#smog veil

[weneverlearn]

Aaron Lange, Peter Laughner, and the Terminal Town of Cleveland, Ohio

Cleveland-based artist, Aaron Lange, tackles his first graphic novel, Ain't It Fun -- a deep dive into the oily depths of the Rust Belt's most influential music town, it's most mythological misfit, it's oft-forgotten artistic and political streaks, and beyond...

Aaron Lange and his book, 2023 (Photo by Jake Kelly)

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There’s a recurring line in Aaron Lange’s remarkable new graphic novel, Ain’t It Fun (Stone Church Press, 2023), that states, “Say the words out loud. The River isn’t real.” The river Lange was speaking of is the Cuyahoga, that infamously flammable mass of muck that dumps out into Lake Erie.

Peter Laughner (the ostensible topic of Lange’s book) was an amazing artist who probably could’ve ditched the banks of the Cuyahoga for more amenably artistic areas back in his early 1970s heyday. Aside from his frequent pilgrimages to the burgeoning NYC Lower East Side scene (where he nearly joined Television) and a quickly ditched attempt to live in California though, he mostly stuck around northeast Ohio.

While desperately trying to find his sound and a workable band, Laughner smelted a post-hippie, pre-punk amoebic folk rock, and formed the influential embryonic punk band, Rocket from the Tombs, which later morphed into Pere Ubu. All of which – lumped up with other rust-belted oddballs like electric eels, Mirrors, DEVO, the Numbers Band, Chi-Pig, Tin Huey, Rubber City Rebels, and more – essentially helped formed the “proto-punk” template.

Laughner was also a rock writer of some regional renown, and contributed numerous amphetamine-fueled articles to regional mags like The Scene and Creem -- mostly concerning where Rock'n'Roll was going, colored as he was by the Velvet Underground, the Stooges, David Bowie, and Roxy Music playing in Cleveland a bunch of times around his formative years.

Sadly, in June 1977, Laughner died of acute pancreatitis at age 24. Aside from the first two seminal Pere Ubu 7-inch singles, the rest of Laughner’s recorded output was just one very limited self-released EP and, posthumously, a great double-LP comp of demo and live tracks, Take the Guitar Player for a Ride (1993, Tim Kerr Records). A surprisingly large batch of unreleased lost demos, radio shows, and live tapes appeared on the beautiful and essential box set, Peter Laughner (Smog Veil Records, 2019), that brought Laughner’s legend just a few blocks outside of Fringeville, as it received universally great reviews….

The Dead Boys became the most well-known act of that mid-70s Cleveland scene, though that only happened once they high-tailed it to NYC. Aside from DEVO, Chrissie Hynde, and the Waitresses (all of whom did their own versions of high-tailing it), nearly every other act in that fertile Cle-Akron proto-punk vortex soon dissipated, eventually getting the cult treatment at best.

Cleveland is indeed right there with NYC and London as punk ground zero, but Americans tend to equate buyable products as proof of import, so shockingly, the Pagans and The Styrenes just aren’t the household name they should be.

Decades of tape-trading stories, sub-indie label limited releases, and fanzine debates kept the mythology of those acts barely breathing underneath the end of the milennium’s increasingly loud R'n'R death knell. And as that mythology slowly grew, the fans and even the musicians of the scene itself still wonder what it all meant.     

Which, as you dig deeper into Ain’t It Fun, becomes the theme not just about the legendary rocker ghost of Peter Laughner, but of Cleveland itself. Ala Greil Marcus’ classic “hidden history” tome, Lipstick Traces, Lange interweaves Laughner’s self-immolating attempts at Beatnik-art-punk transcendence with a very detailed history of Cleveland, with its insane anti-legends and foot-shooting civic development.

Like much of the dank, rusted, and mysterious edges of the one-time “Sixth City,” the Cuyahoga has been cleaned up since, though I still wouldn’t suggest slurping up a swallow if you’re hanging on the banks of the Flats. I grew up in Cleveland and visit as often as I can because it’s an awesome place, no matter what they tell you. Or maybe, because of what they tell you.

If you are keen to swim down through the muck and mire of Cleveland’s charms, you don’t just get used to it, you like it. As for the “Cleveland” that the City Fathers have always tried so vainly to hype, us hopelessly romantic proto-punk fanatics say to those who would erase Cleveland’s fucked-up past and replace it with that weird fake greenspace underneath the Terminal Tower: “The City isn’t real.”

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Give us a quick bio.

Born in Cleveland, 1981. We moved to the west side suburbs when I was six. My parents didn’t listen to much music, and I don’t have older siblings. So I didn’t really listen to music at all until I was in high school, and I didn’t listen to any of the grunge or ‘90s stuff that was popular. I got real into the Beatles when I was in ninth grade, and at some point I got the Velvet Underground’s first album from the library because I saw Andy Warhol’s name on the cover. I didn’t know anything about them, so that was a real shock. I probably first heard Iggy Pop via the Trainspotting soundtrack, and pretty soon after I started getting into punk and generally more obscure stuff. Now I listen to more electronic stuff, ambient stuff. I also like most anything that falls under the broad “post-punk” umbrella. I really hate “rama-lama ding-dong” rock and roll.

What came first – music or drawing interest?

Drawing. I was always drawing… I’ve been a semi-regular contributor to Mineshaft for many years, which is a small zine/journal that features a lot of underground comix related stuff, but also has a beatnik vibe and includes poetry and writing. I’ve done the odd thing here and there for other zines, but I don’t really fit in anywhere.

Don’t really fit it – I feel that phrase describes a lot of the best / more influential Ohio musicians / bands. Did you feel that kind of feeling about Peter as you researched and wrote the book?

Peter was well liked, and he knew a vast array of people. If anything, he fit in in too many situations. He was spread thin.

When you lived in Philly, did you get a sense of any kind of similar proto-punk scene / era in that town? I sometimes, perhaps jingoistically, think this particular kind of music is almost exclusively confined to the Rust Belt.

I lived in Philly for nearly 11 years. As far as the old scene there, they had Pure Hell. But back then, anybody who really wanted to do something like that would just move to NYC.

So, is there a moment in time that started you on a path towards wanting to dig into Cleveland’s proto-punk past like this?

It was just something I had a vague interest in, going back to when I first heard Pere Ubu. And then later learning about the electric eels, and starting to get a feeling that Cleveland had a lot more to offer than just the Dead Boys. The Rocket from the Tombs reunion got things going, and that’s when I first started to hear Laughner’s name. A few years later, a friend sent me a burned CD of the Take the Guitar Player for a Ride collection, and I started to get more interested in Peter specifically.

Despite any first wave punk fan’s excitement about a Laughner bio, this book is moreso a history of Cleveland, and trying to connect those odd underground, counterculture, or mythological connections that the Chamber of Commerce tends to ignor as the town’s import. Was there a moment where you realized this book needed to go a little wider than only telling the tales of Laughner and the bands of that era? (Not that there’s anything wrong with that!)

Very early on I realized that none of this would make sense or have any true meaning without the appropriate context. The activities of the early Cle punk scene need to be viewed in relation to what was going on in the city. I think this is just as true with NYC or London – these were very specific contexts, all tangled up in politics, crime, rent, television, and also the specifics of the more hippie-ish local countercultures that preceded each region. You’ve got Bowie and Warhol and all that, but in Cleveland you’ve also got Ghoulardi and d.a. levy. Mix that up with deindustrialization and a picture starts to form.

So when did you decide on doing this book? You’ve mentioned this was your first attempt at doing a full graphic novel – and boy, you went epic on it!

I did a short version of Peter’s story back when I was living in Philadelphia. But upon completing that version – which I now think of as a sketch – it became clear that there was a lot more to say and to investigate. I spent about a year just thinking about it, forming contacts with some people, and tracking down various reference materials like records, zines, books, etc. Then my wife got a new job at Cleveland State University, so we left Philly. Once I landed back in Cleveland I started working on the book in earnest.

Page from Ain't It Fun -- all book images courtesy of the author.

By any chance was Greil Marcus’ book, Lipstick Traces (1989), an inspiration, as far as the “hidden history” factor, the trying to connect seemingly unconnected and lost historical footnotes into a path towards the culture’s future?

Yes. I read Lipstick Traces when I was around 19 or 20, and I’d never seen anything like it before. It really blew my mind, all the stuff about the Situationists and Dadaists and all that. Later on, I read Nick Tosches’ Dean Martin biography, Dino, and that was another mind blower. Another major influence is Iain Sinclair.

Ah Dino, another Ohio native. So, Laughner’s one-time partner, Charlotte Pressler’s book is mentioned, and I’ve seen it referenced and talked about for years – any inside word on if/when she might have that published?

Charlotte never wrote a book, though she did co-edit a book that collected the work of local poets. As far as her own writing, she’s done all manner of essays and poetry, and probably some academic writing that I’m not familiar with. As far as her completing “Those Were Different Times”— which was intended as a total of three essays— I’ve got some thoughts on that, but it’s not really my place to comment on it.

Pressler sounds like a very serious person in your book, as you say, she was kind of older than her years. But how was she to talk to?

Charlotte is serious, but she’s not dour. She’s got a sense of humor and she’s very curious about the world, always looking to learn new things. She’s an intellectual, and has a wide array of interests. We get along, we’re friends.

The fact that the town’s namesake, Moses Cleveland, left soon after his “discovery” and never came back – that’s like a template for how people envision a town like Cleveland: nice place to grow up, but you want to get out as soon as you’re legal. Even the musicians of the area might’ve agreed with that sentiment, even if many never left.  Do you think that has changed?

I’m glad I left Cleveland, but I’m also glad I came back. First off, my family is here. Second, the cost of living is still reasonable. I don’t know how people live in New York. I never have any money. I’d make more money if I had a full-time job at McDonald’s. That’s not a joke, or me being self-deprecating. How do artists live in New York? How do they afford rent and 20 dollar packs of cigarettes? I’m just totally confused by the basic mechanics of this. So yeah, I’m in Cleveland. It’s not great, but what are my options? I can’t just go to Paris and fuck around like a bohemian. I would if I could.

In Ain't It Fun, you reveal that one of the seminal Cleveland scene dives, Pirate's Cove, was once a Rockerfeller warehouse  – these kind of enlightening, almost comically perfect metaphors pop up every few pages. Not unlike the mythology that can sometimes arise in musician fandom, I wonder if these are metaphors we can mine, or just an obvious facts that the town drifted down from a center of industry to relative poverty.

“Metaphor” might be at too much of a remove. These facts, these landmarks — they create a complex of semiotics, a map, a framework. The city talks through its symbols and its landscape. If you submit to it and listen, it will tell you secrets. There is nothing metaphorical about this.

Is it a sign of privilege to look on destitution as inspiration? I’m guessing the sick drunks at Pirate’s Cove in 1975 weren’t thinking they were living in a rusty Paris of the ‘30s. Though I will say a thing I really loved about your book was that, for all its yearning and historical weaving, you still stick to facts and don’t seem to over-mythologize or put any gauze on the smog, like “Isn’t that so cool, man.” You capture the quiet and damp desperation of that era and Laughner’s milieu.

Poverty, decline, decay, entropy – these things are real. By aestheticizing them we are able to gain some control over them. And once you have control, you have the power to change things. This is not “slumming.” “Privilege” has nothing to do with it.

Page from Ain't It Fun

Do you know why the Terminal Tower (once the second tallest building in the world when it opened in 1928) was named that? It seems somewhat fatalistic, given the usual futurist positivism of the deco design era.

Terminal as in train terminal. It really pisses me off that there was once a time where you could go there and catch a train to Chicago or New York. It’s infuriating how this country dismantled its rail systems. And the Terminal Tower isn’t deco, but I think it is often confused with that style just by virtue of not being a gigantic rectangle. In that sense it does have more in common with a deco structure like the Chrysler building. Honestly, if you are looking for deco you might find more notable examples in Akron than you would Cleveland.

I notice a kind of – and bear with my lesser abilities to describe illustrative art – swirly style in your work that kind of aligns with art deco curves, maybe some Gustav Klimt…? In general, who were some illustrative inspirations for you early on?

That “swirly” style you describe is art nouveau. Deco came after that, and is more angular and clean. Additionally, a lot of underground comix guys were also poster artists, and there was often a nouveau influence in that psychedelic work – so there’s a bit of a thread there. As far as Klimt, I came to him kinda late, but I love him now.

The music of many northeast Ohio bands of that era has been generally tagged as “industrial” (the pre-dance industrial style, of course), cranky like the machinery of the sputtering factories in the Flats, etc… My guess is maybe the musicians were already finding used R'n'R instruments in thrift stores by that time, which would add a kind of layer of revision, turning old things into new sounds. Did you hear about of any of that? Or were there enough music stores around town? I know DEVO was already taking used instruments and refitting them; or electric eels using sheet metal and such to bang on���

I’m not a musician, so I don’t know anything about gear or stuff like that. I do know that Allen Ravenstine made field recordings in the Flats, and utilized them via his synthesizer. Frankly, I wish more of the Northeast Ohio bands had taken cues from Ubu and early Devo, because an “industrial” subculture definitely could have formed, like it did in England and San Francisco. But that never really happened here.

That kind of music was pretty popular on college radio and in a few clubs in Cleveland, though not many original bands with that sound arrived, aside from Nine Inch Nails who quickly took his act elsewhere… So in the book you mention local newsman, Dick Fealger. My memories of him are as a curmudgeon whose shtick was getting a little old by the time I was seeing him on the news, or his later opinion columns. Kinda your classic “Hey you kids, get off my lawn” style. You rightly paint him as a somewhat prescient reporter of the odd in his earlier days, though. I once had to go to a friend’s mother’s funeral, and in the next room in the funeral home was Dick Feagler’s funeral. I always regret not sneaking over and taking a peak into it to see who was there.

I like Feagler in the same way that I liked Andy Rooney on 60 Minutes. These were people that my grandparents liked. So I suppose my appreciation for Feagler is half nostalgia, half irony. I like cranks, grumps, letter-writers, street prophets. I like black coffee, donuts, diners, and blue plate specials – that’s Feagler’s world, the old newspaper world. Get up at 6 am and put your pants on, that kinda thing.

Yeah, I still found Feagler kinda funny, but like Jane Scott, while respect was always there, by the later ‘80s/’90s, both were set into almost caricatures  who were kind of resting on their laurels. 

Yeah, I remember seeing Jane at some random Grog Shop show back in the ‘90s, and I was kinda impressed. But no, she was never really cool. Jane was pure Cleveland, her career couldn't have happened anywhere else.

I remember seeing her sit right next to a huge house amp at the old Variety Theater for the entire duration of a Dead Kennedys show, taking notes for her review. Pretty impressive given her age at that point.

You also make a point of carving out an important space for The Damnation of Adam Blessing, a band that seems to get forgotten when discussing Cleveland’s pre-punk band gaggle. I find that interesting because in a way, they are the template for the way many Ohio bands don’t fit into any exact genre, and so often people don’t “get” them, or they’re forgotten later.

Damnation worked as a good local example for that whole psychedelic thing. They were very ‘60s. While the James Gang on the other hand, was more ‘70s— the cracks were starting to show with the ‘70s bands, they were harder and less utopian. Damnation feels more “Woodstock,” so they were useful to me in that regard.

I must add – for years I thought it was pronounced Laugh-ner, as in to laugh, ha ha, not knowing the Gaelic roots. Once I learned I was pronouncing it wrong, I still wanted to pronounce it like laughing, as it seemed to fit so darkly correct with how his life went, and Cleveland musicians’ love of bad puns and cheap comedians and such… Of course when I learned that it was an “ethnic” name, it made it that much more Cleveland.

Yeah, everybody says his name wrong. I used to too, and had to really force myself to start saying it as Lochner. But everybody says Pere Ubu wrong as well – it’s Pear Ubu.

I hate any desecration of any artwork, but I always loved the blowing up The Thinker statue story, as it seemed such a powerful metaphor of the strength of art, and Cleveland itself – the fact that The Thinker himself still sits there, right on top of the sliced-up and sweeping shards from the blast. It’s still there, right? And isn’t it true that there are like three more “official” Thinker statues in the world?

Yeah, I don’t condone what happened, but it is kinda cool. As a kid, the mutilated Thinker had a strong effect on me — I couldn’t have put it into words at the time, but I think it gave me a sense of the weight of history. It’s almost like a post-war artifact in Europe, something that is scarred. And yes, it’s still there outside the museum. And it’s a cast. I think there might be five official ones, but I’d have to look that up. If you are ever in Philadelphia, swing by the Rodin museum and check out The Gates of Hell.

I have only become a bigger fan of Laughner’s as the years pass. But there is something to the critique that perhaps he never really found his singular sound; that he was copping bits from Lou Reed and Dylan, and couldn’t keep a band together to save his life. And there was supposedly a feeling among some in the NYC scene that he was a bit of a carpetbagger.

Everybody has their influences, so Peter wasn’t in any way unique in that sense. I know he has a reputation for doing a lot of cover songs — which is true — but he also wrote a lot of originals, and there are some damn good ones which are still unreleased. “Under the Volcano” is just one such unheard song which I mention in my book, but there are others. As far as finding his own singular sound, he probably came closest to that with Friction. That group borrowed heavily from Television and Richard Hell, but also drew upon Richard Thompson and Fairport Convention. And when you think about it, those were really unlikely influences to juxtapose, and it created something original. Frustratingly though, Friction never achieved their full potential, as Peter was already losing it.

Yeah, Friction is kind of way up there with the “What if” bands… It’s interesting that for all his legend as a proto-punk figure, perhaps Laughner’s signature songs – Sylvia Plath” and “Baudelaire” – were gorgeous acoustic numbers. Though of course those early Pere Ubu songs were proto-punk and post-punk templates, somehow...

I honestly don’t know what happened with Ubu, as it is pretty distinct from Peter’s other work. Thomas isn’t really a musician, so we can only give him so much credit with how that sound developed. I honestly don’t know. There just must have been some sort of alchemy between the various players, and Thomas understood it and was able to encourage and guide it in the projects that followed over the years.

Page from Ain't It Fun

You also didn’t really detail Pere Ubu’s initial breakup – was there just not much to say?

Yeah, I think I mentioned it, but no, I didn’t really get into it. Pere Ubu is kind of a story unto themselves. But it might be worth mentioning here that Home and Garden was an interesting project that came out of that Ubu breakup. And Thomas also did some solo albums, but I’m not as familiar with those.

Yeah, I saw Home and Garden a few times way back, good stuff. You’ve mentioned to me that there were some people that didn’t want to talk to you for the book; and that people were very protective of Peter’s legacy and/or their friendship with him. To what do you attribute that?

It has everything to do with Peter’s early death. Some people are very protective of how Peter is remembered. And I think some people weren’t exposed to Peter’s dark side, so when they hear those descriptions of him it strikes them as untrue. I think Peter showed different sides of himself to different people.

I kind of felt as I was reading that you might say more about Harvey Pekar, as not only is he an interesting figure, but the most famous graphic novelist from Ohio, and I assume an inspiration of your’s.

Pekar’s great. Especially the magazine-size issues he was doing in the late ‘70s up through the ‘80s. It was important to me to include him in the book. But Pekar was a jazz guy, and that’s a whole other story, a whole other tangled web.

So, Balloonfest! Hilarious. I almost forgot about that. But I do remember Ted Stepien owning the short-lived Cleveland professional softball team; and for a promotion, they dropped softballs off the Terminal Tower, and if you caught one you won $1,000 or something. Do you recall that? It’s one of my favorite fucked-up Cleveland stories. Balls smashed car roofs, and cops immediately told people to run away.

Yeah, I’m aware of that baseball stunt. I generally try and stay away from anything even remotely related to professional sports teams — it gets talked about more than enough elsewhere. Oddly, I am interested in athletes who work alone, like Olympic skiers. I’m attracted to that solitary focus, where the athlete isn’t competing against other teams or players, but more competing with the limits of the human body, competing with what the physical world will allow and permit, that whole Herzog trip. I’m also interested in the Olympic Village, as this artificial space that mutates and moves across time and across continents.

As far as Balloonfest, I still watch that footage all the time. I use it as a meditation device. I’ll put it on along with Metal Machine Music and go into a trance.

A few years ago, as I am sure you are well aware, noted British punk historian Jon Savage put together a Soul Jazz Records comp of Cleveland proto-punk called Extermination Nights in the Sixth City. I grew up in Cleveland, lived in Columbus for awhile, and I never heard it called “the Sixth City.” Have you? If so, what does it refer to?

Nobody calls it that anymore. It’s an old nickname back from when Cleveland was literally the sixth largest city in the country.

I’d guess Ain’t It Fun was a tiring feat to accomplish. But do you have another book in the works? And if someone wanted to option Peter’s story for a movie, would you sign on? I personally dread rock biopics. They’re almost universally bad.

Yeah, I’ve got an idea for another book, but it’s too early to talk about that. As far as biopics, they are almost always bad, rock or otherwise. Rock documentaries are often pretty lousy too. A recent and major exception would be Todd Haynes’ Velvet Underground documentary, which is just goddamn brilliant. A film about Peter in that vein would be great— but there’s just no footage to work from. He didn’t have Warhol or Factory people following him around with a camera. So unless somebody like Jim Jarmusch comes calling, I won’t be signing off on movie rights any time soon.

Unless there is more you’d like to say, thanks, and good luck with the book and future ventures!

Stone Church Press has a lot of projects planned for 2024 and beyond, and I encourage anyone reading this to support small publishers. There is a lot of very exciting stuff going on, but you have to work a little to find it. Amazon, algorithms, big corporate publishers — they’re like this endless blanket of concrete that smothers and suffocates. But flowers have a way of popping up between the cracks.

Aaron Lange, 2023 (Photo by Jake Kelly)

[witchern]

the smoke smell from the wildfires is finally starting to seep into my bedroom and i've never been more unmotivated to do work in my entire life.

[misswynters]

Royal Harbinger

featuring. ekko x princess! reader

Hailing from the Grand Kirzean Empire, you were a princess. The only one wielding the blood technomagic abilities. Having such powerful abilities yet you are one of the most sweetest person, ekko has ever bet.

Glittering starlight pierced through the thick smog that veiled Zaun, casting faint halos of silver over the jagged metal and broken cobblestone streets. Neon lights pulsed faintly from signs above cluttered alleyways, their buzzing hum blending into the mechanical symphony of the Undercity. Amid the chaos, there stood a figure who seemed so out of place it was almost comical—wrapped in delicate silks and adorned with intricate, glowing lines of red that shimmered faintly with every step.

You, a princess of the a Grand Empire, wielder of forbidden blood technomagic, and to Ekko, someone who had no business wandering these parts.

Perched atop a railing on one of Zaun’s crumbling platforms, Ekko crossed his arms as he watched you. At first glance, you were every bit the image of innocence. That soft smile you offered the street urchins as you handed them what little supplies you’d brought from above. The way your delicate hands caressed the head of a stray Zaunite mutt, soothing its bony frame. Your voice, lilting like a melody, apologizing for taking up space in an already-crowded alley.

It didn’t make sense.

“Hey,” Ekko called from above, leaping down to land lightly on his feet a few steps away from you. “What are you doing here? This place isn’t exactly royal palace material, Princess.”

Your head turned, the faint light catching your gentle features. “Oh, Hi Ekko! I was just… exploring.”

“Exploring?” He raised an eyebrow, his tone carrying an edge of disbelief. “Kirze’s finest blood mage is just out here sightseeing?”

The smile on your lips didn’t falter, though your fingers twitched at the mention of blood magic. “I needed to see this place for myself. You’ve told me so much about Zaun… I couldn’t stay away.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, glancing around. “Zaun isn’t exactly a tourist spot. Especially for someone like you. People see those glowing lines on your arms? They’ll think you’re carrying something valuable and won’t ask before taking it.”

You tilted your head, the light in your eyes curious rather than offended. “Is that why you’ve been following me for the past hour?”

His composure faltered, and he scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

“That’s sweet of you,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the cobblestones. “But you don’t have to protect me, Ekko. I can handle myself.”

“Yeah, sure,” he scoffed. “Handle yourself like when that drunk guy in the bar tried to grab your hand last week, and you just smiled at him like he was your best friend?”

Your laugh was soft. “I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“You’re too nice,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “You’re in Zaun now. Being nice gets you hurt.”

But even as he said it, something about your presence made the buzzing tension in his chest loosen. Maybe it was the way you didn’t flinch at the harshness of his words, or the way your kindness didn’t feel forced. It wasn’t fake or performative—it just was.

Before he could say more, a low growl rumbled from a nearby alley. Ekko tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for the bat strapped to his back. Two figures emerged from the shadows, their faces obscured by bandanas, their postures predatory.

“See?” Ekko muttered, stepping in front of you. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

The larger of the two men chuckled, his voice gravelly. “A couple of lost little birds, eh? Let’s see what you’re hidin'.”

Ekko’s grip tightened on his bat, his stance shifting. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Oh, well we do,” the smaller man sneered, pulling a knife from his belt.

Before Ekko could spring into action, a faint crimson glow bathed the alley. The air grew heavy, almost suffocating, as the markings on your skin flared to life. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, and the two men froze, their bravado crumbling as their bodies seized up, limbs locking unnaturally.

Ekko turned, his jaw slack as he watched you step forward, your hand raised delicately. The men’s weapons clattered to the ground, and with a flick of your wrist, they crumpled, gasping for breath but unharmed.

“Leave,” you said, your voice calm but commanding, as if the very air bent to your will. The men scrambled to their feet and disappeared into the shadows without a second glance. The glow faded from your body as you turned back to Ekko, your serene smile returning as though nothing had happened. “See? I told you I could handle myself.”

He stared at you, his bat still half-raised. “What the hell was that?”

“Blood technomagic,” you said simply, brushing an invisible speck of dust from your sleeve. “It’s a bit… intimidating, I know. I don’t like using it unless I have to.”

“Intimidating?” he repeated, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “You just turned two full-grown men into rag dolls without breaking a sweat.”

You shrugged, your smile faltering slightly. “I don’t want people to see me as a monster. That’s why I try to be kind—to balance it out.”

“Balance it out?” Ekko stepped closer, his eyes searching yours. “You’re not a monster, Firefly. You just saved both our asses.”

The nickname caught you off guard, your cheeks warming as you looked away. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“Uh! Yeah, I do,” he said, his tone softening. “You’re out here lighting up Zaun like no one else can.” Silence stretched between you for a moment.

“Come on,” Ekko said finally, offering you his hand. “Let’s get out of here before more trouble shows up.”

You hesitated, glancing down at his outstretched hand. Despite the power coursing through your veins, the ability to command life and death with a flick of your wrist, something about the gesture made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

But then you took his hand, his grip warm and steady, and for the first time in a long while, you felt safe with him. As he led you through the winding streets of Zaun, he glanced back at you with a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “You know, Firefly, you’re full of surprises.”

“Jeez! You’re full of compliments,” you teased, your voice light despite the lingering weight in your chest.

“Do i?, or do you just deserve all the praise one can get.” he shot back, his grin widening.

. . .

Oh, how you wished that it was just the end. But it wasnt, not in a place like this. Soon after both smoke and ash swirled in the air, a haze of chaos and destruction painted Zaun’s underbelly in muted tones of gray and orange. Shattered pipes hissed steam into the atmosphere, nearly drowned out by the growing fires. The air was thick with tension, each explosion sending shockwaves through the cracked streets.

Amid the wreckage, Ekko’s heart raced as he sprinted through the winding alleys. His boots echoed sharply against the metal ground, his bat swinging at his side as his thoughts churned. Where are you?

He had only taken his eyes off you for a second, just one second. He thought you’d be right behind him as the bombs started going off, but when he turned, you were gone. He didn’t see the men closing in on you until it was too late.

Ekko gritted his teeth, his frustration mounting. He had heard of the Empire you were raised in and its unparalleled mastery of technomagic. But meeting you: sweet, kind, and carrying an unfathomable power, had shattered all his assumptions. You weren’t just a mage but a princess as well. But to him, you were simply you. His light in the dark. And now you were in danger. Seemingly.

When you woke, the metallic tang of blood clung to the air. The room was dim, lit only by the faint red glow of the bindings around your wrists. Your gown, once pristine and clean was dirty by the scuffle, and your heart pounded with a mixture of fear and adrenaline.

“Stay calm,” you whispered to yourself, your voice soft, barely audible.

A group of men stood a few feet away, speaking in low voices. Their uniforms were unmarked, and their expressions betrayed no fear as they glanced at you.

“They doesn’t look like much,” one of them sneered. “For someone called the 'Royal Vermilion of Chaos', I expected… more.”

“It’s a stupid nickname at that” someone else said, though you couldn’t see them.

You flinched inwardly but forced yourself to remain composed. “I don’t suppose you’d let me go if I said please?” you asked, your tone almost playful despite the trembling in your hands.

“Cute,” another said with a scoff as his hand cupped your face. “But we know what you are. What you’re capable of. Better to keep you tied up.”

Your smile faltered slightly as your blood hummed beneath your skin, an ever-present pulse of magic just waiting to be unleashed. You had always been careful, never letting your power consume you. But now, fear began to stir something unstable.

Ekko burst into the place like a storm, his bat taking down the first guard before the man could even draw his weapon. The second came at him with a blade, but Ekko ducked and swung upward, sending the man sprawling.

“Where is they?!” he growled, his voice echoing through the metallic halls.

The third guard hesitated, and Ekko pressed the bat against his chest. “Talk, or you won’t have the chance to regret it.”

“Down the hall,” the guard stammered, eyes wide. “In the main chamber!”

Ekko didn’t wait for anything else. He tore through the hallway, his chest tightening with every step.

The explosion was deafening. The bindings around your wrists melted away as your magic surged to life. Crimson veins glowed beneath your skin, and with a single wave of your hand, the room erupted in chaos. The men who had mocked you moments before were now scrambling, their weapons useless against the tidal wave of energy that lashed out.

Walls were cracked, the ceiling shuddered, and the air itself seemed to bend to your will. But as your power spiraled, a sharp pain shot through your arm. You looked down to see a jagged cut along your forearm, blood dripping onto the floor. The sight steadied you. Taking a deep breath, you channeled the magic inward, watching as the blood wove itself back into your skin. The wound closed, leaving only a faint scar that glimmered for a moment before fading. When the door burst open, you turned, your energy still crackling around you like a storm.

“Firefly!” Ekko’s voice broke through the chaos, and for a moment, you hesitated.

His eyes darted across the room, taking in the destroyed walls, the unconscious bodies, and you, standing at the center of it all. Your gown was soaked in blood, and your face bore streaks of crimson, but you were alive.

“Hi,” you whispered, relief flooding your voice.

In an instant, he was in front of you, his hands cupping your face. His thumbs brushed against the bloodstains on your cheeks, his eyes filled with worry. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” you said softly, a shaky smile forming. “But I think you should ask them if they’re okay.” You gestured to the men sprawled across the floor.

Ekko’s lips twitched, a short, breathless laugh escaping him. He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if afraid you might disappear. “Y’know I was so scared,” he murmured into your hair, his voice cracking.

You hugged him back, your fingers curling into his jacket. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze intense. “This isn’t your fault. None of it is.”

You met his eyes, the tension slowly ebbing away as his warmth grounded you. For a moment, the chaos around you faded, leaving only the two of you.

“That was incredible, y’know?” he said, a teasing grin forming.

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and genuine. “I’ll take that as one of your compliments.”

Ekko shook his head, his grin widening. “Come on, let’s get you out of here before you decide to redecorate the rest of Zaun.”

As you left the hideout, his arm stayed firmly around your shoulders, his presence a constant reassurance. Despite the destruction you had left behind, Ekko’s steady hand in yours made you feel like everything might just be okay.

Later, the two of you sat in the a garden. It was one of the few quiet, untouched spots in Zaun. Ekko couldn’t help but tease you. “So, Firefly,” he began, his tone playful. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “I wouldn’t hurt you, though.”

“I know,” he said, his voice softer now. “But next time, maybe warn me before you turn an entire room into a scene from a horror movie?”

You laughed, the sound bright and free, and Ekko felt his chest tighten. Despite everything, you were still you. His sweet, kind Firefly who somehow carried the weight of a mage’s power with grace. And as the neon lights of Zaun reflected in your eyes, Ekko leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I love you,” he said quietly, the words simple but sincere.

You smiled, leaning into him. “I love you too.” The two of you stayed at the garden until dawn. You were practically sleeping on his shoulder, exhausted from today, but he didn’t mind. Because he knew soon that you would have to leave, and god knows when he will see you again. So he wanted to cherish every moment he had with you.

taglist: @diffusebread @xxblairslairxx @thesevi0lentdelights @chic-beyond-the-wall-oc-acct @celineandtulips @stuckinaoaktree @fxxvz @jadziulaa @luclue @1intrustivethoughts @finnsky666 @blkmystery @serena6728 @mvistl @kaedeprinz @alientee @ametheslime @turquoizxe @emforjin @ekkosh @tadomikiku @sugaaawaraaa @sunshiines-stuff @night-fall-moon @moonccakes @endedlover @autumn2534 @deathweapongirl @girlistrange @auraa @ilovesugurugeto69 @zwr1tx @bitchydragonparadisee @chewbrry @lashawna200 @xaydria @aliives @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @catsf0rlife707 @pixieswashere @adesum @sorrows-song @hearts4li @qualityearthquakes @honeyfewr @littlegrapejuice @potatointhedirt @comfortweeb

[lurukifennecfox]

The spirit of Amity Park and Lady Gotham

Amity was a strong spirit. stronger than any city her size or age had any right to be, but she was, and she was going to make it matter.

Gotham was old, she was strong but sick and cursed so she couldn't do much but make her shadows that much darker, enough to be unseen, make her sounds that much louder enough to be unheard, guide the debris or a stray bullet a little to the left so that it would only graze not kill. even sick and hurt she was stubborn and she would make it matter.

Amity was younger than Gotham, most were, but Gotham was impressed with her. just like her Protector Amity was way too strong and way too young and very ambitious and protective of Hers.

they had that in common, Gotham was protective, Possesive. Her people were hers and hers only if they weren't Amity's first she couldn't take them, she would.

Amity was like her people, she was adaptive, sceptical but friendly, hard to gain trust from but loyal if you did. Amity was like her Protectors, she was determined and protective, she was fun but serious.

Gotham was like her people, she was a survivor, untrusting and brash, stubborn but flexible. Gotham was like her Bats, she was curious but secretive, protective to the point of possesivnes, calculated but quippy.

Amity was young and her form reflected that, she looked like a pre-teen like most her Protectors, her wheat blonde hair in star clipped twin-tails, a replica of the Ops Centre for a hat, eyes bright green and glowing freckles dusting her cheeks. her clothes were bright like her houses, always having funny accents and accessories and teared holes, her nails were painted but always chipped.

her laughter was loud with explosions and honking of cars and her voice was chipper and cracking.

Gotham was mature and so was her form, her hair black, iridescent and dripping like an oil spill, her face sickly pale(or ashen) and eyes solid yellow with bat shaped pupils (they were blood red before, just like her lips are) she is always dressed in black, blending with her shadows, clothes elegant but ripped and dirty, bloody pearls on her neck, black claws dripping oil like her hair, breath fogging with smog.

her laughter had clanking of weapons and banging of shots, her voice was raspy and strangled.

Amity looked up to Gotham, her determination and stubborn persistence to protect Hers, her funny quips and sarcastic comments.

They weren't too far by city spirit standards, they were on the same continent after all. And Amity could be that much farther, that much closer, just on the other side of the veil. Amity was in the Realms once, she knew the way back.

[deathbxnny]

Our blood will drip from your hands. | Caitlyn x Fem!Reader (feat. Vi)

(Part 2)

This is my official contribution to the Arcane Fandom and also my way of asking for requests. I hope you guys enjoy this!!<33

Summary: You befriended Caitlyn shortly after being taken in by an influential family in Piltover as a young child. You always believed that she saw you for who you were and not just for what you were. However, when she dared to appear in your home as your nation's newly appointed dictator, you realised that she was never any different herself.

Content: Heavy season 2 spoilers!!!!, Zaunite Reader, conflicting emotions, undefined relationship, heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, mentions of grief on Caitlyn's side, childhood friends, racism/discrimination against Zaunites, slight Vi x Reader?, sfw

Reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns!

((Not fully proofread))

"Have you... Have you lost your mind, Caitlyn?" You never expected to end up like this with her. Conversations that were once filled with laughs, gentle words, and wide smiles now felt sinister and cold. You shivered slightly under her domineering gaze and yet stood your ground, a defiant flame from your past childhood burning in your heart. The silence that followed your question felt dangerous, that familiar fear sparking in you at the glinting of her pristine uniform under the moonlight in the garden she had trapped you in. It reminded you of the days in which you could feel only terror at the mere sight of it, rightfully so. But perhaps the years of being fed with a silver spoon had you slowly cooking like a frog in a pot, doomed to unknowingly perish from its own blissful ignorance.

And was it too late to jump out now?

When you saw the navy haired woman's jaw clench tightly in a show of brave self-restraint, you realised that, yes, it was way too late for you.

Things went downhill the moment Caitlyn introduced you to Vi, you concluded. There was an instant bond you had with the woman, a bond only two of the same kin and background could have, despite your different upbringing. You remembered the night the three of you sat in these grand gardens of yours, the privilege of the fresh air filling your lungs weighing heavy on your consciousness as she spoke of her past. You recognized the places she mentioned, felt the emotions that ran through her, and shared the silent, familiar fear of the uniformed devil's with ease. You spoke of things the Kirammann could never understand, and you believed that it was alright that she didn't.

Caitlyn didn't say a word while you two spoke, her face betraying no negative emotion as she just simply gripped onto your gloved hand tightly. Foreshadowing, you had missed perhaps in hindsight. You had foolishly hoped that she saw you both as people, regardless of where you hailed from. You realise now that your wishful thinking had made you painfully naive.

The veil had finally been lifted from your eyes now and revealed the truth you've been denying for so long. And why did it take you so much time to realise it anyway? Why did it have to be Caitlyn's disgusted look to shake you awake?

Why didn't you just listen to Vi when she appeared at your doorstep hours earlier, a shell of what she once, as she practically cried in your arms? You never thought you'd see the day in which a fellow Zaunite would willingly degrade themselves so terribly by wearing the uniform of their oppressors. But why did you always make an exception for Caitlyn then, if you hated seeing Vi as one?

She had left shortly after, leaving you crying in frustration and betrayal when she told you how they used the ventilation system against your own people. They had flooded the streets with that toxic smog, hurt people more than they already were, and potentially even killed some for what? And unfortunately... the woman before you was the mastermind of it all.

Grief was a terrible thing. It really was. And yet, there was no excuse for this.

Your mind spun, legs threatening to give out at any moment. You should have run after Vi. You shouldn't have stayed here for a moment longer. But you had deluded yourself into thinking that it was all just a misunderstanding. That you had heard it wrong. Even if you couldn't look away from the devil anymore that you once lovingly called your best friend... or perhaps even more?

Slightly stumbling backward with a faint sigh, Caitlyn was quick to grab onto your hip, yet you flinched out of her grasp quicker than you could process it. It was a relfex on both of your sides. "No, don't you dare touch me after what you've... what you will do." You couldn't stand being near her as the panic set in, and you were desperate to get away. You never thought that you'd come to this point. You never thought that you'd learn to hate her so suddenly. It made you sick.

She reluctantly let her hand fall back to her side, and it unnerved you then that she had yet to say a thing. Did she perhaps feel guilty after all? Was she perhaps reflecting? A glance into her eyes reconfirmed that you were indeed wrong about her once again. You needed to stop dreaming. Your life up here has blinded you too much.

"... You weren't there today." You knew that she meant the councilor meeting with all the other noble houses. Your adoptive parents had gone as well, albeit without you. They were in clear disagreement with the entire situation themselves, and yet social pressure was a curse. Turning away from her, you found the energy to scoff. "And what of it? Do you expect me to stand there and cheer? Support a potential mass killing of innocent people?" "I am keeping us safe. I'm keeping you safe. There is nothing innocent about them." Her voice was raised and sharp, nothing like you had ever heard before. The adrenaline was making your body shake dangerously, and you started becoming aware of how angry you were. You hadn't felt like this in years. And here you thought you were used to their hate, too.

"So you are willing to murder hundreds over Jinx? Because that's what this is all about, isn't it? Revenge?" You got it right. It was all just for that. She was willing to disgrace her own ancestors' life work to fill the void left behind by her mother’s absence. "... I am doing all of this so no one has to get hurt again. We are left with no other choice. They are too dangerous-" "-Then why am I any different? What am I, if you view us as nothing but animals?" Silence. Just as expected, she never thought that far. Or maybe she simply considered you one of the better ones. The one whose blood was saved by the kindness of your parents in Piltover. You weren't tainted anymore. You were perfect because this place allowed you to be.

"... Why can you just not see all I'm doing for us? I... don't make me turn on you, too. You are better than this." You let out a laugh, one that could've sent down a shiver down anyone's spine. Even Caitlyn's, if she wasn't so tense and rigid now. Vi was right. She truly had changed for the worse. And god did it hurt.

"I loved you, Cait. I really did. And I understand the pain you've gone through after the loss of your mother. I stood at your side on the day of the funeral. I felt your agony." What should've been a confession filled with relief and happiness, now simply left a bitter taste in your mouth. "But I refuse to keep standing at your side if it means to see your hands stain with the blood of my people. You are a puppet, Caitlyn. The warlord has taken over your mind. The strings around your neck will tighten until it snuffs out the rest of your soul. And I will not be there to help you out of it this time." You don't care to hear her next words or even look her in the face as a last goodbye. Your Caitlyn died with her mother, buried beneath endless flower petals, safe and far away from the monster that appeared in her stead.

Your calm steps suddenly picked up the pace, and you found yourself running away, your frilly dress bunched up in your arms, chest heaving with the sobs you couldn't hide anymore. You ignored her call for your name, the demanding order pushing you much farther away until all you could hear were your panicked steps over the marble floor and the faint singing of the cicadas coming to a close.

Caitlyn stood there for the longest time, her stern gaze frozen in the direction you had disappeared in before she tipped her hat over her eyes and left.

You'll understand one day, she supposed.

[flowercrowngods]

something so monstrous pt.2

(in which kas feeds from steve and triggers a bad migraine pt.2)

🤍🌷 read part 1 here this part gets really intense on the migraine. descriptions of immense pain, fever dreams, and vomiting, some body horror imagery bc pain can be fun like that

Time and space lose all meaning as Steve remains on the precipice of something that is too violent to be called sleep, but not harsh enough yet to be unconsciousness. Real sensations evade him as everything turns into pain immediately. Even the twitch of his finger becomes a thundering blaze of blinding pain shooting through his body and settling behind his eye until he is sure he will wake up blind. 

The fear of that is everpresent, the blind spots too real to ignore every time it goes like this, and he imagines how they will grow. He imagines how they get worse every time until one day the pain inside his skull will be so immense it will take his eyesight in exchange for alleviation.

And even though it is unbearable, he opens his eyes whenever he can, just to make sure he can see still. It’s an added veil of terror that covers him whole and consumes him slowly but continually. 

At some point he notices something cold and wet being placed over his eyes, adding another layer of darkness that is welcome, even if it leaves an imprint of pressure and sensation on his forehead that makes his skin tear around it, his skull cracking and caving in beneath the touch. 

And still it helps a little, pulling him further toward consciousness but not further toward the pain itself. But Steve can only whimper weakly in response, six feet under a thick cloud of cotton-filled smog that even turns breathing into a chore, polluting his lungs with fear and horror and agony without compare.

He does fall into a fitful sleep at some point, grateful for the short reprieve, but it does nothing to alleviate his exhaustion. 

It feels like his eyeballs are being pushed into his skull for what must be hours upon hours, and the pain is so unbearable, so horrible, that he's not at all surprised when nausea rises in his chest, his body responding to its current state with confusion and a hard-reset. 

Steve keens, trying to roll onto his side, groaning at the flares of pain shooting up into his skull and down into his limbs. They only worsen the nausea and it's pure instinct that gives him the strength to sit up. 

"Kas?” he whispers, swallowing thickly against another wave. "Bathroom?” 

Instead of giving him directions or pulling him up to drag him there, Kas wastes no time. He gets up off the floor, approaching him with shuffling steps once more, and gently but quickly lifts Steve off the bed in a hold — firm, yet gentle — that brings another sting of tears to Steve's eyes. Pain and vulnerability and the need for everything to be over. That’s what makes him cry.

Still he manages to hold on, his head rolling onto Kas's shoulder, the skin of his neck blissfully cool against Steve’s overheated forehead pressing into him. 

Make it stop, he thinks. Longs. Aches. It’s supposed to be over. It’s all supposed to be over now. 

He whimpers again, and imagines that Kas is the one to softly shush him this time.

The coolness of Kas's neck is gone all too soon as the vampire sets Steve on the hard, uncomfortable bathroom floor. He doesn't go far, though, crouching down beside him and holding him up over the toilet. Steve can't see anything, but still he’s grateful that Kas left the lights off, the bathroom tinged in the same darkness as his bedroom. 

Pathetically, Steve rests his forehead on the toilet seat, chasing the coldness of it as pain and nausea reach their peak. It’s disgusting, but be’s not strong enough to care. A whine breaks from him, and he wishes Kas would leave. Even though the cold hand on his neck feels good, and even though he knows he wouldn't be able to hold himself up right now. 

I'm not weak, he wants to say. And maybe he does. But he can't recognise his own voice right now. 

"Not weak, maybe, but pathetic." 

No. 

"You know you are." 

Shut up. Go away. 

It doesn't make sense for Mr Munson to suddenly be here with them, to stand in the doorway and watch his nephew, who is more monster than human these days, holding up the pathetic form of Steve, who is more pain than human. More smoke than human. More vulnerable weakness than remotely human.

Go away. Eddie? I want him to go away. Tell— Go ‘way. 

The hand wanders, pulling Steve against cool skin again so his forehead rests against the toilet no longer, basking in the cold touch and the warmth of a body to hold him. 

"Safe," Kas says, and Steve wants to badly to believe him. Wants Wayne to leave, wants everyone to leave and just let him suffer in silence and solitude like always. 

Wayne starts talking again, but Steve can't hear him this time as he suddenly heaves and retches, throwing up what little he had to eat today. Over and over and over.

It goes like this for a long time. He has no idea how long. Has no idea where he even is anymore. 

The world tilts a few times when he loses his grip, his arms buckling, his hands spasming and giving out, and still he never falls. Only ever feels the cold, damp skin of Kas’s neck. 

Kas has to carry him to bed when he's done and on the brink of passing out again, and Steve doesn’t mind this time. Kas also hands him a glass of water or two before pushing him back to lie down again. That’s nice. 

The wet cloth returns, and Steve isn't aware of his surroundings for much more after that.

—— 

The next time Steve comes to, he feels like he was freshly dragged through Lover’s Lake until his lungs gave out. His head is pulsing violently, his senses are sluggish and everything feels foggy. He has no idea where he is, the room pitch black around him as he lifts a lukewarm damp cloth from his eyes. 

A soft groan falls from his lips as he stretches his aching, cramped limbs, rubbing his hands over his face and regaining the feeling in his body. Little pinpricks of phantom pain shoot through him, his mouth tastes like ash and his head protests rather violently against his pathetic attempt at sitting up. 

He is disoriented and something about his vision is still messed up, something in the depths of the room not quite right and leaving him with a dizziness he can’t quite shake, followed by a wave of anxiety that something’s wrong with his eyes. 

He blinks. Blinks again, finding more things in the strange room as he does, his sluggish brain slowly catching up and filling in the blanks.

It all comes back to him like a tidal wave when he suddenly finds himself blinking at a pair of red eyes, softly glowing and wide open. 

“Kas,” he croaks, his throat absolutely parched. 

One second he’s wincing at that, the next he finds a cool glass of water pressed into his hands before the eyes and the shadowy form they belong to retreat to the foot of the bed again. 

 “Thanks,” he murmurs, stalling as he takes a sip. Embarrassment rises in him, but he doesn’t want to apologise. The thought of that somehow makes the vulnerability that much worse, so he tries to ignore it. It’ll all be fine if they simply not acknowledge it. 

He wants to ask for the time instead, wants to know how much the migraine took from him this time, but he knows Kas doesn’t really understand the concept of it all, let alone know the numbers. 

A silence settles between them and it’s somewhere between welcome and uncomfortable. Just like everything that happens in Hawkins. It makes Steve feel like a ghost again, but this time he’s a ghost in the room, not just in his own head. He’s the one who’s out of place.

With a little sigh, he places the glass on the makeshift nightstand again and falls over onto his side. His head is mad at him for it, still feeling too fragile for sudden movements, but lying down feels better than sitting.

There’s a huff from Kas that sounds more amused than derisive, so Steve looks at him. Looks at the shimmer in those eyes before closing his own again, not wanting to be looked at right now. Not wanting to face it.

“You,” Kas says then, his voice quiet and without the edge of that animalistic growl. The sound of someone who’s not meant to speak at all. The souvenir of someone who was human once before Evil grabbed him and modified him to His liking. 

“Me,” Steve says, an automatic response, just as quiet. He’s listening. 

“How… How are…” Kas struggles, huffing in frustration at the words that refuse to come, but still it’s the most coherent Steve has ever heard him. It makes him sit up half way again; leaning his weight on one arm to focus all his foggy and cloudy attention on the vampire trying to ask him how he is feeling. 

No more words come, though, the question half finished in the air between them. But somehow it makes Steve smile. Just a little bit. This feels important. And huge.

“My head hurts,” he answers truthfully, amused when Kas’s eyes snap back to his. To search them. To communicate something.

“Hurts?” 

“Yeah. It will, for a while. Always does. Nothing to do about it, really.” He wishes he felt as indifferent to it as he sounds, but that’s just the tiredness clouding his tone. It’s fast approaching now that he knows he’s relatively safe. Now that he knows he can rest. His arm gives out and he slides, slowly this time, back to lie on the pillow. “But it’s not as bad. And the other pain is gone, so…” 

So. He could go home now. He should, probably. Ignoring the weakness in his bones and the exhaustion in his every fiber. If he closed his eyes again right now, he could fall asleep. Still, maybe he should—

“Stay,” Kas says again, and Steve really should have figured. He’s not quite well enough to really fight him on that, though, so he shrugs. 

“Fine,” he mumbles into the pillow, halfway back to slumberland already. 

There’s movement on the foot of the bed, and before he knows it Kas has tucked him in again, draped across the pillows as he is. It’s still unreal, that, but Steve won’t complain. What’s even more unreal, though, is the image Steve gets of Kas curling up by the foot of the bed in a similar position. As if he still means to keep watch. 

It’s ridiculous. A little weird. And sort of endearing.

——

The next time Steve wakes, everything around him is a little brighter, daylight fighting weakly to fill the room, but it stands no chance against the large wooden planks and thick curtains meant to block it out permanently. 

He blinks away the heaviness, taking stock of his body. There is a crick in his neck and burgeoning cramps in his side and hip from the position he’s still in, and this head still is a pulsing, aching mess — but no more than usual. 

He taps the pads of his fingers to his thumb before flexing his hands. Only then does he stretch the rest of his body and announce his wakefulness. 

Opposite him, at the foot of the bed, Kas is already awake and still in the same position that Steve saw him last. Did he even sleep? Does he need that? Or has he just been staring at Steve, watching him, ready to carry him to the bathroom again for round two. 

The thought of that makes his skin crawl.

“Hi,” he says to fill the silence that is all too inviting for his spiralling mind.

Kas grunts, but it sounds more like a hum. Sort of gentle around the edges. He doesn’t move, doesn’t seem at all fazed that they’re just kind of staring at each other. Steve swallows, not really sure how to go from here.

He fists the blanket and rubs the linen bedding between his fingers, feels the rough fabric catching on the callouses along his hands as uncomfortable seconds tick by. Still Kas doesn’t move. 

“Listen, man,” Steve says at last, thinking back to yesterday’s events and the vampire’s sudden care. “Thanks, alright? What you did, that was, uh. That was nice. You didn’t have to do any of that.” 

Another hum, and it occurs to Steve that Kas is back in his normal state, retreated back into his mind, hiding from the world himself now that it no longer needs him. It’s a strange thought, that Steve being hurt would be what brings him back. If at all. Maybe he’s reading it all wrong. Maybe it as just a coincidence, or maybe Kas tasted something in his blood that made him want to improve Steve’s physical state for selfish purposes. That’s probably more likely.

But it makes him feel even more wrong-footed than before, and it leaves him hyper-aware of the situation. Of their dynamic. Indifference and annoyance and… He doesn’t want it to change, doesn’t want some kind of debt between himself and Kas — especially not when Kas has no means to really settle it. But he also can’t feign some kind of gratitude when what he feels the most is mortification and embarrassment; and he sure as hell doesn’t want Kas to know that either. 

So he throws back the blanket and gets out of the bed, a little dizzy at first, but he doesn’t care as he slips into his shoes and hurries out of the room. 

He just wants to leave. Get out of here and go home, go back to bed and get over the mortification of having been seen like this. Of having been taken care of. By someone who doesn’t even like him. By someone who hissed and snapped at him one moment and then carried him to the bathroom the next. 

“It looks like there’s nothing human left in him, but we do have data that suggest otherwise.” Owens’s words echo through his mind as he crosses the living room. “It seems to be in hiding, the Munson part of him; that’s our hope at least. That you can get him back out one day, make him win over the vampire part. It could be like a self defence mechanism, I guess. We hope he can still be coaxed back into the land of the living. How, though, we don’t know.”

Was this what happened? Has Steve’s weakness triggered the human part of Kas’s tortured brain to take over? No, that can’t be. 

It seems unreal. Unlikely. Wayne telling him stories or Dustin talking about their campaign, that should have helped. Even Mike playing the guitar, or Robin rambling about something or other; all of that was much more close to who Munson was. Or used to be. Eddie Munson never struck Steve as someone who took care of people naturally. Someone who stepped in. He stepped up, sure, but only ever for the wrong reasons. 

It makes no sense. So it must be wrong; just Steve’s exhausted brain grasping at straws. It usually does that, anyway. Nobody knows if Eddie is even still in there. Part of Steve hopes he’s not. 

Just as he reaches for the front door, ready to just get out of here and pretend like nothing happened, he feels a presence behind him. Kas followed him out of the bedroom, standing in the doorway now with an unreadable expression. It's the blank one he usually takes on, but where before it was normal, it throws Steve off now. Maybe because he saw how Kas can look at him. How expressive his eyes can get.

He holds them, the red shimmer a little dimmer out here in the brighter living room. 

And maybe it's the blankness in those eyes, or the lack of judgment in Kas's every action, but whatever it is, it makes Steve let go of the door and turn to face Kas properly. 

"Why'd you do it?"

The vampire inclines his head. Listening. Always listening. Steve doesn't know how he never noticed that. It seemed so primitive before. Like how a dog will react to its owner speaking, but never process the words. Kas processes, though. So Steve keeps going.

"Why'd you... You kept saying that word. Safe. Do you, uh. Do you know what it means?" 

Slowly, his eyes growing a little less blank, Kas nods. 

Steve looks around the cabin, swallowing thickly, still feeling so out of place in here, still feeling the need to run and leave it far behind. But something makes him stay. Makes him want to understand. 

"You wanted me to feel safe?" Again, Kas nods. "Why?" 

There is hesitation there, and Steve wonders if it's because he doesn't want to tell him, if he doesn't know the answer, or if he doesn't know how to answer. It's a loaded question, maybe. 

"Pain," he says at last, his voice barely discernible from a growl, but somehow Steve seems attuned to it now. Maybe because he listens now. Because he wants to know. To understand. 

He waits, watching as Kas struggles for more words once more. Just like last night. 

"Know... Know... pain. Know.” He taps his temple with a clawed hand, and Steve's heart falls, his chest aching with realisation. 

Right. He would. He would know pain like that. If what the doc says is right, if what Vecna taunted them with is right, if every working theory the kids have is right, then… yeah. Kas would know. He’s know something about pain. More than any of them. Pain so intense it splits you apart from yourself. 

"Shit," Steve whispers more to himself than to the room, crossing his arms in front of his chest to hug himself and keep from digging deeper, keep his heart from falling further, and keep the horror at bay. 

He doesn't want to imagine the kind of torture Kas went through. Is still going through, if what the doctors say has even more truth to it. If Munson is still in there, still suffering because human minds have a way of holding on to pain — Steve knows soemthing about that, too. 

"I'm sorry," he offers. It's all he can offer. In the end, it’s all that’s left.

And still it's so lame. It's not enough. 

But Kas just nods again, a pained shadow of a smile appearing on his face. Something transpires between them in that moment, Steve can feel it, but he can't really define it. Maybe some kind of understanding. Some kind of safety. 

"I gotta..." he starts, motioning to the door behind him. "I gotta go. Will you be fine? Did you have enough, y'know, to drink?" 

Another nod, and the smile widens a little. Looks a little less pained this time. 

"Good," Steve says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, lifting his shoulders to his ears, trying and failing to seem casual in the face of those glowing eyes. "I’ll– I'll see you around, yeah?" 

And then he's out the door, his head spinning and aching, his steps heavy with the weight of whatever has changed between him and Kas in the past twenty-four hours. 

... sooo. part 3 anyone?

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[darlinluxx]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 | 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐀𝐄 𝐁𝐘𝐄𝐎𝐊 ౨ৎ

pairing : saebyeok x fem!reader

fluff

warnings : none

summary : you and your girlfriend go stargazing on a summer night

a/n : u can’t tell me that she wouldn’t love stargazing

if you have any requests, feel free to message me <3

𝐓he air hung thick and sweet with the scent of honeysuckle and night-blooming jasmine. cicadas buzzed a relentless symphony, their droning a familiar lullaby to the Korean countryside. Saebyeok, usually a person of hushed movements and steel-edged focus, found herself uncharacteristically relaxed, a soft smile playing on her lips. beside her, nestled in the blanket you spread out on the grassy knoll was you, looking up at the night sky filled with stars.

you were everything Saebyeok wasn’t — bright, bubbly, with a heart overflowing with sunshine. you’d managed to coax her from the concrete jungle of Seoul to this secluded spot, a slice of heaven tucked away from the city’s relentless glare. Saebyeok had always loved stargazing. she was grateful for your suggestion.

“look, Sae!” you exclaimed. “can you see that one? the one like a little dipper?”

Saebyeok followed your pointed finger towards the sky above. millions of stars, pinpricks of light scattered across the velvet canvas, glittered in the summer night. it was a sight she took the time to appreciate back in the city, but it was different here. in the city, the sky veiled in smog and the only lights were the harsh neon of billboards.

“Ursa Minor,” Saebyeok said, the corner of her mouth lifting despite herself. “it’s called Ursa Minor.”

you softly giggled, a sound like wind chimes caught in a gentle breeze. “you always know everything. i like it though.” you leaned closer, resting your head on Saebyeok’s shoulder. “i love stargazing. it makes me feel so small, but also so connected to everything.”

Saebyeok, accustomed to the weight of her past and the burden of her present, never considered the philosophical implications of the night sky. she’d always been too busy surviving, too focused on the next hurdle. but with your head resting softly on her shoulder, and the vast, silent universe spread out above you two, something shifted inside her.

she looked down at you, your face illuminated by the faint glow of the moon. your eyes, usually so filled with vibrant energy, were soft with tranquility. Saebyeok felt a tenderness she hadn’t known she possessed bloom in her chest.

“maybe,” Saebyeok murmured, her voice low. “maybe you’re right.”

you nuzzled closer. “you’re almost always right, you know. just sometimes you don’t realize it.”

the two of you fell silent again, the only sounds the chirping of crickets and the gentle whisper of the breeze. Saebyeok found herself content in the quiet companionship.

she traced patterns on your arm with her finger, the smooth skin a comforting contrast to the roughness of her own hands. the stars continued their silent dance above, each one a distant sun, a reminder of the vastness of the universe.

you stayed like that for hours, talking in hushed tones, sharing secrets whispered into the night. you spoke of your dreams, of your passions and your desire to see the world. Saebyeok, surprisingly, found herself sharing fragments of her past, the pain of her defection, the constant fear that still lingered in her heart. it was more than she’d ever confided in anyone.

as the first hint of dawn began to paint the sky, the stars started to fade, surrendering to the approaching light. you yawned, stretching your arms above your head.

“time to go,” you said, your voice groggy with sleep.

Saebyeok nodded, feeling the weight of returning to the real world press down on her once more. but as she helped you gather the blanket, she knew that something had changed. the stars, once just distant specks of light, now held a new significance. they were a reminder of the quiet magic she’d found with you, a promise of the peace and connection she had always longed for, even if she hadn’t known it.

as they walked hand in hand towards the road, the rising sun casting long shadows behind you, Saebyeok glanced back at the dark patch of grass where the two of you spent the night. the stars might be gone for now, but the feeling they had evoked, the shared intimacy under the vast expanse of the universe, lingered, a promise of more summer nights to come.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 17 "Equinox"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 5k

A/N: Wow, we're really, really getting there now and I feel so conflicted about it 😭 I don't want it to end, but I'll also be so happy to wrap up their story ❤️ Thank you for every motivating comment along the way, you're the reason why I kept going ❤️

Reposted from my Ao3💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Day 140

Lurid clouds are chased across the roiling skies, stripped apart by the fierce winds of the high troposphere. Through the cracks in the clouds, the guests and bridal pair witness a macabre glory in the firmament.

God's inverted eye is glaring down on the altar and everyone in its frayed shadow becomes dancing motes at the center of the universe.

Today marks not only the spring equinox and the wedding of Feyd-Rautha and his alien bride, it is also a solar eclipse and Giedi Prime's white moon creeps in front of the black sun like a wandering pupil.

Past the smog-polluted urban canyons of Barony and even past the endless trenches of mines and factories of Gyed are the tasu aurinkosesti — the planes of the ever-sun, closer to the equatorial belt than any Harkonnen-built settlement. While not safe enough for permanent residents, the majestic landscape is just safe enough for festivities overlooked by the full glory of Giedi Prime's volcanos who crane their tapered maws proudly to the black sun.

Here is where nature breaks through the cracks of bleached Earth, dry, short grasses and creeping inkvines. The active volcanoes are gentler masters than the human settlers.

Today, delicate, black garlands flutter from the temporarily erected poles, seats and slender archways which mark two aisles down a semi-circle of hand-picked guests, one thousand of them — Harkonnens only for this special festivity. Stirred by the hot winds from the south, the garlands look not unlike human entrails strung up for a carnival. 

The aisles meet at a slightly elevated pedestal, on it a massive, roughly cuboid slab of obsidian. An ancient altar dented in the middle by the thousands of brides who had laid on it, or been forced to, and spilled their maiden blood onto the stone with the sun as their witness.

Feyd-Rautha's bride won't have to spread her legs on the ancient ceremonial site today. She is an off-worldler and her delicate flesh would be burnt to crisps and become a cornucopia of tumors if she spent but a minute unprotected in the open air. The radiation is strongest near the equator and only her wedding gown keeps her sheltered from it.

Panels of scintillating material shift heavily around her legs, hard but bendy, each layer painted with lead to isolate her flesh from the lurid sun's gamma rays. The gown tapers in at the waist and breasts and crawls over her shoulders, arms, and hands, covering her wholly. Her head is crowned by a veil of the same iridescent panels, protecting hair and face, only the face-panel is see-through. From afar, her shape is entirely otherworldly.

She will be an alien to the populace first, in her looks and in her ways, and then share her humanity. But first, she wants to enjoy the company of her husband and not think about anything for a while, no world-changing battles, no masses in arms.

Her gaze trails along the twisted, black archway that connects both sides of the elevated pedestal, Crowns of Thorns around it twining, Giedi Prime's only native flower. Skywards, God's inverted eye stands directly over the altar, filling her heart with horror and beauty, a feeling she can appreciate because it's not malicious, unlike the many human workings she has encountered in this universe.

Her eyes' appreciative journey ends at the man who will soon be her husband. On the other side of the pedestal, three meters away, stands Feyd-Rautha, the counter-image of her. His bare skin is as white as the chalky terrain and the glaring skies, only his loins are covered by a cloth that is wrapped in ceremonial manner, leaving the sides of his hips and strong thighs exposed. His hands are bare, ringless, and his hip weaponless.

On his exposed belly and chest, she will later be painting the markings of fertility and eternity, a winding symbol like a serpent devouring its own tail.

Feyd-Rautha bares his ink-black teeth, smiling when he sees his woman doing the same beneath her veil, white teeth between her painted lips. While she looks a hundredfold more pompous in her scintillating gown, to her, Feyd-Rautha is the most glorious sight in the world; the way he presents himself to the universe freely now and with no fear.

The drums begin to play and deep-throated chanting soars from the crowd who have risen from their seats, each of them clutching a hand over their hearts. They too have come in ceremonial robes, heavy fabric that reaches down to the knees and a strap of fabric that stretches diagonally across the chest and over one shoulder, leaving one side of the chest exposed — men and women alike.

Feyd and his bride turn to the crowd whose feet raise and stomp down in unison and whose hands mimic the drum beats over their hearts. The ceremonial chanting claps across the planes like thunder from a thousand throats. In the front row are Mikhail Kyelug and Lilia Bauer, the groomsman and bridesmaid by old Earth tradition.

On Mikhail's other side is a man who Feyd-Rautha would have stabbed on sight a week ago. Glossu Rabban looks up to his little brother by the altar, and the Count of Lankiveil is smiling.

Six days prior

"Can't believe you're tired already — hick! — na-Baron!"

It's Baron by now, but Feyd doesn't bother correcting Mikhail as they slouch through the array of corridors which will eventually lead them to the concubines' wing where Feyd has moved in with his wife-to-be, his old quarters burned down together with the Baron's. That is unless they get lost, liquor-blurred eyes blinking into predawn darkness.

"Not tired," Feyd-Rautha protests, shoving his comrade into the nearest wall. The guard bounces right back, sending Feyd staggering.

"So, lovesick?"

"I can go a night without my woman."

"Yeeaah, but you don't wanna." 

There is not a single club in Barony that doesn't have poles for strippers and slaves of every shape, size and age at their disposal, yet neither of the two men have indulged in anything other than alcohol and the occasional pill or pipe tonighr. The physiology of anything living on Giedi Prime is much harder to poison. Common alcohol is barely a challenge for Harkonnen livers, hence why booze from Giedi Prime's distilleries can kill an off-wordler after just a glass.

"It's Bull's Night, so 'course I want my prize at the end of the night."

"Point is you should take some other prize, ya know? Spread out your seed, eh?" Mikhail gesticulates with one hand, drawing complicated circles in the air.

"Did'you spread out your seed before you married Lilia?"

"Nah," Mikhail laughs and Feyd scoffs, grinning to himself. The night has been long and his cheeks are hurting.

The sudden echo of a shoe around the next corner snaps both men out of their drunken banter. These aren't guards' boots. Feyd-Rautha's blade hisses from its sheath and he barges forward, coming to an abrupt halt behind the corner. It is Mikhail who speaks first.

"Beast — hick! — Rabba-ban!"

The stocky frame of Feyd's older brother fills out the hallway. He wears dark brown, a cushioned pad on one shoulder and a sword belt around his hip. A comfortable uniform as it is worn on Lankiveil. He's gotten fatter, Feyd notices through the shock of finding his brother, whom he hasn't seen in over five years, in his palace, let alone while he is drunk and blabbering. 

The sight has burned him sober.

Under his arm, the intruder carries a gift box, beige with a crinkled but shiny, golden ribbon tied around it in sloppy loops.

"What are you doing here?" Rabban rumbles, mouth standing open in bewilderment. 

"It's early morning. What are you doing here?" Feyd snaps back sharply, muscled shoulder angled towards his brother who is still several feet away.

"I was on my way to your room."

"My room isn't that way anymore."

Rabban can't find it in him to close his mouth, but he does plod into Feyd-Rautha's personal space, uncaring of the way his younger brother twitches and how his long limbs tense themselves to lunge. Despite his drunkenness, Mikhail's fist is screwed tight around the handle of his half-unsheathed blade and the smaller man is poised like a guard dog behind his Baron and friend.

After a moment, Feyd exhales a slow lungful of air. "Go now," he orders and gives the tense guard a firm slap on the shoulder and a little squeeze. 

"Are ya sure, my Lord?" Mikhail hesitates until Feyd-Rautha squeezes his shoulder again.

"Go and mount your woman. She must have been waiting for you all night. And tell mine not to come here!"

Mikhail sheathes his blade with a noisy hiss and trails around Rabban in a curious half circle before wandering off into the hallway, a sway to his footsteps as he keeps muttering that he needs to tell Lilia about Beast - hick - Rabban.

Looking past Feyd's raised, wicked blade, Glossu's dark brown eyes find his brother's icy blue ones and Feyd is enraged when Rabban's cheeks fill up with laughter out of all things. 

"How did you get in here? You're not invited." Feyd rumbles, tilting the blade’s tip towards Rabban’s neck. “You should kiss your Baron's feet and beg him for forgiveness for trespassing.”

Still, the older brother disregards his sibling’s threat and merely tightens his grip on the curious box. He doesn’t even bother to draw his sword. Feyd is seething.

"I'm still a Harkonnen by blood. I don't need to be invited to attend my little brother's wedding."

Feyd-Rautha snarls at that. Being a few inches taller and considering himself considerably smarter than Glossu in every regard, he sees himself as anything but the little brother.

"You're not a Harkonnen, you're a Rabban and you're dressed like one too."

"You're a Rabban as much as I am! You would look good in a uniform like mine." 

Feyd's brows knit together in bewilderment. "I look nothing like a Rabban."

"You look just like our mother," Glossu barks and Feyd hisses through bared teeth, pupils shrunken to deadly pinpricks.

"What do you want?"

"I wanted to attend my little brother's wedding."

"I'm not your little brother, you dumb boar."

"You'll always be my little brother!"

"And you've taken the title of big brother literally as of late? You look fat. Have you been drinking?"

"A little," his brother admits. Now being way past fifty, Glossu 'Beast' Rabban looks old and bloated and Feyd finds it hard to believe that he could have ever looked up to his older sibling.

"Say what you want in my palace or feel my blade in your neck."

"I've only been truthful to you," Rabban insists. "I came to celebrate and to… talk.  I'm happy for you."

"Are you now?" Feyd tilts his head in cold mockery.

"I hope I get to meet your woman one day. I've heard plenty of rumors, ranging from heartwarming to mind boggling."

Feyd would rather keep his brother a thousand miles away from his wife to be. The last time they had seen each other, they had clashed with blades and teeth. Rabban, spraying spittle, had yelled that he would shatter everything his spoiled prince of a brother calls his own to pieces, and Feyd had made a gashing cut along Rabban's ribs, snarling with honeyed voice that even a pig had higher chances at success.

There was no love lost between the brothers.

"What's in there?" Feyd's gaze darts to the beige box under Glossu's arm and flits back up with resharpened coldness. But no icy glare can hide the fact that he's taken the bait, like a boy who can't resist a candy bar dangled in front of his face.

"It's for you," Glossu beams and offers the box all too freely. Feyd can't remember a time when his brother had ever willingly shared, let alone given.

Opening a mystery present from Rabban might as well be his last foolish mistake, but Feyd too may be a bit drunk, a bit drugged, and his curiosity kindled a bit too much by this irritating encounter.

"Open it," Feyd demands, holding the blade unwavering at Rabban's neck. His brother complies, pulling on the bow so it flutters to the ground, then wrapping one thick hand around the lid to lift it.

Feyd had expected many things, but not that.

From inside, a soft thing meets his incredulous stare and Feyd-Rautha's free hand lifts slowly, sliding into the box to pick up the item with pointy fingers. He holds it at arm's length, as if its soft fur might bite, and rotates it by the flipper. A stitched face with a little snout regards him, black marbles for eyes, handmade. It's a seal, its plush made of brown whale fur. Some spots are lovingly worn and matted by young, playful hands.

"Why don't you just go over there and say that you want it?" A man's droning baritone. "Because I don't want it!" Icy wind whistles around the fur hood of Feyd's coat, along with the scent of pines, roasted almonds and smoked meat. "So you tugged on my sleeve because you don't want it? You're a big boy now, you can go over there. Are you scared?" "Let's go! You're stupid!" Feyd yowls and the faceless man laughs as the little boy fruitlessly pushes against his thick leg to get him to move away from the market stall. Blades clatter when he throws himself against the man's hip. "No, no, no! I hate you!" A pair of muscled arms sweep up his body like he's only a doll and throw him over a broad, fur-clad shoulder. Feyd finds himself thrashing against the coat that covers the man's back with his tiny fists.

“You remember it?” Rabban laughs and Feyd hates the way a web of crow’s feet spreads around his brother's eyes. It makes him look aged.

“No,” he snarls like a dog. 

“But I do." Rabban points at the stuffed seal. "I got it for you.” 

"You?!" The muscles of Feyd's hairless brows tic upwards in perplexity. The man from that wicked memory was not his father then? But he had looked so tall and big and grown-up. The idea that his bull-headed brother had been kind to him once and did something as mundane as take him to the market and buy him a toy is one that Feyd viciously rejects. It stands out jarringly against the brutal colors that paint his concept of family.

“You acted like you didn’t want to have it. Thought I wouldn't see the way you looked at it, big eyes and all. You thought it was embarrassing to have a— a plushy thing.” Rabban’s voice falters, like there is more hidden there. Old anguish that hurts so freshly when he sees his grown-up baby brother with an old toy in hand. Baron now. “You really don’t remember?”

“I remember that you threw me over your shoulder like a big brute. So, you’ve always been a boar, even then.” Feyd’s eyes glint like his blade as the pale dawn that creeps over the horizon, shedding light through the arched windows between bulging pillars.

“Yeah, I did that!” Rabban dares to fill the quiet morning air with guffawing laughter once more. "You were so small and light. You were on my knees a lot, brother. Used to sit there and watch me whet my blades. You still whet them like I showed you back then, do you know that?" 

"I was never on your fat knees, brother, and if I was, it must have been by force." 

Feyd's left forearm ricochets into Rabban's chest, pinning him to the wall. The blade pokes into the side of the bulkier man's neck, sharp and glinting like a snake tooth and Feyd’s features are screwed into deadly violence. 

Rabban grunts in a way that Feyd finds downright pathetic when the back of his head hits the solid tiles, barely fighting against his baby brother's assault. His eyes are squeezed into crinkled lines. From up close, one can see the blotchiness of Rabban's puffy face. Feyd sneers.

"You'll die younger than our uncle if you go on like this," he comments on his brother's tumid appearance and scratches the blade tip against his cheek. “You embarrass your Baron.”

Rabban shrugs his shoulders and releases a puff of air from trembling lips. It bewilders him that even though he’s afraid, he wouldn’t mind if his little brother slit his neck right here. At the very least, he would die at the hand of the last person he had ever loved. “You’re no Baron to me, you’re just my baby brother.”

Glossu Rabban prepares himself for metal to sink into his neck in quick, searing pain, like he had seen Feyd do so often, a boy sharpened into violent psychosis by a violent man. But his brother's presence only grows deadly silent until Rabban opens his eyes. Feyd has never liked capable prey who doesn’t fight back. His younger brother’s expression is hard to read, shielded always by a wall of either fire or ice. Does that woman who he is to marry ever see him without? Glossu is almost jealous.

“Do you remember any of your childhood?” Rabban finds his own voice meek and brittle, thoughts drifting to a warm, cozy nursery, a round carpet on the floor, an arm chair and a toy chest on the floor, an ever-blue sky and icy hills covered in lush pines which seem to tickle the ivy firmament. The room is still unchanged in the Lankiveil fortress, a capsule of the past, waiting for the little boy who still lives somewhere in Feyd-Rautha.. "Our home?"

"I don't. Giedi Prime is my home," Feyd bites and his seething lips nearly brush against his brother’s. It is a home now that his uncle is gone.

"It is not!" Rabban suddenly bristles and shoves Feyd-Rautha’s blade aside, cutting his sleeve on it. "You know what's a good home?! Caladan. Or Kaitain. Or Lankiveil."

"You're not even a Harkonnen anymore, brother. You disgust me."

"And neither are you! We're half Harkonnen! I took after our father…" Rabban rubs over his ever-hairless skull and the many old battle scars there. "But you had blonde hair once, did you know that? And there would be snow on it when you came inside from playing."

"I wasn't playing!"

"Yes, you were!" Spit sprays over Feyd's chest, narrowly missing the stuffie which he has come to cradle unwittingly against his chest, and Feyd's eyes flash with offense. "You were a little boy, of course you were playing! You were three when I—" Rabban halts and anguish twists his aged features. He is fifty-five now and suddenly it shows. Suddenly, Feyd can only see his brother as what he is, an old veteran fallen from grace, drinking the rest of his brain away on Lankiveil. Rabban adds with a thick voice: “I always tried to be there.”

“Where?”

“With you! Everyone knew that our mother didn't want you. But I tried to be there.”

The vicious fire in Feyd's stomach dies to frozen ashes and his teeth are screwed into his bottom lip. The extended blade quivers and his fingers dig into soft fur. “What are you talking about?”

Rabban shrugs again and looks down at the stuffed seal like he hopes the magma channels will open up beneath the palace and swallow him whole. “Our parents had you under the premise that you would be given to our uncle as an heir. It was father’s and uncle's idea. A good deal. You don’t deny House Harkonnen when it offers wealth and reputation in exchange for something so…” So little.

So that’s what he had been all his life. A good deal and nothing more. Feyd wants to sink his blade into his own crunching bones.

Rabban’s face snaps back up with sudden vehemence. “Our mother could never look you in the eyes and it hurt me to see it! When you were born, I thought I would hate you. Who wants a sibling when they’re already past twenty?! But I couldn’t hate you. You were so little…”

Feyd can’t speak, his jaws clenched into a painful vise, so Rabban goes on. “You always tried to get her attention, but she never relented. She wouldn't even hold you to her own breasts for milk."

"Shut up."

"That woman you're going to marry, what is she like?" 

“I said shut up!"

Only Emmi Rabban knew the real reason why she couldn’t hold little Feyd-Rautha Rabban. It was not her husband's and her brother in law's idea, even though she let them think it was. It was the Bene Gesserit who needed her little Feyd for their breeding program, who needed him honed and sharpened the Harkonnen way because she, Emmi, had failed to raise Glossu as a respectable son. Too wild, too dumb they said. She hated herself so much for birthing Feyd-Rautha under this pretense, that she couldn't love her little boy, for she knew she couldn't bring herself to give him away if she ever started loving him.

“Sorry.” Glossu's voice quivers and it’s pathetic, so pathetic, Feyd thinks. His own breath does something quite similar.

"So, you're telling me you were the good guy all along? The good big brother?"

"Not all along, no," Rabban draws a hard breath. “You always wanted to be like me. That's why you became like this.” He spits it out like it’s a bad thing. “When I killed our father, I killed our mother and my baby brother too, I just didn't know it yet.” Fat tears roll down Glossu’s cheeks and he doesn’t even care to wipe them away.

Feyd suddenly remembers why he had felt such satisfaction when his mother looked at him with fright when he sunk the blade into her neck at night, when she was tucked into bed, helpless. He had always envied the way their mother looked fearfully at Glossu, because at least she looked at him. 

“I killed our father because he deserved it for the plan he made with our uncle. And mother… She suddenly said that you are her only son. It was worth it for me. But the deal hadn’t died with our father and then someday uncle showed up and I think you… You wanted to punish her. You wanted to be like me, so you killed her, and uncle was so impressed.” Glossu exhales shakily. “I would have killed him too, but… I visited you on Giedi Prime after your first months there, you know? I saw what he did to you. You were covered in bruises and I… did nothing. And you grew mean. And you had every right to. But with no one else left to hate, I started hating you, for many years. It’s all my fault.” 

Glossu Rabban cries into his fist’s and Feyd-Rautha traps his sobs within his throat, which hurts like a blade was stuck in it. But no matter how tightly he seals his throat, it doesn’t keep his eyes from going blurry and the hot, salty wetness from spilling down his cheeks.

Present Day

Rabban smiles encouragingly, fist beating down on his thick chest to the mighty echo of the drums. Feyd tilts his head, smiling too, shoulders squared and chin held high, even as his heart plummets into his stomach.

The rhythm changes, becomes uncharacteristically softer and gentler. Quick, almost like cats' paws chasing over the plains. The ring bearer is released into the aisle, holding one ring in each quivering face-hand. Big, pearlescent eyes seek out the man and woman at the end of the aisle who both hold out their hands encouragingly, but they are so far away and so many strangers sit and gawk all around.

Glugo shivers, cowering. 

Until the two other faces it has grown to love leap up from their seats in the front row and hurry all the way to the back, offering one hand each. Glugo is lucky to have more than enough hand-feet to hold each offered hand in two of its own and strut down the aisle with newfound confidence. The distance shrinks rapidly and it clambers up on top of the pedestal all on its own. Its half-human heart is terribly proud as it holds up the rings as high as it can reach, looking from Feyd to the bride and back. Glugo doesn't like her gown. One hand-foot fingers the splayed, lead-coated plastic panels which are anything but soft. She should have worn a blanket or a fur cloak, it thinks.

"Well done," she praises softly, stroking over the top of Glugo's head with one gloved hand.

"Thank you, my friend" Feyd rasps and the drums fade away entirely when the bride and groom pick up the rings, him holding hers and her holding his.

The wedding bands are blacker than the universe itself, held up against the lurid sky. Forged out of obsidian from Giedi Prime's volcanic mines, they have been chemically reinforced to withstand the eons.

Glugo climbs bravely back down and joins Lilia and Mikhail in a comfortable basket at their feet, loafing and watching attentively.

As Glugo leaves, the master of ceremonies steps onto the raised platform from behind the altar. The tattoos that cover his torso in thick, blocky stripes make him appear almost fully dressed, even though he is clad in only a toga, with black panels of fabric twining loosely around his arms. Nodding towards the Baron and his Lady, the man readies his throat to speak, but a timid servant who comes scurrying from the side beats him to it.

"Eruption imminent, my Lord," the scrawny man murmurs and points to Feyd-Rautha's side where a jagged vent has begun spewing black, billowing smoke into the firmament. A thousand heads turn to the mountain ridge, each towering giant an active volcano. The earth growls and moans beneath their feet.

"Should we evacuate?" The bride's worried voice comes muffled from beneath the layers of scintillating plastic.

"No, we will proceed," Feyd-Rautha decides, turning back to her, leaving the volcanoes at his back in plain sight for her. "Let my bride see the glory and beauty of our world."

She inhales shakily, squaring her shoulders when Feyd grins, blinking in cat-like manner.

"Very well!" The announcer speaks, his recognizable voice as loud as a war horn. When he raises his arms above his head, a fierce breeze picks up the panels fluttering from his pale arms. The wind carries notes of ash. "Let us commence the holy union of our beloved leader, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen and his chosen bride! The planet itself celebrates with us!"

Drums begin to boom like thunder, punching a rhythm that pumps red and black blood alike through their veins in a rapid chase. At every fifth beat, the crowd throws their hands up high, chanting. At every tenth beat, the next gust of smoke billows over the crater edge. The man who can make his voice heard across an entire arena has no trouble outdoing the drums.

"The rumors are true, dear people, dear Harkonnens. Our bride is a woman of lost, ancient kingdoms, a relic, the first astronaut! Imagine the ancient secrets she will share with our new Lord, with us!" The announcer punches his fists wildly in the air, black teeth bared in a gashing crescent. "This spring equinox marks the dawn of a new age for our glorious House!"

The planet's crust screams in agreement and gives birth to sparkling rivulets of black, hot lava with an earth-shattering roar. Like ghastly fireworks, they splash against the storm-battered, frosted sky.

The announcer laughs, clutching the bride and groom by the arms. "Foretold by dreams, their union is now written in the flesh!"

Feyd-Rautha curls his palm around her covered cheek and she does the same to him, gloved hand cool against his skin. She is gawking in awe at the terrible spectacle at his back, but a soft tilt of Feyd's head is enough to snare her attention back to him. His uncanny beauty outshines even the brutal convulsions of Giedi Prime.

"Speak after me," the announcer hollers. "I swear by the blood and the flesh that my heart belongs to my Manducor, in life and in death. The honor to devour it after my passing goes to my Manducor and my Manducor alone. The glorious, black sun is my witness."

Manducor means heart eater. Days prior, when Feyd came  home drunk and weepy after his Bull's Night, he had confessed to her that he had always been afraid of dying, because he knew his uncle would eat his heart in a final, cruel violation. But not anymore, he had whispered with such fondness that she now finds it easy to repeat the words and mean them.

Her voice is amplified by a device offered by the announcer and her words roll like a tidal wave across the semi circle of guests. Feyd-Rautha's features twitch in euphoria, eyes gleaming like the lava that rolls in hot rivers down the mountain flank. Like an animal ready to pounce, his voice quivers when he repeats the sacred words.

The drums' chasing rhythm crests and the screams that rise from a thousand mouths are guttural and primal. The volcano hisses above, the earth howls below and Feyd-Rautha claims his bride to the grandest cacophony of man and nature.

Lilia cries and presses Glugo's head to her knee. A beaming Glossu Rabban shakes Mikhail's hand.

The relic's palms meet Feyd's belly when he crosses the distance in one powerful stride, sliding over the twitching hills of his muscles when he parts her veil up to the nose, baring her painted lips to the scalding air.

"My woman, I love you," her husband snarls before his lips find hers in needy violence, taking her breath while her fingers curl around his back and dig into his flesh. 

With one radioactive kiss, their bond is sealed, hearts, flesh and souls bound for all beautiful, horrifying eternity.

The Garden releases its last radiance, not as something failed, but as its full reason for being: to give continually, to its last bit of energetic being. Its giving is its beauty. It is a smile, it is the heart of love. Even the smell of decay, drifting from the deer, dead by the side of the road, says: “This is what I am and no other. I do not pretend to be. Even in death I speak without deceit, even unto my flesh, my very bones.

- Equinox by Richard Wehrman

A/N: See you in the, starts sobbing , last chapter 🥺🥺🥺

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst, @gravesdiggergirl

[comatosebunny09]

safe haven | leon k.

genre(s): romance, erotica warning(s): female reader, established relationship, explicit language, fingering, p in v, bodily fluids, unprotected sex, womb fcking, mating press, pet names, size kink, choking, stream of consciousness summary: he’s missed this; missed you. gone weeks without the suppleness of your body and your earthy scent filling his head. so, of course he’ll take advantage of this moment—tucked away from the dangers of the world—to hold you. kiss you. love you. exalt you. now playing: what was i made for? - billie eilish notes: rewatching that one scene from (500) days of summer put me in a mood. i hope you enjoy, lovelies. thank you so much for reading!

It’s in the way he slowly backs you against the front door, the two of you veiled by the serene glow and stillness of your entryway.

The background noises of your neighborhood fade into a dull murmur. And only the two of you exist in this world of static, pheromones, and unspoken affections.

He perches his hands on your hips. Pulls back a little to survey your eyes and lips—a silent request to kiss you. His gaze swims with emotions beneath furled lashes, though the most prominent at this moment is longing.

You nod without really thinking, trapped beneath the spell the evening’s cast and the idle stir of his irises, gathering his cheeks into your hands like he’s glass that will shatter if not handled with care. And his brows furrow slightly as he nuzzles into your palm.

You’re his vice. His kryptonite. He’s missed the touch of your hands more than you can comprehend.

He towers over you, making you feel so very tiny yet so very safe, swaddled in the warmth and strength he emits. And he pans in until your noses and lips graze, and his breath fans across your already feverish skin. He kisses your goofy, tipsy smile away. Lips write something sluggish and cautious, making way for soft giggles and little huffs of affection.

The kiss soon evolves into something more voracious with each sticky grind of your lips, with each swipe of his tongue. His hand finds your jaw, a thumb tugging at your bottom lip, angling your head back ever so slightly so he can push his tongue further inside.

He bunches up your dress with his other hand to feel the supple skin of your hip skating along the pads of his fingers. And he presses a little more into you, squishing your warm breasts against the hard planes of his chest. Not enough to crush you, but enough to remind you that he is here and this is very much real.

You wind your arms around his neck. Trade your giggles for soft pants of his name as he nips your bottom lip and chin. Burns a trail down to your neck, kissing along the outskirts of your jaw. Groans something throaty. So low, you have to strain your ears to hear it, though the sound of it makes your stomach prickle with pins and needles.

He has your thighs clutched in his hands now. Squeezes, firm and wanton, thumbs cruising along the crease of your hips. Didn’t wear panties. Naughty, naughty little thing, you.

Leon huffs a sound against your carotid, drawing your waist closer to his until the ridge of his slacks acquaints itself with your inner thigh, and you both groan at the deliciousness of such contact.

He’s hard. Painfully so. Of course, he is. He’s missed this; missed you. Gone weeks without the suppleness of your body and your delicate scent turning his head to smog. His reconnaissance mission took longer than expected. Swept him away to remote parts of the world, far from the safety of your embrace. So, of course, he’ll take advantage of this moment—tucked away from the world’s dangers—to hold you. Kiss you. Love you. Exalt you.

He couldn’t keep his hands off you at dinner. Always had to have your thigh cratering between his fingers under the table as you exchanged laughter and banter with your friends. And once you were filled with steak, wine, and mirth, he shepherded you to the car. Promised the best of things into the crown of your head as he squeezed your ass and ushered you into the passenger seat.

And now, this is Leon, puffing hot air into the space between your open mouths. Rutting his hips against yours, chasing those little sparks of heat in his abdomen. Loving how your lips part with whimpers and how you tug on the hair at his nape, quietly begging him for more. More friction, more skin. God, he can’t stand it.

“Up,” he murmurs into your mouth. Cups your ass in one hand, peeling you away from the door. And how quickly you obey, hopping up to twine your legs around his waist, hands roosting on his shoulders for support. He hoists you up like you weigh nothing, spinning ’round to walk you deeper into your home. And his effortless display of strength makes your body thrum with desire.

He manages the feat of kissing you senselessly whilst carrying you up the stairs to your bedroom. And you can’t get enough of him, taking fistfuls of his hair between your fingers as you pepper his chin and jaw with rose-red kisses, and he nudges the door open with his foot.

It’s cold inside. The only light is that of the moon filtering in through the slits of your blinds. And the sheets are a crisp contrast to your inflamed skin as he tenderly lays you amongst them, mouth fastened to yours like you’re his only source of oxygen.

You let out a little whimper at the loss of his body heat when he peels away to undo his shirt. Yet you watch, perched on your elbows, with hooded eyes and your lip pinched between your teeth as he unfastens his belt and slacks. The wispy shadow of his happy trail peaks from the waistband of his briefs, making your throat thicken.

You welcome his weight when he crawls back over you. Kisses you into the plush pillows, his hands languid and exploratory on your breasts. Pinching your nipples, pebbling beneath the frailty of your dress. Weighing your tits in his palms, humming his approval into your mouth. And when you’re keening and shuddering from the artfulness of his fingers, he smiles against your lips. Palms continue scorching downwards, taking hold of your waist and coaxing your thighs apart, your dress gathering at your belly button.

He’s massive. All muscle and skin stretched taut as your fingers creep over whatever skin you can reach from your vantage point. And, goddammit, he feels good. Twitching against your thigh, sweltering and heavy, and the thought of him has you throbbing. And his zipper grazes the space between your outer labia and thigh, and fucking hell, you need him.

He heeds your silent demand. Palms the warmth of your muff when your eyes beg him to, and you arch so pretty for him. Sigh his name like a hymnal, clawing at his deltoids. He mouths your exposed throat, massaging your pussy with a thick palm, pressing two fingers to the seam of it. And how wet you are, dribbling onto his hand, squelching lewdly, keening, begging.

He looks at you with his lips curled around a coo. Around an oh, because you’re so fucking cute. Reduced to a mess of writhing limbs and obscenities, and fuck, he wants to taste you. Can’t wait much longer, having suffered enough time without feeling the hot suction of your pussy around him.

You whine when he draws his hand back. Suck in a breath when the arctic air touches your cunt. And he’s seated on his haunches, tugging his pants and underwear down just enough until his dick springs free. Bounces against his stomach, weeping sticky beads of pre-spend onto your belly. And you’re staring, drooling, and he chuckles something abrasive into the stillness of the room.

Your pussy clenches as he strokes himself. His mushroomed tip wet and sticky, continuously swallowed up by the bulk of his hand. The hardened pad of his thumb sifts through your plump labia in search of your clit while he handles himself. And he presses down, running a slow, meticulous circle around your pretty nub until you claw at the sheets and gasp.

“You should see yourself, sweetheart,” he rasps. Watches you through curtained lashes, eyes gleaming something blue and feral in the moonlight. Lips parted, hair mussed, and cheeks speckled pink. He wants to devour you. You’re the lamb laid to slaughter and fuck. It’s taking all of him not to spear you on his cock here and now. Not without prepping you first, though.

He tests your opening when you’re swollen, pulsating, and leaking a pretty, pearlescent strand of lubricant onto the sheets. Teases a finger inside, pushing your slick back into you with a vulgar squelch, groaning at how hot you feel. How hungrily you suck him in, and he scissors you nice and open with another finger added to the fray. Fucks you knuckle deep, stroking those sensitive nerve endings to life until you beg him so sweetly to “fuck me fuck me fuck me, Leon, please!”

He’s never been one to keep his pretty baby waiting. Lifts your hips to shimmy a pillow beneath. Fists his cock with fingers slick from your essence. Takes hold of your calves, pushing your knees up to your breasts, resting the crease of your knees into the crooks of his arms. And the wet, viscous grind of his cock against the slit of your pussy draws pleasured growls from each of your throats.

He opts for a few leisured rolls of his hips before feeding his cock into you. And you feel complete. Warm and tingling and your cunt releases the most obscene sigh when he’s fully seated, the bulbous head kissing your womb. His hips stutter. Still. You’re so very tight. Feel like home, and his arms shake to keep himself upright. He looks down at you, searching your eyes for any sign of disapproval. Offers you an out. But the way you wiggle your hips and imprint little waning moons into the skin of his biceps tells him all he needs to know.

His pelvis builds a steady tempo from here on. Sets a pace that’s both maddeningly slow and too much and you’re squeezing so wonderfully for him, drawing him in impossibly deeper. Slurring your words, tongue lolling about in your mouth.

Pleasure mounts with each stroke. Your clit, swollen and sticky, bumps against Leon’s abdomen, and his balls knock against the cleft of your ass. He watches where your bodies join with such reverence, mouth open and lips shining. And he won’t last much longer if you keep moaning like that and if your hips keep lurching to meet his, and fuck fuck fuck.

He takes to thumbing your clit again when he feels the pleasure mushroom in his stomach. Manacles your neck with his free hand, squeezing until your pulse thrums into the clench of it.

He won’t do this alone. Wants you to cum with, if not before, him. He’s missed you entirely too much. And the carnal urge to feel you clenching and gushing around him has his pelvis moving purely on instinct.

He releases your neck, bowing forward, curling into you until you’re folded in half. Mouth hot in the junction of your shoulder, and he nips at the saturated flesh as his thrusts grow more erratic. You’re reduced to choked sobs and slapping skin, clinging to him for dear life as he batters against your cervix. And his movements are suddenly choppy, and he’s sighing hot and wet into your ear. And you feel so fucking incredible, and—

You’re seeing stars before you know it. A milky explosion across an inky sky that’s blinding and searing hot. Your breath sits heavy in your throat, eyes screwed shut, toes curling. The contractions of your pussy pull Leon into the void with you, and he coats your insides a gooey white. The gritty noise pushing through his teeth has your cunt spasming with another wave of euphoria.

He anchors you to the mattress with the weight of him when he falls back to Earth. Breathes deep through his nostrils, his heart wild behind his ribs. Your hands skim over the muscles of his back, soothing in their ministrations. You sigh as he litters your shoulder with kisses as if to apologize for his abrasiveness. Makes a motion to unsheathe from the warmth of your cunt when he’s gotten a hold of himself. But the hook of your heels into his back advises him against it.

“Stay,” you rasp when he looks at you with questioning brows and exhaustion leaking into his visage.

Of course, he’ll stay. Nestled deep where he feels most at home, safe in the circle of your arms. He obeys, melting against you, arms wrapped snuggly around your middle. Lulled into a dreamless sleep by the gentle patter of your heart and fingers stroking lovingly through his hair.

[spacedace]

Gotham loved all her children fiercely.

Every single parent working three jobs, every corrupt politician lining their pockets with tax payer money, every exhausted student scraping by on rent, every doctor, drug dealer, lawyer and killer. She loved them all. Even those she hated beyond words, beyond ability to comprehend, those of her children so filled with evil not even a mother’s love could excuse or condone, even those she still loved.

They were all pieces of herself. As much a part of her as her cracked pavement and unruly parks and dirty cobblestone street skin, as the smoke and smog and storming haze of her hair, as the glint of her stained glass and cctv eyes. Her Populous made her as much as she made them, over years more cursed than blessed, shaping her with their stubbornness and pride and strength.

She did not love equally though. 

It was not something that guilted her. That all children should have equal parts affection were concerns of living things. And though it could never be argued that the Spirit of Gotham was anything but alive, it is not the same as being living. She is a City Spirit, first and foremost. Her children are counted in the millions, and though she knows every second of every life that call her home, there are those that she gives more of her love to than others.

Her Bats and Birds, who flit around her jagged skylines and down her shadowed streets and gave all of themselves to trying to protect so many. She loved them dearly, wanted to do everything in her power to care for them as they cared for her. Had done everything, when it became clear that she hadn’t power enough.

A deal with the King Infinite could be a dangerous thing, a great risk only the most reckless were willing to entertain.

But the King that had instilled such an apprehension in the Infinite Realms was gone now. Stripped of crown and ring and title, consumed in his entirety by his conqueror - though it had taken time and a great deal of danger for the new King to complete that right - Pirah Dark was a bad memory.

Phantom was something else.

And Gotham was willing to be a little reckless in trusting the whispers of her dead that their new ruler was a fair and kind one. That his Obsession was not with power, but with Protection.

That the King could use a little Protection himself, on the mortal side.

She’d made an offer, a Deal.

The King’s Grave Mother accepted on his and their Grave’s behalf. If it was, perhaps, a little underhanded to speak with the Queen Mother rather than the King himself, well. Gotham was born of shady dealings, the language of slanted deals was her first, and she could craft contracts that would put any Fae or Demon to shame.

It was a good deal though. Equal and fair for both sides. She’d been born of human kindness and empathy too, though they were not as easy a touch stone.

The King was kind, and hurt and in need of a protector of his own. His Grave were doing his best, but Halfa were things Between. They could not live all on one side of the veil completely. They needed a place on the mortal side, where they would not need to fear being hunted. Gotham could give them that. Gotham could be that.

What she asked for in return wasn’t so great a price.

If, perhaps, upon the King and his Grave taking up residence within the bounds of her Populous, she gained more than just the power she asked? A mere coincidence. Surely. The other City Spirits were just bitter that their more straight forward Populous hadn’t allowed them to think of such a scheme, to claim otherwise.

Besides, she thinks it still worked out equal enough. Companionship for some of her lonely Birds meant companionship for the King and his Grave as well after all. 

Even if it took a bit of nudging to get them all to fall in place. It was a mother’s right to meddle in the lives of her children, after all. Her duty to help ensure they found good partners. And she was hardly the first parent to feel that nothing short of royalty was good enough for her children.

*

Blurb from me figuring out the vibe between the Spirit of Gotham and the Pham in my Gotham’s Favorite Therapist Jazz AU. Also a writing prompt for anyone who wants to run with this haha

Believe it or not, this originally popped up because I had the idea “What if the person Gotham loves most in the world is Alfred because he looks after her favorite kids?” and it turned into this lol Eventually I’ll actually write the scene where Alfred and Gotham sit down and have tea together and talk about their kids.

In this AU/my headcanons Grave is the term Ghosts use to reference family (in the context of people you love and care for, doesn’t have to be actual blood relations or anything and more often than not is used to describe found family).

I just like the idea of a grave being seen as a place of peace and rest and for actual dead/ghosts you find that not in a literal grave but in the people you call your own. Also just like the alliteration of “A Grave of Ghosts” lol

Also have the idea that a Grave has a social structure similar to wolves not in the sense of the shitty incorrect misunderstanding with alpha/beta/omega sense, but in the sense that it’s all family dynamics with one or more families grouped together with parents generally trying to wrangle/look after everyone else. The head(s) of a Grave is called a Grave Parent/Father/Mother (in this case, Jazz being the Grave Mother).

Not referenced in here but gonna add it here anyway: I like the idea that the concept of “Ghost King” is meant to actually be more like “Grave Parent to all Graves and ghosts” rather than actual king, and that Pirah Dark just kinda fucked that whole vibe up with his shit. Just really like the idea of things going back to that with Danny having a more protector role and ghosts start using the title “Grave Father” for him (maybe with some misunderstanding of what that means and folks not in the know thinking it some ominous title lol).

Don’t have time to tag everyone who asked at the moment, but I’ll come back & do that later after work

[heartfullofleeches]

real master of the cult shows up, they're eerily similar to monster reader, feeling surprised at finding another fellow of their species, simply deems it so that the monster reader HAS TO BE their designed mate

Otherwise, why would they look alike so much? They're destined to be intertwined together!

(light body horror)

Foolish creatures. To be so easily led astray meant they were nothing more than lambs to the slaughter. Trapped bewteen their reality and the next, the cult's true master could hear their celebrations to its very core. Their disgusting misguided joy mocks the beast in its pathetic state; its control on their minds weakened now that they've found new faith. No matter. The fools had done enough in their own right that their aid was no longer needed.

Black smog trickles from the fire in the center of the room. The ash in their air solidifies and conjoins into small crystals that float into the vivisected body on the alter. Its glassy eyes fog over, limbs spasming as the forgien angents poke at its blood deprived brain. Their legs sweep over the side of the table; the lack of organs making the body light and easier to control.

The corpse picks up the bowl next to where it lie, blood sloshing down the sides and over its limbs. It stumbles toward the fire and chucks the harvest in bowl and all. As the flames lick the ceiling, the body goes limp and subcome to the heat as the smog leaves and rejoins its true fold.

-

"I'm full, please!"

You use a claw to keep a stray fork from invading your personal space, much to your follower's sadness. Weak to their puppy eyes, you exhale and steal the bite of breakfast off their plate hopefully before the other's notice, but of course they do.

"My Lord! Would you like to try mine next?"

You moan in defeat. How things have changed. You went from not knowing where your next meal would come from, to being stuffed with home cooked foods daily. You felt horrible for tricking the camp, but in your defense you tried to tell them you weren't their god. The hopeless saps wouldn't here it, falling for your charms even when the veil began to rise. World domination could wait a year or so while they got you comfortable to life in the compound.

A loud boom rocks the entire cabin.

"̸W̵h̶e̶r̴e̷.̸ ̸I̷s̵.̵ ̶I̶t̵?̴"̷ ̷

Panic and confusion spread through the entire table, you all hurry outside to see the cause of the fuss. Fire pours from the main cabin's doors, injured cultists picking their fallen comrades off the ground and to safety in the trees. A large creature wrapped in shadows destroys the remaining foundation of the cabin as it squeezes past the frame, lifting the frightened human in its grasp to dangerous heights as it hiss.

"Where is the one you betrayed me for!"

"Th...ere." The cultist points over to you. They're lowered closer to the ground before being roughly discarded. You can see the deity turn in your direction.

"You."

Its upon you in the matter of seconds, daggered claws rearing to tear you in two as soon as it spots you, but- those eyes. They're just like theirs.

As you cower, it takes a long look at you. Teeth as black as coal, the spilt in your irises. Bit on the small side and lacking horns, but there's no doubt that you're the same breed. The creature thought that the cult's new ruler would be a slick talking mortal, not this.

"You... you're...."

The shadows shrink. They take your jaw in their palm, the anger in their eyes fading as the same realization they had flashes in yours.

"Perfection."

The deity coos as it pulls you in. "Oh, what an adorable creature you fools have discovered. I should smite you all and every member of your blood lineage, but I can't since you've found me such a delicious mate."

Mate?

They pull down the collar of your shirt. "This scar proves of our bond for I bare a similar burden. Tell me, love. How did you come by it."

You cover the scar with your arms. "Bad humans... Researchers."

Its eyes darken, a comforting hand gripping your shoulders. "I am the same. We have solace in that, and being the only remains of our kind. Even if the ancients prevailed, I have a feeling there'd be no better match for me than you."

Groans of pain remind you of the damage they've caused. You struggle in their grip.

"Oh? Are you fond of these insects, love? Do not worry. I may be weak, but I have enough power to restore their health and I will do so.. for a price.

[weneverlearn]

Interview: JOHN MORTON - electric eels, X_X

In 2014, I was Managing Editor at CMJ -- the long lost college radio magazine and yearly NYC festival. I interviewed legendary Cleveland proto-punk gonzoid, John Morton, on the occasion of him bobbing back up via some new X_X and electric eels releases, and he even played some live shows around that time. Saw a great one at the L.E.S. haunt, Cake Shop, also long lost. Then a few years ago outta nowhere, Morton -- who lives in Canada now, I think -- sent me a pdf of the interview.

Due to the last owner being a complete evil shyster, all traces of CMJ have been wiped from the internet. Not even sure how John got this pdf, must've made it off the original post, who knows. Such is the mysterious meanderings of one of the great unsung artists of the late 20th century. Hey, he's still active today, making art and music, so we'll see more from him, I'm sure... Anyway, I've been meaning to post the interview -- so here ya go, below.

John Morton, 2016 swiped from his wife's Facebook.

[poppy-s-rampage]

Chapter 2: Welcome to Gotham!

Warnings: A little bit of blood, breakdown and emotional distress.

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Chapter 1! | Masterpost | Chapter 3!

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After finally closing up the last wound, Clockwork took a moment to look over his work. All of the young Halfa’s wounds have been sealed and treated with diluted ectoplasm. It was only enough to make the injuries look a week old at best but it will have to do.

The Ancient lifted his staff and in one swift movement ripped a hole in the fabric of reality. CW then carefully cradled Danny in his arms. Then both the Ancient and the Halfa stepped into the portal.

On the other side, they were met with an emaciated woman clad in a red and black Victorian dress accompanied by a small rose decorated matching hat. In her hand a small umbrella made of lace and what seemed to be black clouds. 

Her delicate snow white skin furrowed by ink black veins. Her blood red lips striking against the pallor of her face were pursed in worry. Her eyes, even while covered by her laced black veil, didn’t hide her apprehension.

The woman’s dress’s neckline was fashioned in the silhouette of a bat. Pearls scattered like falling stars across the red and black folds of the garment. Her waist encased in a tight bodice was embellished by small golden coins and feathers. The red fishtail spilling on the ground lazily trailing after its mistress.

The woman bowed her head, greeting the Ancient and his charge.

“Lord Clockwork.” Her raspy yet somehow suave voice resonated into the night.

“Lady Gotham.” He responded while slightly dipping his head down.

The city spirit glanced at the boy in the other’s arm. His bandaged form and torn clothes were not what first captured her attention. What truly horrified her was the state of the young Halfa’s core. Wrapped and cracked, barely a breath away from breaking and ceasing to exist.

Her own aching at the view, screaming at her to take the boy, wrap him in a bundle of blankets and nurse/guard him until at full health.

Being ended was reserved to the lowest of the low. It was a last resort that should only be used should the offender be irredeemable and too dangerous to be contained. To think that this almost happened and still could to her own king and one so young.

It was nauseating.

Lady Gotham forced herself to look away, turning her attention back to Clockwork.

“I assume he is the charge you want to bring into my care.”

“He is.” Clockwork responded.

The woman nodded, the smoke and black clouds in her umbrella spreading around her.

“Then if you will follow me.”

Lady Gotham faded and became one with the smog. The black mass zooming towards Midtown Gotham, the ancient of time on its heels.

They soon arrived in front of a small but clean apartment building. The two ghosts phased through the wall of the top floor only to be greeted by the view of a spacious yet cozy loft.

The unit was furnished with all the necessary furniture, non-ecto-contaminated food already stocked in the fridge. The space was designed in order to facilitate Daniel’s recovery. The boy would already be going through hell with his recovery and grief; it was best not to add insult to injury.

The city spirit having taken back physical form, leads Clockwork towards the bed on the second floor of the loft.

Once inside, the Ancient carefully sets Danny down on the bed and slowly covers him with a soft blanket. He then produced a pen and a neon green notepad from who knows where and started writing.

Lady Gotham approached the ghost.

“Lord ClockWork, pardon my intrusion, but wouldn’t it be best for you to explain the situation to the young king face to face.”

Clockwork paused.

“Young Daniel is too unstable to be dealing with the emotional distress my presence would bring. He has been hurt enough as it is.”

“Those excuses are nothing but the words of a coward.”

“Pardon me?”

“You are not. Are you truly running away in order to protect the boy or are you doing so to save yourself?”

“…”

“Tell me, Lord Clockwork. When the young king awakens, would he prefer to be met with an insincere apology letter from a coward or the genuine words of a man admitting to his mistakes?”

Clockwork couldn’t even utter a word.He didn’t have any excuse to defend himself. The city spirit was right.

“Your words are as sharp as ever, old friend.”

“I speak nothing but the truth, Master of Time. However, it seems to me that you are already set on your decision.”

“I-”

“I hope in your interest that you made the right choice.” The Lady snapped.

The woman turned away but not without leaving a few departing words.

“Or that at least you are prepared to face the consequences.”

Lady Gotham disappeared in a whirlwind of smog.

Clock work turned back to Daniel watching as his face scrunched up when the old ghost brushed a strand of hair away from his face.

His old core flared with parental love.

He looked so peaceful, as if nothing ever went wrong. However, In just a few hours, he would wake up and reality would come crashing down.

His bright and joyous protegee. The one he couldn’t help but adore every version of. The one he subconsciously adopted as his own child.

Clockwork couldn’t. He just couldn’t bring himself to face the hatred and pain his pupil would inevitably direct at him.

Gotham was right.

The Master of Time set down the notepad on the night table

He was a coward.

—-------

*A few hours later*

As the first few rays of sunshine broke through Gotham’s thick smog, a young black and white haired boy slowly woke up from his slumber.

It was comfortable, the soft fluffy blanket brushing against his achy skin. The warmth that comes with being cocooned in the safety of your own bed. Danny didn’t want to open his eyes. But he needed to wake up, in just a few moments Jazz would come knocking at his door to drag him to school.

The soft familiar knock never came, but the memories sure did.

Danny snapped his eyes open. Tears threatening to fall.

Clockwork -LiaR- ,the reveal, the capture -BeTraYaL-, the experiments -PaIN-, Jazz, Sam, Tucker,-PAINPAINPAIN mY FauLT- the wails, blood, explosion, death -MurDEreR!-, pain, Core breaking, burning, melting- PAIN PAIN PAIN! I ShOuLD be DeAD!-.

The Halfa now fully awake kicked the blanket enveloping him away and tried to get out of the bed.

His legs still injured and unable to support his weight gave out and he collapsed on the wooden floor in a heap.

The sharp pain of jolting his injuries and face planting further cemented to Danny that he wasn’t dreaming and that the nightmare was fully real.

“...no…NONONONONONO! Please, no! Please! I BEG YOU! PLEASE! JAZZ, TUCK, SAM PLEASE! DONT BE REAL! PLEASE!” Danny tried to say, but the only thing that came out were erratic breaths that could vaguely be associated with words. His damaged throat made it impossible to even breathe without it flaring in pain.

Choked and pained sobs filled the once silent room.

The young Halfa still collapsed on the floor cried , slowly curling up on himself hugging his knees.

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Chapter 1! | Masterpost | Chapter 3!

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

See you next time!

[misswynters]

Baby blue and the mouse

featuring. jinx x platonic sister! reader

requested. by @mxbrahms

Zaun sure had a way of shaping people. Its smog-filled streets, the endless clang of machinery, and the shadows that clung to every corner seemed to seep into its inhabitants. For you, it had always been home, even when it wasn’t. You couldn’t remember much about your early years. Just flickers of a woman’s laugh, the warmth of arms that held you close, and a faint lullaby that had no words. That was your mother. A woman who hid you away in the cracks of Zaun, keeping you in the quiet while the world outside raged on.

It wasn’t until you were nine that the veil of safety she’d woven for you came undone. You’d come home to find her there: still, lifeless, her body sprawled across the floor of your tiny, crumbling apartment. The smell of copper and rust hung heavy in the air. Your small hands had trembled as you reached out, as though touching her would bring her back. But nothing happened. The quiet you had always clung to now felt suffocating.

You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. Instead, you did what she’d taught you: you hid. Hours passed in silence until the door creaked open again, and a figure stepped inside. Silco.

You didn’t know him then, not really. Just a name whispered in fear and reverence across Zaun. But he knew you. His mismatched eyes softened when they landed on you, crouched in the corner with wide, untrusting eyes. He didn’t speak at first, just offered his hand. When you finally took it, his grip was firm, a silent promise that you wouldn’t be left alone again.

After the death of your mother, the weeks that followed were a blur. Silco had taken you in, not as a burden, but as though you’d always been meant to be there. It wasn’t until much later that you learned the truth, you were his. His daughter. A piece of him that had been stolen away years ago, hidden by a woman he once trusted. He didn’t speak of her often, and neither did you. It was an unspoken understanding, a wound neither of you cared to prod.

Life with Silco was different. He wasn’t the warm, nurturing father you might have imagined in another life. He was calculated, cold at times, but never cruel. He taught you to navigate Zaun’s chaos with the same sharp mind and steady hand he used to command it. But he also gave you space to be you. Where Jinx was fire and fury, you were the quiet storm, slipping through the cracks and unraveling problems with precision rather than explosions.

Jinx took to you immediately, dubbing you her “twin” despite the lack of blood ties. Where Silco’s love was subtle and Jinx’s was overwhelming. A whirlwind of laughter, mischief, and an almost suffocating loyalty. She dragged you into her chaos at every turn, but you never minded. You understood her in a way few others could.

And though you were quieter, calmer, you matched her step for step. While she painted Zaun in vibrant colors and explosions, you moved through its shadows, making sure the aftermath didn’t swallow her whole. Jinx loved Silco in her own way, but your relationship with him was different. It was softer, quieter. He trusted you to see sides of him no one else did. The weariness in his shoulders, the small moments of pride when you succeeded, the way his voice softened when he said your name.

You never resented the life you’d been given. Zaun was harsh, but it had given you a family. A found one, a messy one, but one that was yours. That you grew to deeply love. And when the nights grew long and the memories of your mother came creeping back, you clung to that. To Silco, to Jinx, to the strange, chaotic love that bound you all together.

. . .

“Mousie,” she’d call out, her voice brimming with excitement. It was a name she had given you, and despite its loudness, you had taken it with affection. She was always the one pulling you into her chaos, dragging you from one wild adventure to the next, making sure you were always beside her. The first time you met her, it was during one of her more "creative" escapades. She was no more than a whirlwind of blue hair and erratic energy, her hands constantly on the move as she tinkered with a bomb. You had been observing from the shadows, as usual, when she caught sight of you.

"What are you doing back there, Mouse?" she had asked, her voice catching on your quiet demeanor. "Don’t be shy, come on! I’ve got a plan, and I need your help!"

You didn’t say much, as always, but you followed her. You had learned to do so over time, a silent presence at her side as she ran through her unpredictable schemes. She was loud, yes, but she had a way of making things feel... alive. And for the first time since the murder of your mother, you didn’t feel alone.

You became her constant companion, the calm to her storm. Jinx's chaos, her explosions, her manic energy, became something you learned to navigate with a careful hand. She would get into trouble, and you would be there to pull her back. She was fire, and you were the soft, quiet water, always there to temper her flames.

“Come on, we’ve got stuff to blow up!” she would shout, her eyes sparkling with mischief. And while you’d never fully understand her love for the explosions, the danger, you couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. You had never known anyone like her before, someone who was so unapologetically themselves.

Silco, too, grew to rely on you. He never demanded anything of you that you couldn’t give. You were always there, quietly taking care of things. He never needed you to be loud, never asked you to be anything other than what you were. And just like him, a part of the system, working in the background.

It was a strange family you’d found. Silco, your actual father and Jinx, the "twin" sister you never asked for but would never trade her in for anything else. You didn’t talk about it much, didn’t say the words that would have made it feel official, but in your quiet way, you knew it was real. You had found your place, even if the world around you was broken and full of noise. Thought you couldn't admit that you never truly felt like Silco was your dad. That you were his biological daughter. You were the complete opposite than he was.

But things were never simple. The scars of the past followed you like a shadow. The loss of your mother, the chaos nature of Zaun. It all weighed heavily on you, even when you pretended it didn’t. Jinx always seemed to know when you were spiraling, when your thoughts would drift to that place you didn’t want to go.

"Hey," she’d say, her voice softer than usual, something rare and gentle in her tone. "You’re gonna be okay. I gotcha, okay?"

And you’d nod, your lips twitching into a small smile, even though you didn’t have the words. She always knew when you needed her, and even though she was often the cause of the chaos, she was also the one who could pull you back from it. You both needed each other, she with her explosive energy and you with your quiet steadiness. The perfect pair, Yin and Yang, the calm and the chaos.

Sometimes, Silco would find you two together, Jinx sprawled across the floor, laughing at something ridiculous, while you sat quietly beside her, watching her with a quiet fondness. He would look at the two of you, his cold exterior softening just a little.

“You two,” he would mutter, though there was an unspoken warmth in his voice. “Always together. Never far apart. It’s good to have someone to rely on.”

And you would nod, though the words never seemed to come. You had someone now. Someone who understood you in a way that others never could. Someone who needed your quiet, just as you needed her chaos.

You’d lost everything once, but in the wreckage of it all, you had found something new. A broken family. Not the loud, demanding kind, but a family of your own. Silent, steady, and always together.

. . .

There was of course an instance were things didn’t go as planned. The warehouse was supposed to be quiet. You had slipped into the building alongside Jinx, the two of you tasked with scouting out an area for Silco’s latest dealings. In typical fashion, Jinx’s interpretation of “quiet” skewed toward chaos. While you stuck to the shadows, cataloging the crates and memorizing the guards’ routes, she was already toying with her explosives, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“C’mon, Twinny,” Jinx whispered loudly, twirling a grenade in her hand as she crouched behind a pile of crates. “You’re taking forever! We could blow this place sky-high and still be home for dinner.”

You sighed, slipping up beside her. “We’re not blowing anything up, Jinx. Not yet, anyway.” Your voice was low and steady, a stark contrast to her barely-contained excitement. “Silco wants intel first, remember?”

She groaned, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Boooring.” But even as she said it, she pocketed the grenade. You knew she couldn’t resist a little fun, though, and you braced yourself for whatever small bit of chaos she was about to unleash.

Jinx’s “fun” started small. A wrench tossed into a spinning fan, creating a loud, metallic screech. A stack of boxes pushed just enough to topple over, startling a few guards nearby. She was like a storm, restless and wild, but she always stayed close to you. Her self-proclaimed twin.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you had been weaving through the building when it happened. Jinx had been rigging a small contraption to set off a harmless distraction. A flick of her wrist, a sudden flash, and a sound that was far louder than you had anticipated. The guards reacted instantly, shouting orders and scattering as the explosion rattled the building. Jinx laughed, a manic, gleeful sound as she grabbed your arm, dragging you toward an exit.

“Wasn’t that awesome?!” she exclaimed, her blue hair whipping behind her as she ran.

“Too awesome,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “They’re coming this way.”

“Good! I could use the exercise,” Jinx shot back, but her grip on your arm tightened. No matter how reckless she seemed, she always made sure you were close. The two of you darted through the maze of crates and equipment, the sound of boots pounding after you. Jinx reached for one of her gadgets, probably to unleash more chaos, but in her haste, she fumbled.

The explosion wasn’t huge considering her standards. However the force of it sent you sprawling. A sharp pain shot through your leg as you hit the ground, biting back a cry. Jinx was by your side in an instant, her eyes wide with a mix of guilt and panic.

“Hey, hey! You good?” she asked, her voice unusually soft as she crouched beside you. Her hands hovered, unsure where to touch without causing more harm.

“I’m fine,” you lied, trying to push yourself up. The sharp sting in your leg betrayed you, and you winced.

“Liar,” Jinx muttered. She glanced at the approaching guards, then back at you. Without hesitation, she hauled you up, slinging your arm over her shoulder. “C’mon, Twinny. We’re getting outta here.”

She moved fast, supporting your weight with surprising strength. Despite the pain, you couldn’t help but smile at her determination. By the time you made it back to Silco’s office, your leg was throbbing, and Jinx was muttering apologies under her breath. Silco was waiting, his sharp gaze immediately locking onto you.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice cold but edged with concern. His eyes flicked to your leg, then to Jinx, who was already fidgeting under his scrutiny.

“It was an accident!” Jinx blurted out before you could speak. “I mean, kinda. I didn’t mean to—”

“Enough,” Silco interrupted, his voice stern. He stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “You were supposed to be careful. This—” He gestured to your leg, then to Jinx. “—is the opposite of that.”

Jinx looked like she’d been struck. Her usual tone faltered, and for a moment, she was just a kid being scolded by her father. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” she mumbled, her gaze dropping to the floor.

Silco’s anger softened, though his voice remained firm. “Intentions don’t erase consequences, Jinx. You know better.”

You, ever the mediator, stepped in. “It’s not all her fault,” you said, your tone calm despite the pain. “I should’ve stopped her sooner.”

Silco’s eyes softened as they landed on you. “You shouldn’t have to,” he replied simply. Then, turning back to Jinx, he added, “You need to be more careful, especially with her.”

Jinx nodded, her shoulders slumping. “Got it boss,” she muttered. The tension eased as Silco called in a medic to tend to your leg. Jinx hovered nearby, her usual energy replaced with uncharacteristic quiet. When the medic left and Silco returned to his desk, you and Jinx were alone.

Jinx shifted awkwardly, her fingers twitching as she sat beside you. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

You glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. “I know,” you replied.

She hesitated, then grinned—small and tentative but real. “You’re lucky that you are my sister, Mousie. Otherwise, I’d let you hobble around on your own.”

You laughed softly, nudging her with your elbow. “Lucky me.”

Jinx’s grin widened, and for a moment, everything felt normal again. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Next time, we’ll make it even bigger. But, you know, safer. Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile. With Jinx, chaos was inevitable, but so was her loyalty. No matter how wild things got, you knew she’d always have your back, just as you had hers.

taglist. @kaixvdenny @winxthinxs @ekkosh @inguuuuu @pearldaisy @jannesyjane @thesecondhandwoman @halle5s @comfortweeb @bubblespopblue @mellowzhi @mbekgsv

[perfectlyoongi]

BOUQUET

ㅤ↬┊synopsis ... when people needed to buy words to be able to speak, the entire world was plunged into a grey silence that only drained all existing joy. but, in so much grey, jungkook discovered a small green bouquet.

ㅤ⚘.fandom ... bts. ㅤㅤಇ.ft. ... jungkook x gn!reader. ㅤ⚘.genre ... long-shot. ㅤㅤಇ.content ... dystopian!au, fluff. ㅤㅤಇ.word count ... 3.3k. ㅤ⚘.cole's note ... it's ♡ my bday ♡ here's the 2nd post of today !! hope u enjoy it ♡

The world was dark.

With so many factories working, it was impossible for anyone to remember the last time they saw a bright sun or a blue sky. With so many factories working, it was impossible for anyone to know the meaning of such words.

For several years, all a person could see was the thick clouds pouring out of the various factories, all the color in the world being stolen by the overwhelming smog that covered the city. That covered the country. That covered the world.

The world was dark.

Ruled by poverty the entire world lost its charm from the day a single person started ruling it. All the rights a person could have were stolen. All the happiness and joy were sucked away by the hard work that was already destined for people for a long time.

The colors were stolen. Colors were stolen from people’s eyes. No vibrant color brought any trace of joy to anyone. No dearer word brought comfort to anyone.

A veil of torment occupied the entire city. The entire country. The entire world.

Nobody knows how it started. They just know it happened.

Without realizing it, everyone was forced to buy to survive. Between water and food, all resources were reduced, giving only the minimum to each family.

In fact, everyone began to need to buy to survive.

What no one expected was that they also had to buy words to speak.

Nobody knows how it started. One misty autumn morning, everyone lost the ability to speak. No sound could be made by them and panic quickly set in in the city. In the country. In the world.

The newspapers were quick to announce the event: Population outraged by the Governor’s audacity!, Word prices are absurd!, A ‘hello’ shouldn’t cost two coins!.

The world fell into an extreme void.

People’s silence led to the great depression that was felt in this new world. The only sound that could be heard was the continuous work of the various word factories.

The world fell into an extreme despair.

Work slowed down due to lack of communication. Only the people who worked in the factory and a few others had the right to continue working, to continue having enough money to support a family.

Newspapers were quick to find out what happened: Factory workers get paid in words!, Population divided between two coins water and three bills ‘please’!.

Indeed, this new world was grey, cold, devoid of any life or joy. The constant silence was overwhelming, carrying with it the pain of many and taking with it any and all hope for change.

But you didn’t need a change.

Each region had a factory. Each factory had an owner. And the owner of the factory in your region was your father.

You could be considered one of the few people who had a vast knowledge of words – words that you could utter.

You were seen as the most beautiful person in your area. Your words were always imbued with innocence and joy, bewitching the many people who heard you, who saw you, who admired you.

And although your words were always sprinkled with magic and bathed in the sweetest tenderness that existed, everyone envied you. How could they know what charms your words contained if they didn’t know their meanings? Why couldn’t they have the same rights as you?

People said you were too happy. When they saw you on the street, with a smile on your face and charm on your lips, people only saw the happiness you showed. But no one knew about that nervousness, that anxiety you felt whenever you sat next to that boy in class.

Jeon Jungkook.

For as long as you could remember, the two of you had been classmates, but there had never been an exchange of words between you. Jeon Jungkook didn’t have working parents. Your parents were the richest in the region. Social classes should not, and could not, mix. That was the rule. That was the law.

But even though you had never been with Jungkook, not really, you couldn’t get rid of that curiosity of yours that whispered in your ear whenever classes started: what would Jungkook’s voice sound like?

From a very early age you were fascinated with Jungkook. It was his relaxed nature, his confident stance, his intelligence, yes; but, above any fascination or interest, you simply admired Jungkook.

What would it be like to live without talking?

Jungkook made you question. Always with bright eyes, but a sadness clinging to your smile, whenever you looked at Jungkook you could only question everything you knew and the entire world you lived in.

You had read the newspapers: Families save for the three bills and ten coins for a “Happy Birthday” for their children!, There is no hope – words’ prices keep rising!, Every “Yes” and “No” is running low in the stores – when will we have freedom of expression?!.

Yes. Jungkook made you question what it would be like to live in a world where you had to count to be able to express what you felt, what you thought. For you, all words were natural and, although you tried to hide the entire encyclopedia of words offered by your father in the back of your mouth, you knew that everyone looked at you, that everyone envied you.

But Jungkook didn’t look at you.

Jungkook didn’t envy you.

Jungkook might not have words, but he had kindness.

In a world plunged in darkness, where all colors are different shades of the same grey, Jungkook carried in his hands a bit of kindness that had long been forgotten. In a world plunged into darkness, where all words were stolen without any warning, Jungkook didn’t need to speak to show all his pure and extraordinary soul.

But no matter how much you admired Jungkook, no matter how much you wanted to explore the nervousness in your tummy that surfaced whenever you were around Jungkook, nothing would happen.

And you’ve already tried.

It was a small “thank you” from you that made Jungkook shiver as he held you the library door. You had used that word without any thought. You just blurted out something that was completely normal for you.

It was that moment that made Jungkook realize you had nothing to lose. It was at that moment that Jungkook knew that you could own the world if you wanted. All simply because you don’t have a word limit – you could talk forever. It was that moment that made Jungkook accept the fact that you and him could never form any bond.

Yes. Jungkook always found you fascinating.

It was your pure and genuine smile, your loud laughs that echoed through the school corridors as if they carried with them the hope of a new world, a better world. It was your simplicity, capturing all the attention even when you didn’t want it, even when you didn’t speak. You were, quite simply, the ray of sunshine in that grey world. You were the only comforting light in that desperate world.

But Jungkook knew that all the fascination he felt for you would have to remain hidden in the darkest corners of the silent world – all because he couldn’t give voice to his feelings.

Jungkook let out a long, drawn-out sigh that became silent from the moment it escaped his lips, dragging itself silently through the dark streets of the city.

It was difficult to live without talking, yes. But, when eighteen years pass wrapped in a silent bubble, a person only knew that silence, because that silence was all a person had.

And Jungkook still hoped to speak. Jungkook still dreamed of finding an eternal sea of ​​words ready to be used. He didn’t want to know about status or wealth – Jungkook just wanted to talk.

In eighteen years of life and pure existence, Jeon Jungkook only remembered having spoken a mere thirty times: the words “Happy Birthday” were always expensive, even when spoken to his parents; the words “Thank you” were used too much, even though it cost almost three bills; the word “Yes” was repeated over and over and over again, as it was the cheapest, and the most widespread word throughout the world.

Since he was little, Jungkook was taught that the only time he could say those expensive words and spend all the money was on the most special dates of the people who really mattered to Jungkook. Jungkook’s parents insisted on this idea, knowing perfectly well that they could never offer their son a dictionary of words – they just wanted Jungkook to know how to save his money and words.

And that was why Jungkook seemed so melancholic that day.

School was about to end. All preparations for receiving the diploma had been working on for two weeks. There was only one more week of school. And all this time seemed so short to Jungkook, who could only think about the after: would he still see you? Would Jungkook be able to write you a little letter confessing all his fascination for you? How could Jungkook continue to think about hope when you, the bearer of the meaning of such a word, would leave?

No. Jungkook didn’t want to write you a letter. Jungkook wanted to use his voice. But, without money, there were no words and Jungkook remained mute in that grey world.

After a long day of looking for work, Jungkook was heading home.

Dragging his feet along the dirty, brown paths of the street, Jungkook carefully observed the thick, contaminated clouds of the factories – all the silence seemed insignificant at that moment. When he let his mind wander to possible scenarios if he only had a little money, all the silence became meaningless – for what value could silence have when it is forced upon the world?

In the midst of that grey, the wind slowly began to emerge. As if fearing to meet Jungkook, the end of the day breeze gently pushed the young man along unknown paths, making him find new silences in the middle of new streets.

Although the day was spent between stores and cafes, interviews and rejections, the reality is that Jungkook was not at all focused on assuming his soon-to-be adult state.

The truth, and if Jungkook wanted to get rid of that weight that was dragging him down, he had to admit that all that was on his mind was you.

It was your birthday.

Finally, today you have reached that age that abruptly pulls you out of innocence and forces you to face the world without any strength or dexterity. Finally, today you reached that age that gave you the feeling of freedom while suddenly robbing you of all your honesty. Finally, today you were an adult.

And, on such a special date, words had to be used.

Yes, words. In that world, all the letters Jungkook could have written, all the gifts Jungkook could have made by hand, all the little flowers Jungkook could have picked, all of that was worthless – when Jungkook lived in a world that was powered by words, only words had value.

Jungkook wanted to give you something, a small souvenir, a small thing that showed that, even though you didn’t realize it, you were the reason for making Jungkook’s entire academic path an experience worth living.

But everything seemed little. Everything seemed useless. Everything seemed lost.

Jungkook felt desperate.

How could Jungkook show you, tell you, that he wanted to keep seeing you? That, who knows, wanted to start a friendship? A friendship that could blossom into something bigger, something more beautiful, something colorful in that grey world. How was Jungkook supposed to tell you that he wanted you in his life? Without words, how could you ask someone to stay?

When he realized it, the wind had pushed Jungkook into a long, deep puddle that prevented him from continuing his walk. So Jungkook just stood there, pondering, carefully observing that brown, polluted water.

Lost in his thoughts, Jungkook didn’t seem to see that puddle.

Was there ever beauty there? Would there be color in the world in another life? Would there be words in another world? Was there any hope for him now?

A sigh. A shrug. A withdrawal.

What a pathetic idea of ​​Jungkook to want to talk to you. How could he tell you anything if he didn’t even have money for a “Yes”? That idea was ridiculous. That thought was nothing more than a simple dream, an illusion that Jungkook had created to comfort his heart.

A sigh. A shrug. A color.

Jungkook crouched at the edge of the puddle when something caught his eye. Pulling his sleeve up, Jungkook brought his fingers to that dirty water and, after feeling once, twice, three times, he held it.

There. In that moment. In that place. Jungkook was holding it.

Carefully, fearing breaking what was already fragile, Jungkook took the small bouquet out of the water and looked at it.

One, two. Back there was three. There was a small four and a five wanting to escape. Seven, eight, nine. There was the ten intertwined with the eleven. Eleven. Eleven colors. Eleven greens. Eleven possibilities.

A holding of breath. A wide smile. A new hope.

Jungkook quickly took off his coat and wrapped that small bouquet in the comfort of its fabric. The water quickly consumed Jungkook’s coat, but he didn’t care – there it was safe, there it would dry.

Bouquet in hand and hope in his heart, Jungkook stood up and tried to position himself for a moment. Where was he? What street was that? Was that Café Longo there? Yes. So… There! To the left.

In a mix of excitement and nervousness, Jungkook began to carefully run through the streets, making sure the bouquet was always safe in his arms.

Then suddenly, like someone blinking, Jungkook started to believe.

As he walked down street after street, as he left neighborhoods and houses behind, Jungkook only looked ahead. His hands were shaking as he held the bouquet, his fingers were starting to get cold from the water, but his eyes, oh! his eyes! Bright stars had descended from the skies after years of refuge, only to make home in Jungkook’s beautiful eyes.

It was with magic that Jungkook looked at the world at that moment. As if the stars had sprinkled him with the ancient pleasures of a colorful and beautiful life, Jungkook stopped seeing grey. At that moment, bouquet in his arms and hope in his steps, Jungkook saw colors, Jungkook felt colors.

When he arrived at your house, Jungkook was tired, but, still moved by all the happiness, Jungkook just felt excited.

He took a deep breath once. He straightened his back. He cleared his throat. He rang the bell.

One second. It’s going to be okay.

Two seconds. What if you’re not at home?

Three seconds. The bouquet is ridiculous.

Four seconds. What did Jungkook have to lose?

Five seconds. The door opened.

You welcomed Jungkook with a smile on your lips. Using constellation lipstick, your smile was beautiful, making Jungkook question what meaning the word “fascinating” could have that couldn’t leave his head.

Looking at Jungkook, you could only smile. Seeing Jungkook there, at the door of your house, on that special day of yours, was as if your heart had learned to breathe for the first time in years. And for the first time in years, you decided to swallow all your words – you just wanted silence to preserve that memory.

You gently tilted your head as if asking Jungkook the reason for his visit and, as if waking up from a trance, Jungkook straightened his back again and looked at his arms.

This was his last chance. This was his last hope.

Gently unwrapping his coat, Jungkook began to very slowly reveal a small green bouquet.

You craned your neck a little curiously, wanting to unravel that mystery as quickly as possible. And it was when Jungkook extended his arms that you realized.

A bouquet of words.

Jungkook was offering you the most valuable asset in that world. To you. You who have an eternal source of words within you. You were being offered words. Jungkook was giving you words. A bouquet of words.

With shaking hands, you accepted Jungkook’s gift.

With a smile on your face, you tilted your body a little to thank him.

With a full heart, you read the bouquet.

Eleven words. Eleven words that you had already said a long time ago. Eleven words that were repeated by you on several occasions. But those were eleven words offered by Jungkook.

You gently shook your head and handed the bouquet back to him.

The entire world fell at Jungkook’s feet.

So suddenly, like someone losing a smile, Jungkook stopped believing.

When he saw the bouquet being handed back to him, when he felt your rejection up close, Jungkook just looked down. His hands shook as he held the bouquet back, his fingers getting lost between the vowels and his eyes, oh… his eyes… The sharp thorns of the stars stung with all the revolt of years of hiding, creating small tears in Jungkook’s sad eyes.

Accepting your rejection, Jungkook was ready to leave.

And it was right before he turned his body that you moved.

Your hand was quick to hold Jungkook’s chin, helping him lift his face, forcing him to look at you. Still smiling – always smiling – you brought your hand to your mouth, gesturing a small “eat” while pointing to the bouquet with your other hand.

Jungkook was surprised.

It wasn’t a rejection. It wasn’t the end of that hope. It was eleven words offered by Jungkook – it only made sense for Jungkook to say them.

A little shy and afraid, Jungkook slowly began to eat his words. Nerves began to race through his body, creating so many unlikely scenarios. What if he choked while eating? While speaking? What if his voice broke? What if, by pure chance, a leprechaun appeared and stole the words from his mouth? Could Jungkook bring that bouquet to life?

The eleventh word slipped gently down Jungkook’s throat, leaving its impression inside him, giving him the power to speak it.

He had finally eaten the eleven words – oh, how sweet they were.

You continued to wait patiently with a smile on your lips – oh, how beautiful you were.

Jungkook took a deep breath to speak – oh, how he could dream.

“Flowers grow in you. Is what the world is made of.”

Finally Jungkook’s voice.

In the midst of so much grey, a light. In the midst of so much silence, a melody. In the middle of that world, Jungkook. How beautiful he was. How beautiful his voice was.

Blessed by the constellations, Jungkook’s voice was capable of speaking in celestial timbres, all the magic that existed in the cosmos being carefully deposited in each word spoken by Jungkook. Soaked in divine magic, with an angelic touch to the vowels, Jungkook was capable of creating worlds with his voice.

You finally heard him. You finally heard Jungkook’s voice. You finally heard Jungkook.

And there was no need to say a single word.

When you approached Jungkook and gently placed your lips on his cheek, you didn’t need to say any words to show him that the flowers that grew within you only bloomed for him.

ㅤㅤ♡ feedback is appreciated ♡

[professorscrooge]

Sleeping Soldiers AU Draft - circa August '23

Feel amidst continuing to necro-post on this AU, I should probably actually post the draft of my attempt at turning this into a fic, bit more than a year ago. Ran out of steam, as I tend to, and it's a bit rough (also don't know if tumblr has a character limit, but fair warning, this is ~3k). Diverged from where ideas on this ended up going.

References to the original inspiration(s) can be found on posts here and here, and I will emphasise credit @phoenixyfriend, @epicmusic42 and @graylinesspam whose work I have been butting in on (and I think this may rip off some of their wordings). Leans largely into bits and pieces of the Legends timeline, but only through vague references as that's a whole monolith of a thing to try and understand. --

 Coruscant is a city of metal and glass; the planet that once was is buried beneath eons of sharp edges growing out ever further. As the centre of the Galactic Republic, it is demanded to be continuously modern (at least on the surface), with a slick and shining outer coating. Its noises are of technology; the heavy thrum of electricity is the heartbeat of the city, speeders and aircraft fill the air with their droning, and there are an abundance of holoscreens to display the inauguration of the new Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. 

 The Jedi Temple is perhaps the one exception: its tranquillity is unmatched on Coruscant, and its construction is old and solid. All the same, when the silence within the Temple was broken by noise, its nature was unnerving in its irregularity; not the shattering of glass or creaking of metal, not the whine of engines, not an explosion or a turbolaser or any such thing, it is a noise unheard on Coruscant for Millenia.

 It is a grinding, of stone upon stone, echoing up from its very deepest recesses.

–

Circa 500 BBY

 The Jedi Temple is an ancient relic of bygone times; old enough, that the only records that might say how old are held within its own walls (or rather, were, given the unfortunate number of sackings and assaults in its history had frequently damaged the famous archives). Its grand size is a symbol of strength against the dark, but also something of an impracticality in certain times. Its lower reaches are vast, stretching all the way down to the forgotten mountains of Coruscant; a surface where sunlight hasn’t shined in millennia. Construction kept reaching upwards for the longest time, keeping up with the rising levels of the city-planet as its foundations became buried under smog and filth, forgotten.

 In the wake of wars’ end, many lower levels were sealed away; who needed such vast halls, impromptu barracks and storage, when the Jedi no longer served as military leaders? There was no need to house so many people as to require them, and it was more effort to clean and maintain them than necessary for a monk order of a few thousand. After all, this was a Golden Age, with the Sith defeated, and a time of the High Republic.

 Age lent itself to secrets, and with time, many of those secrets were lost with their keepers.

--

 The newly minted Chancellor paused only briefly in taking his oath of office. Most present simply chalked it up to the weight of the vows involved being taken seriously. In truth, the hidden Darth Sidious that lurked under the unassuming garb of Sheev Palpatine had shivered at a tremor in the Force; local and distinctly, searingly Light in its origin, piercing the veil of darkness he and his master had woven over the planet for but a moment. Quickly, he steeled himself and resumed his words; it would not do to falter or drop his mask at this stage. And after all, what could stop The Great Plan now? Sidious had a thousand years of his Order’s planning behind his back. It wasn’t like the Jedi could think on such a grand scale.

–

Circa 1000 BBY

 The history of the Jedi Temple site may as well be a timeline of the Republic itself. With the ever-recurrent war that was fought over its location, and how often Coruscant changed hands, it wasn’t just built upon, but rebuilt, several times. The Grand Ziggurat of the High Republic era was built over the ashes and ruins of the Temple before it, reaching to the sky not far from where the newly built Senate District would form the seat of the Galaxy. A symbol of strength to a unified Galaxy that had defeated the evil of the Sith, once and for all.

--

 The Jedi Council scrambled to action, of course (in as dignified manner as they could). Even with their senses long-blinded by the veil that consistently hampered their sight, there was no missing the stirring beneath their feet. 

 “Awoken, something has,” Master Yoda was heard to declare.

–

Circa 3653 BBY

 The Soldiers’ Hall, as it came to be known, was a real anomaly. It was unearthed in the wake of the Treaty of Coruscant, and the Great Sacking of the Jedi Temple. The respite granted by the armistice with Sith Forces withdrawing from the world was a balm to the Coruscanti people, yes, but the Jedi had returned to a Temple filled with death and desecration. Their holiest relics had been plundered, and the numbers of dead were horrific; a toll only growing as they uncovered the deadly traps spiteful Sith had left behind to further ruin them. It was a painful experience for the survivors, not helped by the lack of justice and repercussions the treaty afforded them.

 With their returned forces in peacetime, however, it was decided to fully survey the Temple to account for all possible traps. The survey unearthed many lower chambers forgotten for centuries, which would soon be repurposed as bunkers for military assets. Naturally, the opportunity was also taken to strengthen ancient foundations with modern materials, which came with looking over the foundations of the ancient Temple grounds atop a mountain of Coruscant, and the Dark Shrine hidden there. It was known to the High Council alone that the old Temple had been built atop a Dark Vergence in the Force in an attempt to cleanse it, and a handful of masters yet survived to share that information to a select few. What surprised them more was the discovery of older ruins beneath the Shrine, built into the mountain itself, and seemingly dating to before the Alsakan conflicts, perhaps even the Jedi Order itself (though few dare voice this thought). The shift from precision, machine-poured duracrete that has been in use for millennia, to the more rough, hand-hewn stone is a sight that excites the archaeologically inclined allowed to see it. 

 Most of the tunnels are collapsed, but slowly, over several years of uneasy peace, a path is unearthed to a large atrium, central beneath the Dark Side Nexus. The discovery is shocking to those who uncover it; they’d gone from archiving very faded murals (amidst admonishment that such pre-Jedi religious teachings are not worth great regard), to cracking the door open to a great chamber filled with an army of statues. A thousand men – clearly soldiers – each expertly carved with incredible detail, each set of armour uniquely battle scarred and hand painted, each posed differently, and every single one perfectly preserved in defiance of their ancient surroundings. The warriors sat, or lay, or kneeled, in great concentric circles, facing inwards to a central figure, the only one not wearing armour; a Togruta woman, dressed simply, and with lightsabers resting at her hips. Where the soldiers were wrought from a pale white stone, she was crafted in warm terracotta in a relaxed pose, face bowed in conference with the Force. It was almost as if she were made of flesh.

 Despite the gathering of Masters who quickly investigated the room, none could quite manage to lay a hand upon her. The sense of foreboding was just too strong. Every gaze in the room was pointed towards her; an even thousand visors of solid stone, focused on this one woman, every one so lifelike as to be uncanny. In-fact, sometimes, in the corner of the Jedi’s eyes, it was almost like they moved; a chest rising and falling with breath, tiny fluctuations in the Force that evaded the senses, or flickers of dreams. Almost as if they were waiting for something.

 The Council ordered the chamber sealed; what markings upon the soldiers that could be identified were Mandalorian in origin, so clearly this was some work of those great adversaries and their common allies, the Sith. That those forces combined had so recently sacked their home likely aided this decision. Knowledge and warnings were recorded within the Council’s private library only, and would be lost some centuries hence by the passing of those who saw the sight and another sacking of the upper Temple.

 Beneath them all, the feared warriors continued to sleep.

--

 The sounds of shattering stone echoed within the long-forgotten chamber, even as dust filled the air from the broken remains. This noise was swiftly drowned out by a thousand throats all drawing breath at once.

–

Circa 5000 BBY

 Recapturing Coruscant was not the final victory of what came to be called the Great Hyperspace Wars, but it was perhaps the most important, given that all that followed became much easier with forces scattering. However, there was an interesting discovery made upon their landing; an empty Shrine, where once the Sacred Spire peak of Mount Satorl had stood.

 The destruction of the Sacred Spire had been one of the opening gambits of the conflict, so this was expected. The Jedi amongst the Republic Forces were most dismayed that the legendary Vergence in the Force that had rested there had been twisted into a Dark nexus, but this too had been rumoured by spies and propaganda. No, what was surprising was the lack of occupants, particularly Sith acolytes. This was a powerful nexus in the Dark Side, and a clear site of investment to build the new Shrine, but there was nobody present; just the signs of conflict that predated Republic arrival to the planet.

 Eventual interrogation of Sith Forces revealed rumours of a ‘curse’ upon the site; no force had managed to occupy the site for long, somehow always turning up dead. Construction of the Shrine had taken several years, and a great many slow attempts, always stymied by poor fortune.

 The Jedi took this as a sign that the Force itself resisted the corruptive attempts for as long as possible, and when granted a boon for their aid in the war, chose to claim the land for themselves. There, they built a new Temple, in the hope that the presence of many Jedi may once again cleanse this place that had long been sacred to a great many religious and Force-sensitive sects throughout the Galaxy. The Jedi Order would build their new headquarters at the heart of the Republic and therefore claim the site instead of any other religion having access.

 Of course, throughout construction, there was plenty of investigation of the ruins being built over (padawans got bored hanging around and waiting, naturally, and the Galaxy’s archaeologists were most invested in seeing how this location had suffered under Sith rule). Of particular note is a surviving chamber of the old Sacred Spire that is unearthed; a grand chamber filled with statues. Sadly, no records from prior to the Sith occupation persist, but a great many experts descend on the room to catalogue what they can of the astoundingly beautiful find that is far more interesting than dusty old clay vessels. The General’s Legion, they are quickly dubbed, given the militaristic bent.

 They bring in first art experts, then body language experts, even a scholar on Mandalorian culture once some symbols are defined. Most of the markings they find mean nothing, however; while Mandalorian symbols are identified a few dozen times, including Jaig Eyes on one of the more prominent soldiers directly facing The General, there’s no real commonality with any clan, or any real consistency. Many more besides are marked with nonsense; a loose word or number in some language, even some unrecognised languages that cause head scratching. The holstered blasters cause them to bring in antique weapons dealers to unsuccessfully identify them, causing yet more headaches at the clear mass-manufacturing on display, since most the soldiers bear the same weapons, but they are entirely unfamiliar. Artists are baffled at how perfectly detailed and well-preserved the figures are; the level of work on display would have taken hundreds of artists thousands of hours, but the style implies a singular sculptor. The historians flail wildly at whether these soldiers throw all the old theories about the Taung originating Mandalorian culture into doubt.

 The only experts who could agree upon something were those who attempted to psychoanalyse the figures; the way the men were arranged was with deference for the General, and those closest to her were the officers with the most decoration and adornment (and battle scars), while those nearest the edge were the lowest ranks. Originally, they thought the much smaller central figure was being threatened by the soldiers, but she sat in such a relaxed pose of confidence it seemed more clearly a commander’s position.

 Still, as time goes on, their observations are recorded and stored in the new Jedi library, and a towering new Temple is built over the ruins. Gradually, this fills with masters, knights and younglings looking forward to a new era of peace and prosperity. The past is not forgotten, but it is not the focus of an Order trying to rebuild after centuries of conflict. And so, the statues sit in their atrium, still and silent. Masters study them for decades, photos and essays are included in the new archives; they are a fascination, a mysterious piece of history.

 But, time passes, and slowly the fascination fades. The wider galaxy captures attention, the Regions are expanding in a new era of colonisation and there is great need for Jedi aid. Only those particularly intrigued by art and archaeology look through the old archives. The statues become more of a ghost story.

 Padawans sometimes gossip about them over latemeal. They dare each other to sneak down to the lower levels, and walk between the rows upon rows of sleeping soldiers. The truly brave (or reckless) of the classes make the journey, past the point where the air lifts reach, down long staircases and through the dusty thick air. Lightsabers raised high over their heads, they tiptoe between the first few rows, twisting wildly at jumping shadows cast over the room. Some stare petrified into the visors of the men, convinced that if you peer close enough, you can see eyes peering back at you. 

 Very, very few brave padawans make it all the way to The General – one or two per generation – but those that do, swear they hear her breathing.

 Over the years, those children grow into knights, into masters and grandmasters, and then they pass into the Force. Still, the tradition survives, for a time, until one day, when the new Temple has become old and known many Councils, the chamber passes from memory, and is lost for many centuries to come.

 But still, the soldiers look to their General for orders.

--

 The first breath is the hardest.

 Going out, the air feels abrasive and dust-filled, and her throat is drier than a desert. Then, she must try and breath in, and it’s an effort to fill lungs that have sat still for so very, very long. She coughs once, and then struggles through it, going through the motions a few times as she slowly registers her montrals ringing from the similar sounds about her.

 Finally, she looks up, eyes open and awake.

 “Orders, sir?” Rex asks.

 “Form up.”

–

Circa ??? BBY

 The Mountains were a safe place. A sacred place, to many. So when war came to Coruscant, it was to the mountains people fled.

The One-Thousand-And-One, a group of warriors who spoke no language anyone understood, but under whose strength, Coruscant stood against Alsakan [– Tion instead?]. They could never leave the Mountain, though.

—

And that’s all I managed to write out, couldn’t quite figure a) what I wanted their arrival period to be like/what they did there, and b) how I wanted the present-time to work out (likely marching on the Senate building and demanding Sidious’ surrender). Ended up with some Jedi-negative things in there that I'm not entirely sure where they came from (probably something emerging from my frustrations with Christianisation on mythology). May have been a bit uncharitable.

Much as I kinda like the framing of current day swapping back and forth with older and older eras, I don't think I'm coming back to this version - I think I prefer the more recent ideas related to the chamber's unveiling in more modern eras, and drama resulting therefrom.