over to the wardrobe. “That sounds great.”

Ellex didn’t deign to respond to this, but she clomped to her usual position and light filled the room.

“Hurry up,” she said. “Lord Vader is departing shortly.”

Huh. He hadn’t said anything about that—but then, he didn’t say anything about a great deal. Lucy shrugged and managed to dredge up the grey clothes she’d worn on her ill-fated escape attempt, which had several stains and small tears. Feeling decidedly uneasy with the memory, she followed Ellex out of her room and, it turned out, all the way to the entrance. Vader stood there with his force field generator in hand.

“Lucy,” he said abruptly. “I will be gone for a time—several hours, at shortest, and possibly several days. The droids can look after your needs.”

“All right,” said Lucy. She paused, then figured she might as well ask. “Does it have to do with … with the matter we discussed yesterday?”

“It may,” he said. “Or it may not. The Emperor wishes to speak to me.”

Lucy swallowed.

“Communications across such a distance can be difficult on Vjun,” he added, which seemed positively chatty. “Once I have broken the atmosphere, it should be manageable. It is possible that he will send for me in person, however.”

Fear, long-gone by now, flashed back to life.

“Ellex will oversee you, as usual,” he went on. “I trust you will remain on good behaviour.”

Lucy managed a nod.

He swivelled on his heel and headed for the door, activating the force field as he went. It turned him into a smear of black.

“Father!”

The dark blur paused. “What is it?”

“Be careful,” said Lucy. “And—and mind your feelings.”

A few seconds ticked past. Lucy could sense surprise from him, and confusion, and something almost like—compassion? No, that wasn’t it. But close.

“Of course,” he said.

“You can’t trust him!”

“Yes,” said Anakin, “I’m aware of that. Goodbye, Lucy.”

She folded her arms. “Goodbye.”

After Vader disappeared through the front doors, Ellex ordered Lucy back to the training room. Lucy obeyed, but her thoughts and emotions were racing so wildly that her feet seemed to follow Ellex’s steps of their own accord. What if Palpatine sensed her father’s plans? What if he found out that Vader had stopped trying to turn her to the Dark Side? What if he did something? She wasn’t sure what, but—Force, what if he killed him?

As they arrived in the familiar white room, she looked around as blankly as if she’d never been there before. Her usual exercises seemed impossible.

“What are you waiting for?” said Ellex.

Without thinking, Lucy said in Alsaraic, “I don’t know.”

“I do not comprehend your nonsense babble. Why you insist on using it with Lord Vader—”

“It isn’t babble,” Lucy said indignantly, and missed Tuvié more than ever. “Lord Vader understands me.”

Ellex clicked. “He understands a great many things.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, “including his native language. If you’re quite done insulting us both—”

“I have been instructed to aid your newest exercise,” Ellex said. “Against my better judgment, I might add.”

“You’re moving the platforms? Fine.”

“No,” said Ellex. “Recall that if you even attempt to harm or disable me in any way, I am permitted to stun you into unconsciousness.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” said Lucy impatiently.

I just don’t like you, she thought. But Ellex, she supposed, couldn’t help the way she’d been programmed or how her code had evolved.

“We shall see,” said Ellex. “You should also consider that I am shielded against most forms of attack, including blaster bolts.”

Lucy’s brows knit together. What under the suns was she talking about?

Then Ellex reached behind her and withdrew something that she threw at Lucy. Lucy instinctively snatched it out of the air—and her fingers closed around the hilt of Anakin’s lightsaber. She stared at it, genuinely shocked; she’d never expected to hold it again except when overseen by Anakin himself.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“That is hardly surprising,” said Ellex. “Even so, I have upgraded the current threat you pose from trivial to significant.”

“Thanks, but—”

Ellex lifted one of her blasters. With that, it all became clear—right before she shot a bolt straight at Lucy. Lucy promptly blocked it, remembering Ben’s training on the Falcon as well as the defensive maneuvers Vader had drilled her in so many times. The memories served her well; she repelled bolt after bolt with the lightsaber, only occasionally forced to dodge out of their way. But the risk of being stunned distracted her enough that she fixed her attention on Ellex, forcing herself to put Emperor Palpatine and Darth Vader alike out of her mind.

