Piraka is tempting but I've actually been thinking about just how fast Kiina would fall for/be manipulated by Roodaka
To tame a beast is a simple thing, for beasts in themselves are laughably simple: where fear doesn't work, want will.
When a beast doesn't buckle and hold back its bite under threat of pain, torture, death, when even turning to that which it cares for with the intention of crushing it does nothing, it is time to tempt it. Give it a glimpse, a glimmering taste of what it craves, dangle it before its hungry eyes, pull back with a tut: and even if that elusive reward is your own neck, for now, the beast is cradled willingly in your palm, and your fingers always hang above its head, close enough to pierce it in a second before its revenge can beat you to the punch.
It's merely a matter of sniffing that desire out.
If only the little pest wasn't so damn slippery.
Her trident lashes left and right like a whip, jets of water making up for their clumsy execution with sheer ferocity as they carve claw marks into protodermis, eyes gleaming green and furious from within the dark blue shadows of her helmet every time the light slides over them, hateful, spiteful, sharp teeth bared in roaring hisses; she jolts, jumps, slithers away just as she seems to succumb - she hits hard, without remorse, millenia-honed strategy renewed in her limbs as a dance far too well-known, no thought behind the movement, just alternating mellows and tenses like ones and zeros defining the next course of action automatically, so naturally.
It would be beautiful if she wasn't trying to skewer you like an eel.
Lanky and shorter than you as she is she's quick, but brash, crashing like a wave in patterns new but predictable; your claw reaches for her head in the briefest pause between strikes, misses, reaches lower than the eyes you'd gouge, catches into her protruding mouth guard as she tries to right her position by yanking herself away. Your grip is strong and she's powerless against your sharp pull - any harder and you would have snapped her worthless fragile neck like a chainlink made from shoddy materials.
A sting tears into your middle (those feet of hers, taloned, sinking in from the side - oh, she knows how to make a kick hurt, that's for sure) break your breath but not your clutch. She uses this to her advantage, too, you notice as the helmet becomes light in your palms and she is suddenly jumping back, unburdened and free again, head uncovered, harsh marine shadows replaced by a blanket of flora.
Fin-like growths at the side of her skull, her audio receptors?, open wide and fling forth towards you, stretching her face into the translucent pattern of a grotesquely made Rahi-like Kanohi; her scales rattle all at once, clicking together, the sound of the swarm you once commanded rising from her as if approaching quickly from a distance too short to even begin to hope for escape; her mouth opens, thin skin curling away as rows of revolting teeth make her breath shriek through them, hiss low, more of a growl, rousing from her pitiful soft body like a storm. Everything about her aims to be bigger, noisier, sharper.
Truly, she is little more than an animal.
Her helmet clangs harshly when you throw it to the ground.
She charges at you.
The sting of a trident tooth almost piercing through your muscle because you dodged a second too late is worth it. Her whole body stumbles as your claws snap around the weapon, again destabilized in a tug-of-war that lasts merely a second: she flies about a bio, landing harshly on her side, primitive tool clattering in the distance as the force of your throw rips it from her grip and leaves her defenseless.
Relentless as she's proved to be she's back on her feet in a second; you need barely a second to adjust your aim--
Your vision bursts into snow.
When you come to, to the horrendous sound of (your) hissing, heaving breaths, your hand is around her neck, her fragile fingers around your wrist, your whole body looming above her as you pin her to the ground.
She tightens her jaw. Your palm howls. Ichor spills upon her gruesome teeth, into her mouth. Your claws are paralyzed, frozen open.
You can feel their joints shriek as she tries to sever them.
The pain is immense.
She is your prey. Your helpless victim. She is the one who ought to be gasping for breath and whining and begging for mercy.
Yet here you are, in every way triumphant and yet stuck in the threat of her ruthless grasp, limbs twitching to crush her (and how easy it should be) but unable to move from the sheer anguish her fragile anatomy is inflicting upon a single fraction of yours, forced to struggle with all your might against her weakened grip that shakes from the strain of ripping your weight off her.