She couldn’t do anything about that, not right now. She had to focus on becoming as strong and effective as she could be, without giving up who she was—Lucy as well as Skywalker. If that meant deflecting blaster bolts for two hours, so be it.

It did, in fact, mean that. Ellex broke through Lucy’s defenses a few times near the end, numbing one of Lucy’s legs and her off-hand shoulder, but never enough to completely take her down before she ran out of charges on the second of four blasters. Lucy hoped she didn’t mean to deprive herself of the other two, and sure enough, Ellex called a stop to the exercise.

“You deflected the blaster bolts into the wall,” she noted. “An unexpected choice.”

“Your shields would deflect them right back at me,” said Lucy. “And I told you, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Ellex said, “Very well. You may continue with your usual procedures.”

“All right,” said Lucy, bemused by the whole thing. She deactivated the lightsaber and handed the hilt to Ellex.

“What are you doing?” said Ellex.

“Giving it back to you,” Lucy said, puzzled.

“Why?”

Even more baffled, Lucy told her, “It’s Lord Vader’s. Not mine. He’d tell me if he wanted me to have it.”

Ellex tilted her head down to peer at Lucy, some inexplicable process winding through her circuits. Her sensors flickered.

“Very well,” she said finally, and took the lightsaber back, hanging it from the back of her belt.

Lucy’s hand felt painfully empty. So did the room, without her father’s towering presence. She could only launch herself into her exercises with as much force and focus as she could, desperately trying to clear her mind of anything but what was happening above the surface, or perhaps beyond it. At heart, she knew that the galaxy would probably be a better place without Darth Vader.

But not for her.

#anghraine's fic #the jedi and the sith lord #rule 63 #genderbending #/#//#///#////#/////#ellex #anakin skywalker #luke skywalker #lucy skywalker #star wars #long post #wherein the plot (sort of!) arrives

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oneandahalfwolf · 5 years ago

Note

🗡

Send a symbol, and my muse will tell a personal story about… [x]

🗡 - Swords

Ben watched Iley hit the dirt, thick wooden stick flying from her hand.The wolf-kin swung their own stick in a circle, quickening on the downswing before making it stop and relaxing their grip.

“Get up. Again.”

The half-elf pushed herself up onto her elbows, uncaring of the dirt smudging her clothes, and glowered at the werewolf. Ben simply raised a brow and jerked their head at the forgotten stick. The mage huffed and hauled herself up before stomping over to the stick and picking it up. When she turned back to Ben they lifted their own stick and pointed it at various parts of her body.

“Plant your feet, relax your stance, and don’t lock your elbows.” Iley inhaled with frustration but still did as they asked. Ben nodded, mouth twitching. “That’s it. Remember your opponent will take any chance, use any weakness against you. The best thing to do is not give them one. Now come at me again.”

The brunette adjusted her grip on the stick and squared her shoulders before moving forward. She swung horizontally but Ben easily parried it. She pressed on; trying diagonally, vertically, then horizontally again. But her strikes were getting more haphazardous, wilder as she tried to just hit the taller teen. But the wolf-kin was still blocking everything she threw at them.

Soon enough Iley overextended and Ben was able to dodge before grabbing her wrist, twisting it to make her let go of the makeshift weapon then pulling her body forward and using their stick to trip her up. The small mage hit the dirt once more with a grunt. The scent of anger and frustration was thick in the air as Iley turned her head, glaring at them with slightly bared teeth. The werewolf just flicked their tail and made an up gesture with their stick.

"Again." The half-elf gave a rather impressive snarl for someone with more humanoid vocal chords - though there was no language or tone to it quite yet - before she grabbed the stick and shoved herself to her feet.

"Why are we using sticks! Shouldn't we be using your actual swords." Ben shook their head.

"You don't know the basics yet. Do you really want to risk losing a finger or worse?"

"I have magic!" Iley shouted. "I can fix that, I can… I can heal anything."

Ben had heard the pause and smirked. Both of them knew healing magic want the mage's strongest discipline. Still the werewolf tilted their head and stared at her critically, grey eyes so intense for a moment that Iley fidgeted a little and averted her gaze. The taller teen ran a fang over the inside of their bottom lip in thought before they clicked their tongue and nodded.

"Okay."

Iley blinked in shock as Ben dropped their stick and walked over to their swords propped up against a rock by their packs. They picked up both and turned, throwing one (the one that had the lion head pommel with sapphire eyes in the scabbard coloured black with gold accents) at the half-elf. Iley dropped her stick with a high pitched yelp and clumsily caught the sword. Ben took ahold of the hilt of their other sword (the one that had the wolf head pommel with ruby eyes) and pulled it free of its scabbard (black with silver accents), the blade glinting in the high noon sun. The brunette just stood there dumbfounded, so the wolf-kin raised their brow as their right ear flicked briefly.

“You wanted to use real swords so come on...” They dropped the scabbard and took a fighting stance. “Let’s use real swords.”

The half-elf blinked before scrambling to pull the sword free and taking a stance like Ben had taught her, though it was still shaky and a little off. The corner of Ben’s mouth twitched before their nostrils flared, feet shifting in the dirt and fingers clenching around the leather beneath their hand. The air was still apart from the faint rustling of leaves in the light breeze.

In a split second Ben moved forward, bringing their sword up in a vertical arc. They did it at a slower than average pace which gave Iley the chance to parry it. They pushed forward, gradually getting quicker and quicker with their slashes. The small brunette managed to keep up, but barely. Iley tried to make an attack of her own but the wolf-kin brought their own sword up and locked their blades together. Their friend tried to push them back but Ben was stronger. She tried to dig her feet in, tried to not give the werewolf ground, however she was outmatched.

Suddenly Ben grabbed her wrist to keep them locked together and pushed her back. She stumbled as she fought to remain upright, feet kicking up dirt and dust, until her back hit a tree. She felt the breath leave her body in a loud exhale but she still managed to keep pushing. Sweat was dripping from her skin as she gritted her teeth, but her arms were wavering, shoulders straining painfully. She looked up and brow eyes widened as she saw Ben’s own grey gaze turn yellow, a low growl vibrating in their chest. She swallowed and licked her lips.

“Ben,” she whispered, voice quavering, “You’re scaring me.”

The wolf-kin frowned, nostrils flaring at the scent of fear, and blinked. Their eyes fading back to grey before they widened. They staggered back a little, ears folding back against their head as their sword arm dropped to their side, blade pointing towards the ground.

"Iley," they breathed, tears shining in their eyes, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I-"

Before they could say anything more Iley lifted a leg and stamped hard on their foot. The werewolf let out a high pitched canine yelp as they dropped their sword, instinctively grabbing at their leg and curling up a little. The half-elf surged forward and shoved her friend in the chest as hard as she could. The taller teen toppled backwards and hit the ground hard, breath leaving their body in a sharp exhale. Iley quickly moved forward and sat on their stomach, making the wolf-kin grunt hard, before she put the sword to their neck. Ben blinked and looked down as best they could before they locked eyes with the mage’s brown ones, brow raising.

“What?” Iley said with an impish smile, “you said your opponent will use any weakness against you.” She shrugged. “So I used a weakness against you.” She leant forward and placed a swift peck to their nose. Ben blinked at the move and then chuckled.

“Touché.” They gave the brunette a nudge with their hip. Iley pulled the blade away from their neck and scrabbled to get off of them before offering a hand. Ben took it and let her help them up. Once standing they took the sword out of her hand much to her confusion. “But you still have to learn the basics.”

“But-” The wolf-kin cut of her exclamation by raising their free hand.

“No buts.” They made their way over to their other sword and set about putting both back in their scabbards. “This is how my Papa taught me, so it's how I’m going to teach you.” They propped the swords back up against the rock and turned to Iley. “If you know the basics then if something happens where the only thing you can rely on is your blade, like your magic is gone or worse, you’ll still be okay.”

“Oh,” Iley said quietly. Now it was all laid out like that, she could see Ben’s side. She took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay.”

Her friend grinned and retrieved the sticks before going over to the brunette and handing it to her, tail wagging all the while. She took it and the wolf-kin took the time to show her again how best to hold it before moving onto her stance and such. Once those instructions had been handed over they took their place opposite. The pair would spar late into the evening before finally collapsing in an exhausted heap near their packs, barely managing to eat a couple of sweet treats before falling asleep curled up together.

#scruffy werewolf (self)#tiny mage (ileyra)#swords and shield (main canon)#scattered papers everywhere (drabble)#myths and legend (headcanon)#bloodsorceress #sniffing around (ask)

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butterpanic · 6 years ago

Text

Know What You Signed Up For

Prompt: Written for Chocolate Box 2019

Pairing: Theron Shan/Female Smuggler

Rating: M

Tags: Trapped In Elevator, Elevator Sex, Post-Nathema, Angst

Read at [AO3]

"Wait! Hold the-"

A hand shoves its way through the disappearing crack in the elevator doors, followed by an arm and then by the wedging body of the woman Theron Shan simultaneously wants to see most and least in the entire galaxy. The Commander seems to feel the same, judging by the way her mouth forms and abandons options before settling on a terse, "Theron," and a fixed gaze on the opposite wall.

Well, at least they can share an elevator again. That's progress.

No eye contact. No small talk. There's a caf in her hand that someone else put there, and he knows that by now it's gone cold with exactly a quarter left in the bottom of the cup. Don't need a chrono when Cats is around, just read the rings inside the rim. Old mug, new mug; she gets through the day with the reflex of an open palm and a nod of thanks to the supplier.

Not him, anymore. A year ago it would have been, now he knows he'll be running into her refueling team on the other side of the elevator doors. Corso or Risha if they're on base. Lana if they aren't. Theron watched Gault do it once last week.

That one hurt a little, if he's being honest.

He did the right thing. Theron wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been sure and he's still sure of that. Cats must agree, on some level, because he spent enough time with her file before Korriban to know what happens when someone double-crosses her. She'd offered him the open palm, not the blaster to the nuts. Alliance pardon. His old quarters, even, not a demotion down to the barracks.

No eye contact, though. No inappropriate flirting during briefings. No even-more-inappropriate smacks on the ass after briefings. He hasn't tried bringing her caf in the morning but he doesn't need to try his access code to the Majestic Princess to know that it won't work anymore. Theron's got just enough of a routine reestablished now to see exactly how many holes she's left in it.

The elevator grinds to a halt and Cats nearly plows into the doors, too focused on escape to realize they've failed to open. She turns on him, eyes closed.

"You shouldn't have sliced the elevator."

He hadn't sliced the elevator. Not since he came back. Before, sure; even though it earned him an entirely deserved lecture about professionalism from Lana every time. She's absolutely right - it's bad optics for the Commander of the Eternal Alliance to have poorly-concealed public sex and it's inconvenient for everyone who's forced to take the emergency stairs while the elevator is out of commission.

(What Lana never seemed to consider in her arguments was that the Commander of the Eternal Alliance really, really liked getting off in places that were inconvenient for everyone. And that she had fantastic breasts. Theron was smart enough not to bring this particular counterargument to the table.)

Seeing as they're not even on "friendly smile in the hallway" terms right now, though, slicing the elevator for some unprofessional behavior with his ex hadn't been on the schedule for the day any more than sharing an elevator with her.

"Not me."

He jams the panel a few times, just to confirm that that definitely isn't going to do anything useful. Starts considering the interference of the shaft and various Alliance communications routing times - is he still in Lana's priority queue? Theron is busy calculating how likely it is that he can climb up the shaft without his infiltration kit, both with and without Cats, when he gets an override message. Loud and clear, from the woman herself, who is suddenly much closer than before and looking down at him with his own confusion.

"I want to kiss you," she murmurs, almost to herself. "Can I... is that...?"

Theron gets it. He really does. It was a question he asked on Nathema, on Copero, on Umbara. After every time they pass in the hallway, at every briefing and four hours after the doors of his empty quarters close behind him every night. Thing is, it isn't a question he's managed to tease out the answer to, and if she's asking, it's probably best just to put her tongue in his mouth.

Yeah, he thinks, as his lips tilt up to press against hers, probably for the best.

"You're an idiot," someone says, and he's not sure which of them says it or who it's for. Either of them. Both of them, probably, and he doesn't care because all he can taste is her. Every gray day lighting up, every lonely fantasy dissolving into the way she grinds against him.

She's right, or he's right. About anything. About everything. They are idiots and they are unprofessional and they are broken and they are wearing too many clothes. Her hands are already fumbling at his belt, the familiarity of years of their least appropriate hobby filling the gap sense leaves. That can't- well, if she gets those hands where she wants them this is going to be over too soon, and the last confused scraps of his mind he hasn't tasked to getting her out of her shirt kick in long enough to shift them to his shoulders.

"You first," he says, running his fingers under the shirt, over the soft skin of her stomach as it tightens in his wake. His lips find her jaw, her neck, kissing his way down as nervous hands fumble at each button and clasp.

She has fantastic breasts.

It's selfish but he takes a moment here. Rests his face between them to feel her heartbeat against the warmth of her skin, the softness in that gap, the way she smells of sweat and life and everything home. No regrets. If her heart is still beating, he did the right thing, no matter what it means for him now.

Cats squirms under his nose and he shifts a hand up to cup a breast before she gets impatient enough to move it there herself. Noses against her nipple playfully, because he knows it annoys her, but doesn't hesitate to draw it into his mouth. Sweat, salt, sweet as he circles his tongue. Slow, like he wants, like he's missed. She moans, bends, and he takes advantage of the moment to reverse their positions, press her up against the metal of the elevator wall. To gaze up at her, past the gentle swell of her breast, as she meets his eyes and her lips part invitingly once again.

"Theron," she says, and he groans appreciatively against her in response, sucking her deeper. "Theron."

This time her hands tug at his hair, insistent against his arousal. Blinking, he pulls back.

"They're going to repair the elevator." She drops each word slowly, like she's explaining a foreign concept. Of course they'll repair the elevator, three quarters of the base is underground. They'd never get anything done if they didn't.

"Okay."

"We need to be done before they finish."

Oh. Right.

His hands make quick work of his belt and even quicker work of hers; his lips placed just so in the crease of her hip elicits the same gasping laugh it always does. The kisses he plants along her inner thighs while he unlaces her boots are just as awkward but in only a moment they stand chest to chest, his erection brushing the loose ends of her shirt, her sex warm and slick as he cups it in his hand. Lets her grind against him, just how she likes, no rhythm but that rhythm that's just her.

"Please," she says, "Please, please. Please." She repeats it, eyes searching his, and he's idiot enough to hope that she's asking for everything he wants to give, not just this. Not just the smooth slide inside her, the way her hips tilt to meet his own. The way she moans when his hand moves between her thighs, right there, using everything he's ever learned about her to drive her desperately over the edge.

Her lips close around the skin at the base of his throat and pull. He wouldn't have left a mark on her now, wouldn't have dared, but she does and that's when he loses control. Stars. He comes apart.

No eye contact, no pillow talk. She turns away to tug her jacket back over her shoulders. His belt is straightened and every hair back in place when the doors give their warning creak.

One, two, three. Like clockwork, Lana's flat glare appearing between parted doors.

"And there they are," she says, motioning towards the nearby engineers. "No worse for wear. That's a Code Besh resolved."

"Good work, troops," Cats salutes with a wave of her caf. Another mug is presented and exchanged on the downswing. Looks like Risha's on rotation this morning, and she wrinkles her nose as Cats brushes by her on their way to the exit.

"Really?" Theron murmurs, as soon as Cats is out of earshot. "Non-Emergency Maintenance Code Besh? The elevator was actually broken, Lana, we could have been-"

"Don't play the fool, Theron, it doesn't suit you," she snaps. "Your algorithm hasn't changed. You didn't even bother to switch encryptions." Her glare softens, slightly, into something like a smile. "For what it's worth... I'm happy for you."

Theron woke up alone last month and last week and this morning and he hasn't understood a single thing that's happened in the past thirty minutes. Kriff it. With a chipper wave in Lana's direction, he heads to the cantina for lunch.

It's enough for now.

"What is this?" Risha gingerly fishes the sodden spike out of a mug of cold caf.

"Oh, is that where that was?" Cats is flippant, but her hand closes around it with a quickness that belies her tone. Crushes it with the very same quickness, and shoves the unrecognizable remains into a pocket.

"No idea. Must've found it somewhere."

#swtor #theron shan #female smuggler #commanderlurker #m rating #(how the hell do you tag these days)#bp: swtor #bp: theron shan #bp: fs

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