A standstill.
The blasted Rahi has anchored you to a standstill.
Even in your frustration, the most her iron grip allows you to react is a pitiful, minuscule movement: your leg buckles against the anguish, leans against hers, the inner half of her thigh.
Under your grasping arm you feel her chest rise sharply; to your audio receptors, though muffled by the palm she is trying to pierce from side to side, comes the rush of air of a hastily, reflexively, unconsciously sucked in breath.
Oh?
Your eyes lock onto hers.
How ugly they are. How horrible the whole of her is, really.
Roughly, with difficulty, you still your heaving.
Roughly, with difficulty, you give a trembling chuckle.
Quite the bite, little fish.
Her disgusting hollow pupils constrict into crescent scars; her lip raises with a growl.
Perhaps, you breathe - and while your hold on the delicate neck never relents a claw lifts to graze at her chin, her cheek, We got off on the wrong foot.
She tilts her head with the finger that caresses it.
Her gaze is magnetized to what little of it she can see.
You grin, jaws clamped tight to quell the pain; the faint shriek of a sharp tip dragging across rough, worn scales makes for a deafening memory against the syncopatic percussion of mismatched breaths.
Hissed syllables curl around her, seep into her skin, her trembling fins, the sprouts around her scalp she crushes against the ground to evade your serpentine features as your body lower upon her battered armor until your heartlight almost scrapes the dented metal and broken bone: There's no reason to be so hostile, is there now? I never meant any harm... We wouldn't even be here if you hadn't reacted so badly.
Another movement, a little closer, a little smoother - watch how she twitches, flesh tense, unsure whether to jolt from or towards you.
But you're a clever one, little fish. (her teeth shake, rattling against your knuckles) I can see it in your eyes. You understand now, don't you - what a terrible misunderstanding this is...
Her grip hasn't budged. Creases flash across her face, a glare stabbing into your eyes: she's a clever one indeed, too clever to forget why she attacked you in the first place. But you feel her fingers around your wrist become antsy, weaker.
Your smile is wide, sharp. Another slight nudge, a heavier exhale; the beast almost whines.
I believe, you whisper too close for comfort, reveling in every pulse of her neck: We could reach an agreement.
Her squint is unsure, her breath warm.
There are things other beings wouldn't even know how to give you.
Your claw pushes her chin up.
I can.
(It's a lie, to some extent. You can provide her a facsimile of what she wants, what you can see her craving in every jolt of her muscles, and little else; but in the face of such blatant desperation even just the hint of her desire fulfilled will be enough.)
(And besides, it is still more than what that Toa pouring ichor into the dirt can offer her.)
Her heaves curl around your palm. Her bite has softened. Her grip, too. She's all a twitch.
She's in your hand.
Good little one. I knew you could be reasonable.
How splendid, when finally your knuckles slip out of the disgustingly humid cavern of her mouth. You cradle the hand against your chest as its healthy sister dares raise ever so slightly from the to run a claw across her cracked, dry, grottesque lips.
Your smile is pried open by a forearm.
The feeling is so sudden, so horrid, so gross that it stuns you more than the palm slammed right where your throat and jaw collide.
Ungraciously you're forced upwards with a furious strength; barely the time to scrape your knees against the ground and already you're toppled against the push, falling on your back as your limbs twist as best as they can in the few seconds they're allowed to try and fight back. A foot crushes your middle - air escapes your lung with a gasp that widens your mouth until the alien limb is almost lodged down your throat, but you don't bite, you can't bite, that's too low, too utterly disgusting--
The pressure is lifted just as suddenly, the attack rescinded.
By the time you're done coughing the breath back into you a trident is already poised to skewer you.
She stares, glares, eyes wide and wrathful, scales rattling across her body with a muted rockus beneath her armor, hissed huffs curling into growls. Her horrendous tongue fulminously laps at the sharp rows of her teeth to clean them of ichor; she doesn't spit it. You wonder if she likes the taste.
She could strike you down. Nothing is stopping her - not you, for certain; you're tired, beaten, breathless, and down one still anguishing hand. You could fight back, but how long? She's a clever, relentless beast, and even you can recognize your limits.
But she doesn't.
She glares, and rattles, and stumbles and holds her weapon against you as you rise to your feet; but she doesn't attack.
She licks her lips to wet them, to catch any drop of your precious liquid soul that may have stained them. You watch her neck, the appalling way it moves when she swallows taking in your full height while you slowly pull yourself into a more dignified, civilized pose, back straight and head high. But she doesn't attack.
She is a beast.
She is in your hand.
Of course. (see how her grip shakes, how a tooth catches the corner of her mouth) Take your time, little fish. Consider your options carefully.
A step back, into the underbrush.
No motion to stop you.
Uncertain eyes, wanting, hesitant.
A sultry grin.
I'll be waiting for you.
She lets you go.
Morbid curiosity holds you back from safety for a moment more. Will she follow you here, into the darkness you've made your retreat into? Will it be a frustrated chase after the realization of a fatal lapsus or the buckling of a weak spirit before an offer too perfect to let go of?
Neither: you watch her stall a second, a second only to ensure you've left, and then without even wasting half a minute to grab her own helmet she's running back, back, back to the body slowly cooling from the wounds of your surprise attack - how else could you take down that Mata, after all...
You follow. There she is, stumbling onto the Toa, rolling her over, tearing off her armor and ripping undercloths to stop the spilling; she tries to keep the far too powerful nuisance awake with questions you wouldn't care enough to understand if you could hear them clearly, all while ripping whatever protodermis plaques are in her way open and plunging her hands in gears, pistons, sinews, as if she'd done nothing but that since the day she was made.
The Toa is too weak. Too tired.
She will fail. She will watch her die despite her efforts. She will agonize over it, oh, how she will; and then you shall appear, while the grief and powerless despair swallow her, and you will offer your cold embrace.
She will fight, she will struggle against it, yes, but she is merely a beast. She will buckle. She will bend. She...
She...
Her grip on protodermis fingers can't keep them steady, so she ties them to her arm with fabric she tears with her teeth.
Then she dives back into the entrails to fix them, talking, asking questions, keeping her patient awake enough to sustain herself by slowly sucking the life out of her bicep.
You watch.
You observe her reckless, uncaring loyalty.
A beast that attacks on command without fear nor doubt, that gives its flesh willingly when its mistress is starving.
Such a useful animal.
Wasted on a Toa of Water of all things.
But you'll have her. You'll rip her from that fool's hands, if she survives - and as you continue to watch them, as you stare hungrily at the scaled skin like you too have no energy left to think clearly with, you know she will survive - and you will have her.
Your maimed hand spasms painfully as if to curl its claws around a little fish caught in its palm, as if to pin it right there with sharp tips barely scratching its blueish hide, just enough to trap it without breaking a single one of its frail bones, just enough to stab right through it if it tries to escape or turn against them.
You clutch it still before it can hurt any worse.
Patience.
She is only a beast.
She cannot resist you for long.
In silence you disappear before you can see her grow dizzy and faint, before worried voices can reach your audio receptors, before the Toa and your beast can be dragged away to be cared for.
When you close your eyes that night hollow pupils like crescent scars and rows of sharp stained teeth glare from beneath you.
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Bionicle - All Media Types
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Roodaka/Sidorak (Bionicle)
Characters: Roodaka (Bionicle), Sidorak (Bionicle), Background & Cameo Characters
Additional Tags: bioshippingweek's Bionicle Shipping Week 2026, Unresolved Tension, Roodaka is Her Own Warning (Bionicle), Love is Canon (Bionicle), One Shot, Political Alliances, Awkward Tension, First Meetings, Series: Bionicle Generation 1
Series: Part 4 of BioShipWeek 2026, Part 6 of Biological Chronicles
Summary:
