#I've been working on a novel idea for a hot second now
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Could you maybe do a Dean x reader where she's short (I'm unfortunatly just past 5 ft) and got teased really bad growing up so she wears heels even on hunts (boots) and mayby he gets rid of all her shoes cuz he's afraid she may break an ankle, que angsty insecure scene, pretty please with pie on top
Hi lovely!
It has been ages since I have written anything for the SPN fandom, and I'm not sure if I'll ever fall back into that headspace again. I'll have to pass on this one, but thanks for thinking of me to write it ❤️
#love my lovelies#jess replies#I think my spn writing days are over#I've been working on a novel idea for a hot second now#it's in the slow drafting stages#but I'm enjoying it!
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Hope this isn't an ask you get all the time, but how do you track your progress when you're doing editing?
Everyone talks about word goals, and that seems fine for a first draft, but doesn't make sense to me when it comes to revisions. Do you have any kind of system for setting daily goals for your revisions?
Actually, I don't think anyone's ever asked me about this. :) So no sweat.
Briefly: I think you're wise in not attempting wordcounting in this phase of dealing with an MS—or trying to push yourself into a structure so rigid. ...There's this, too: there's a whole lot too much emphasis out there at the moment on trying to force yourself into other people's writing and editing paradigms—so many of them riddled with bar graphs and "demonstrable" daily progress. You need to find what works for you. More words dealt with in a day, sure, that's encouraging in its way. But are they the right words?
Today’s Writer Take that will probably strike some as Hot (and ask me if I care): Some kinds of writing progress are just neither graphically nor numerically quantifiable. And damned to the least TripAdvisorally-acceptable regions of [insert your preferred underworld here] be those who’ve tried to sell people the idea that they are.
(sigh)
Now, for what it's worth: here's how I do it. Which may be useful to other people, or not so much so. And that's fine, because I'm not editing their novels. :)
(Adding a break here. Under the cut: advice + advice = advice, and some images of text I shouldn't be letting y'all see just yet... but WTF.)
Revision for me is a fairly relaxed business—unless my editor has told me WE NEED THIS ON TUESDAY, which thank sweet Thoth on his e-bike is very rare.
It also helps that I like revising. (When I was a kid, I liked liver, too. And spinach. Just call me Miss Outlier and let's move on.) I really enjoy the feeling of the work’s rough edges being filed down and the sparse places being filled out.
And also: second draft/first revision draft is nowhere near as tense for me as first draft. Because, thank God, at least there's a book.
First draft is where I sweat blood and otherwise suffer. While I can see the story just fine in my head, it's not really real for me until the first draft, whole in narrative and action, is complete on paper/in the machine. And till it's achieved at least that level of reality, I can't relax.
But by the time I hit my second/revision draft, I can be confident that any really serious problems in the novel have already been solved—because I'm an outliner. In the outline stage, potential thematic or structural troubles will routinely have revealed themselves way long ago: before drafting even got started, as I first wired the story's bones together. The successfully-executed first draft acts as proof-of-concept for that structural wiring. By the time that draft’s done, it’s immediately apparent whether the skeleton can successfully stand up by itself. And gods is that a relief when it does! You’re tempted to jump around yelling “It's aliiiiiive!" as the lightning strikes around you.*
However, if after submitting that draft my editor's found something structurally or thematically troublesome in it that I've completely missed until this point, my first order of business becomes to fix whatever their notes involve and submit the fixes. Nothing further happens until the editor sees what I've done about those problems, and until I get agreement that whatever intervention I've enacted has now sorted the problems out.
After that, everything happens in bed.
(...casually noting that for a line to use somewhere else...) :)
But seriously: I do my best revision and editing before getting up in the morning.
Some of this is because, for me, the mind's nice and quiet and (theoretically) at least moderately well rested, right after sleep. I might take the briefest glance at my email first to make sure nothing urgent needs attention... but once that’s done, I refuse to let myself go any further down that hole. That early-morning calm is a mental state I'm glad to exploit, and one I jealously guard. On days when I'm forced to do without the working lie-in**, I use a different approach: when there's a pause, sit down and do nothing—no reading, no video, no music, no phone, nothing—for half an hour: then start editing. Routinely, the quiet I need will once more have fallen.
The in-bed-editing approach also works for me because (since I'm working in Scrivener) it's absolutely no big deal to finish a day's editing on a file by exporting a version of the file containing the day's edits to ebook format, and into my Dropbox. From there, in the morning, without ever getting out from under the covers, I can pull that .epub file into my tablet and read it as an ebook, making corrections and notes there.
This is what it looks like (on a page without too many corrections) if the app you're using is "Books" in an iPad. The second image is what you get when you touch on the marginal yellow square of the note to examine it.
Then, when I'm finished looking over the previous day's/evening's writing and adding notes to it, I go downstairs, get some caffeine in me, and make the changes in the main Scrivener file. (If I was running the project in question on the iPad version of Scrivener, I'd just make the change right there. But who knows when I'd actually get up, then? Better to do it this way.) :)
In the normal flow of things I'll attempt to deal with a chapter or two a day in this mode. (Always bearing in mind that my chapters in early drafts typically run long—often 10K or so—and I'm likely enough to rebreak them later.) This first level of revision is the easy one: catching typos and bad or clumsy phrasings, reworking character interactions that need smoothing out; adding better descriptive passages (with particular emphasis on staying in the visual, audio and tactile senses), etc., etc.
So again: no way I'd ever bother worrying about word counts, with these. What seems to count for more is giving yourself time to recognize, gradually, at a reader's pace, what's working in the prose and what isn't. Rush—or try to force the pace to a given number of words per day—and you run the risk of missing something vital. To me, at the tracking level, it seems sufficient to note which chapters have been dealt with, and which are still hanging fire. (I can change the chapters' color labels in Scrivener to make this status visible at a glance, if I need to.)
When everything's dealt with on this pass—which if I'm lucky will take no more than a couple/few weeks—I try to take a couple weeks off before dealing with the MS again. Sometimes that's possible: sometimes not. The longer you can leave the book alone to let your perceptions of it rest and reset themselves, the better. Distance—mental or temporal—seems to lend clarity.
In any case, for me, next comes another pass, tougher to describe. Casually, I refer to it as the "Missed Opportunities/Complications" pass. This is a thing that one of the very best writers I know, John M. Ford, used to do. One of his editors (I think it was) came across him working on an MS one time, and asked him what he was doing. "Complications," Mike muttered. "Removing them?" said his editor. Mike shook his head. "Adding them," he said.
In this pass you look for in-novel connections you've previously missed making. Some dramatic moments have their impact significantly increased if you've found a way to connect them, even casually, with previous events, situations, character thoughts, or dialogue. (The cheap and easy mnemonic for this kind of thing: "Say a thing twice, and it echoes. Say it three times, and it resonates.")
Equally, events (and people) may turn out to require more complex backstory than you've given them in your first draft; so this is where you take care of that. And of course there are almost certainly character and emotional interactions that can use attention; fewer words, more depth, more complexity. What things do these people, in this situation, need to say to one another that they haven't? And also, what drama got scamped or passed up on because you were just too damn tired in the last draft? —Because you too, poor baby, are human; and that state can, entirely logically, make you want not to deal with any more damn drama just now. Even though drama is the lifeblood of your narrative, usually, and tying a tourniquet around it really doesn't help. You are the conduit of power into your narrative, and your varying ability to conduct it is always an issue… so you need to keep an eye open for places where the flow may have temporarily failed.
This pass, ideally, might take no more than another few weeks or a month. And again, I'm not sure any attempt at wordcount tracking would do this work any good. Because, again... are they the right words? And to make the narrative more effective, you may wind up removing as many words as you added in previous passes.
Finally, with all things taken together, I usually reach a point where (by myself, anyway) I can't think of anything to do that'll make this book any better. That's where there then comes—and again, impossible to assign a word count to it—a time when you know you're as Done As You Can Be. If you've been doing this long enough, you may even hear a strange kind of sigh in the back of your head, as the book gives up and lets go...
...into the next stage of production. But even then you keep an eye on it… because in my experience it’s rare that any book's ever that easily just finished. Even in page proofs, something may happen to surprise you.
Anyway, that's when I throw the book the hell out of the house—because no matter how much I've loved it previously, by that time I'm usually seriously tired of it—and wait to see whether the editor feels it needs one more draft. (Disclosure: this has never happened. There might be a few notes that need to be handled. But another full draft? Never yet.)
Anyway: hope this is of help to you.
But the heart of it all? Find your own way, and screw the bar graphs.
*That line, too, is an indicator of trouble to come. "It's?" Not "he's"? Tsk tsk.
**Usually sort of 7-9 AM. Sometimes way earlier, depending on the time of year. Dawn comes real early in the summertime in Ireland…
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PAMARTHE ARC 3: HIREACH (HIGH-RAWK)
A/N: It has been a hot minute. I've been so busy with life and writing my novel that before I knew it, seven months have passed since I last updated my beloved story. I've felt the absence greatly. Through the difficulties in writing a manuscript, editing and the general breakdowns that go with it, I've longed to return to the story where my entire heart and soul lives. A terrible bout of writers block was only cured by returning to Stitches, and I cannot tell you how happy I am to be back. I can't promise updates will be as regular as they once were given my commitments to publishing, but I want to assure you all, this story is not abandoned. It never will be.
NOTE! If you'd like to keep up to date on the publication of A Sensual Summoning, you can follow me on tiktok @racheljroman, all my links are there -3-
Word Count: 13k.
Pairing: Din Djarin/Fem!Reader
Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)
Warings: Mentions of smut, general adult conversation, nothing too graphic for once. Mainly lore and world-building as I enjoyed playing in my sandbox for a while lmao.
Stitches Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Companion Guides
“We’ve slept in smaller.”
Din Djarin was not an optimist.
The fact he was trying to be one now told you just how dire the situation really was. Either that, or he needed to check the vision technology in his helmet if he thought for even a second you’d both be able to fit in your childhood bed.
Night had well and truly fallen by the time Din carried you back from Buck’s Cove, and lethargy from the day’s activities brought home the fact that you hadn’t decided where to sleep yet.
The first logical answer was your old room. That was safe, expected. You should’ve known it wouldn’t work when Din made the room shrink by simply stepping through the door. He paced the area curiously, evidently trying not to snoop beyond anything that was already visible, which wasn’t much.
Airy tones with dark blue accents lined the metal inlays of furniture. The built-in shelves taking up half your wall space were crammed full of datapads, ranging from medical journals and behemoth anatomy texts, to the passing interests you had over the years that demanded research to satiate your ever growing curiosity.
Your small desk space sat beside the shelves, unassuming and modest for the alter it once represented. Studying to get into a highly competitive medical program as a teenager and then later, to relearn medicine through the lens of combat and triage before joining the Rebellion. So much had come from the time you spent hunched over that desk.
You watched Din’s gloved fingers trace over the surface of it now, pausing in his movement. Your heart seized, forgetting your current predicament, and you wondered briefly if he recognized the significance of the desk too.
What did he have to compare it to, you wondered. A training ring where he built his strength and stamina in order to bear the weight of his beskar? An armorers anvil that crafted the weapons of his Creed? How curious it was that both your life training – in medicine and weaponry alike – brought you to the same place. A battlefield.
Dropping your gaze back to the bed in question, you allowed him to continue his silent perusal in peace.
This bed was made for one person, namely; a child. It was fine when you were growing up, even as a young adult because it was just you. But throwing in a warrior like Din? He was big in every sense of the word, from his towering height to the breadth of his wide shoulders. You couldn’t even be sure the bed was long enough for a man like him. There was simply no way he’d fit.
“There’s always the floor,” he suggested gruffly upon returning to your side.
Though it was Din that said it, he didn’t sound overly enthusiastic at the idea of you sleeping on the ground. Not after what had just happened on the beach between you.
His hand, possessive and heavy, settled low on your towel-covered back. His heat bled into you immediately, your skin flushed from more than just the shower you’d both shared. His…affection in the aftermath of your release wasn’t new, but Stars, it felt different.
Maybe it was because you’d let him fuck your ass for the first time. It was still tender, a little achy but oh so satisfying when it jolted you with a phantom throb of how big he’d felt inside you.
The warrior had been stubborn, bundling you up in his arms to carry you back up those steep steps to the house. He’d carefully washed your skin of abrasive sand under the hot spray of the shower. Reverently. Working his way over every part of your body with unhurried strokes and heated kisses to your mouth and jaw as he did so. His hands never felt so soft as when they massaged soap into your tangled hair, rinsing it meticulously despite having no vision with the lights off.
It felt sacred. Purposeful. Like every action was another promise spoken in touch instead of words.
You’d never known the human body to be divine before then. A miracle, yes, but never divine. You’d seen people survive horrific accidents, overcome terrible injuries and recover from illnesses that had ravaged their immune systems and organs. But years spent weighing, measuring and observing every bodily component infinite times over removed any sense of mystery from it, and mystery – at least in your mind – was the essence of divinity.
But in that shower, as the Mandalorian worshipped every inch of you in the wake of your trust in letting him fuck you where no man had before, you realized everything you knew was superficial. A dimly lit corner of a shadowed room you had no idea was so huge. It was terrifying and exhilarating and not unlike being in love, now that you thought about it.
He’d left your heart squishy and soft without even realizing it. That might explain why you weren’t content to sleep on the floor the way you had been for the last year. You didn’t want that here. You wanted something…new for him to experience, something better. You wanted him to feel the way you had in that shower, even if it was only in the form of a soft mattress.
“No,” you said eventually, “come with me.”
Adjusting your towel to tuck the corner over your cleavage more securely, you dropped the other to wrap around his larger hand. He grunted, letting you lead him out of the bedroom and down the hallway to the back of the house. His pace slowed when he realized where you were bringing him.
“That room…?”
“…Has a bed big enough for the two of us,” you finished for him, recognizing his reluctance.
It wouldn’t have been hard for him to piece together that it was your parents room when he cleared the house earlier in the day. Whether his reluctance was out of respect for them – Llyrian rest their souls – or worry for the effect it might have on you, the sentiment was well meaning. But if you continued to skirt around the borders of your old life, refusing to enter it and tiptoeing over landmines of your own creation, your time here would be miserable.
This was your house, however uncomfortable the thought still made you. The master bedroom was where you wanted to sleep with your warrior. Not on the floor, or on a cramped single bed.
“I promise the mattress will be worth it,” you tempted him with a small smile and a squeeze to his hand.
Din cocked is head silently, his arm stretched between you where you stood a few steps ahead of him. His larger grip swallowed the size of your hand and with a long inhale, he relented, jerking his chin up for you to continue on.
With the shutters still closed across the wall of transparisteel overlooking the sea, the room became cozier under the golden glow of the light you flicked on. The bed, sitting in the center of the room, had been stripped of any linens, but the preservation shield had guarded the mattress and pillows well. You were nearly certain your mother kept an extra comforter in the trunk at the end of the bed for colder nights.
Maker, you hadn’t been in here for what felt like an eternity, since the day you left for the Rebellion. How tightly you’d hugged your mother as you both sat at the end of the bed, trying to stop the tears from falling when you felt hers stain your shoulder.
A small lump formed in the back of your throat at the memory, long buried and painful from how neglected it was. But you were tired, and the impact of the memory was less severe than it probably would’ve been had you come in here hours before. Thank Llyrian for small mercies.
Unlike in your bedroom, Din didn’t stray from where he stood. He waited and watched as the mist in your eyes warmed with lucidity when you shoved the memory away and walked around the edge of the bed to check the trunk for a blanket. Aha! You knew it. Thick and insulating, the maroon comforter was technically for winter, but it was better than nothing.
You tossed it one-handed onto the bed, the other still holding your towel. It was a miserable throw, the blanket a little heavier than you were expecting, so half of it ended up falling off the edge pitifully.
“Should I add hoverball to the list of things you’re bad at?” Din deadpanned, lightening the moon with his dry wit instantly.
You laughed sarcastically and you could hear the smile in the snort he released when he bent down to gather the comforter and toss it back up onto the bed. He stalled momentarily when he did, crouching down to get a better look at whatever caught his attention.
“What are these carvings?” he asked, glancing up when you made your way around to him.
Like the dining table your father had painstakingly sculpted for your mother when they got married, the bed carried his mark too. Void of external attributes of clan life, there were no leaping stags or regal lions to be found. Instead, fluid lines with minimal – yet deliberate – patterns followed the length of the base up to an untouched headboard of solid white wood.
“These are Llyrian’s waves,” you pointed out the sharper, stronger lines and then to the softer swells that intersected the waves, “and these are the winds of Amhra. Pamarthen deities.” You tagged on for Din’s benefit to a grunt of understanding from the Mandalorian.
The bed was for a couple. The wind and waves symbolic of Llyrian and Amhra’s eternal love brought to life. You convinced yourself it didn’t mean anything because Din wasn’t a part of the culture, the significance was null and void…right?
“There’s a lot of skill in the craftsmanship,” he hummed, “metal this dense is hard to work with.”
Pride bloomed in your chest at the comment, a smile spreading on your lips unwittingly. You nodded in agreement.
“My father was very skilled when it came to metalwork,” you told him, a hint of shyness you hadn’t been expecting to feel blossoming in your tone.
Din stood back to his full height, immediately dwarfing you with how close he was.
“Something tells me your father wouldn’t be happy about this,” he rumbled, his arm folding around your waist intimately, the towel loosening dangerously at being disturbed.
“Why do you say that?” you asked quietly, coy as he took a half-step closer. Even with all the space this new room afforded you, he still chose to be as close to you as if you were both still crammed in the Razor Crest.
You didn’t drop your gaze from his visor at the brush of his leather-clad fingers across the top of your towel. You held his hidden eyes when the tips of his fingers dipped behind where you’d tucked the soft material at your cleavage. He didn’t answer you, the impassivity of his helmet not concealing the smirk you knew lurked behind it. You could practically taste it curling against your lips the way you had so many times as he pulled whimpers and moans from you effortlessly.
Hooking his finger into the pylweave cotton, your towel fell down your body to pool at your feet and you stood bare before him once again. Freshly showered and still glowing from your release not long ago, your stomach clenched as you watched him watch you.
His head tipped to the side and you could feel the moment his eyes broke contact with yours to drop down your face and neck. Over your breasts where tight nipples peaked under his gaze. Across your stomach and the hips he loved to grab whether he was fucking you or not. Down between your thighs that shifted and squeezed together subconsciously at the intoxicating…exhibitionism of being perceived so fully, so hungrily by this man.
Din took his time, drinking his fill of your body in the light before he reached back a hand to plunge the bedroom back into darkness. Sight was one thing, but it could never surpass the ecstasy of taste for a man who spent so much of his life deprived of it.
The heavy clunk of his helmet on the bedside table set your heart racing before he dropped his mouth to your ear hotly, “Does any father like the man who defiles his daughter?” he whispered, his facial hair rasping over your sensitive skin and making you shiver pleasantly.
His hands fell to your hips then, turning you with him so that when he sat back on the bed, you could straddle him.
“Do you defile me, Din Djarin?” you sighed, his mouth finding the line of your clavicle to kiss and lick slowly.
“Every fucking day, kitten…” he growled into your skin, his words muffled from his reluctance to part from where he was sucking a nice new mark into your collarbone, “and when I’m asleep, I defile you in my dreams too.”
His answer had your stomach flipping, the savagery of the word turning you on far more than you anticipated it could. There was a sense of taboo around it, that you shouldn’t want it the way you did. But you wanted him to ruin you, you wanted to be fucked and filled and stained until you were fit for no one else but him. You wondered how long it’d take for his hand to find its way between your legs to see just how wet it had made you.
“In your dreams too?” you whispered, eyes rolling closed at the thought while Din lost himself in your scent and taste.
“Mhm… The things I do to you…the things I want to do to you,” he muttered, pausing on a groan when your fingers found their way into his hair, still wet from the shower.
When his lips dropped to wrap around one of your nipples, your head fell back on a gasp, pushing your breasts further into his face.
“You can,” you heard yourself exhale, dragging your nails down to the back of his neck, “you can do all of it.”
Whatever he read in your words stalled him, his muscles tensing with a hum of raw power. Releasing your nipple, he lifted his head to crash his lips to yours, dominating your mouth with an aggressive desperation that left you breathless. Or maybe that was just his tongue that plundered your mouth. Either way, you were dizzy and panting by the time he flipped you onto the mattress to settle between your legs.
“One day, kitten…one day.”
You woke up a few hours later, disoriented by the lack of engine noises and generators you were accustomed to on the Razor Crest. Din’s armored chest to your back, his steady breathing and the weight of his arm draped over your waist told you the warrior hadn’t sensed the same clatter that dragged you from sleep.
Maybe it was the bed that was too soft in comparison to the floor of the ship. Perhaps it was because you weren’t used to the roar of waves crashing against the cliffs anymore. Or maybe, it was instinct that compelled you to extract yourself from the warmth of Din’s hold in the middle of the night.
The comforter fell to your waist when you sat up, exposing your nudity and the sudden change in temperature tempted you to snuggle back into Din’s arms. He had opted to keep his armor on while he slept, at least for tonight. A planet was far more dangerous to his anonymity than hyperspace and you could appreciate it would take him time to understand you wouldn’t be disturbed this far north.
A shiver wracked you when your bare feet met the cool floor. Unlike the frigidity of space, a coastal night chill was more damp than it was cold. It could seep into skin and the cracks of buildings and while not nearly as cold as space or Maldo Kreis, it could cheat the mind into believing it was for a split second.
You reached blindly for the bag you packed, pulling one of the shirts you pilfered from Din out to wear under your short cape on the way to the door. Your bleary, sleep-laden mind was still trying to convince you to go back to bed though, providing erotic images of you crawling back up Din’s body, removing his helmet to kiss his…
A blank space fractured the realism of the dream and you refocused on the door.
No.
The solid wall of reluctance that rose in your mind startled you with its force, and your hand froze on the button. Pressing it open anyway, the hiss of the door sliding open sounded much too loud, but a quick check over your shoulder showed Din on his back, helmet turned towards where you’d been sleeping.
Padding down the hallway in an uncanny caricature of your past life, you came up to what was once Rhydian’s room with an unfounded trepidation that grew and grew and grew the longer you stood there.
Heart hammering, your consciousness returned with greater clarity as worry eclipsed fatigue. Fear of something dark and malicious waiting just on the other side of the door. It was an illogical instinct that demanded you check on the little bogwing for…some reason. For your own peace of mind, at least. But now that you were here, you were afraid.
This was ridiculous. You were being ridiculous. Was this how irrational all mothers felt when it came to their children?
You shook the thought out of your mind, sliding the door open into a darkness that unnerved you. None of the shutters had been opened yet, for both Din’s sake and for the added protection fortified durasteel gave when children were quite literally being stolen from their beds.
A stone sank in the pit of your stomach, nausea surfacing when the source of your worry revealed itself. You hadn’t even considered the danger you’d be inadvertently placing the child in by coming here. Admittedly, he was in constant danger from the imps who sought the power he possessed, but that wasn’t the point.
How could you be so…thoughtless?
You’d been so wrapped up in coming home yourself, that you hadn’t properly weighed the possible effect it might have on the little alien you loved more than anything.
Your eyes strained frantically in the darkness, picking out the small form at the top of Rhydian’s bed. Your shoulders sagged with a gust of relief. He was still there – of course he was – he was okay. Even with the worst of your concern abated, you walked over to sit at the side of the bed. You didn’t want to leave him just yet, the tension in your body still needing time to dissipate fully before you could even think about sleeping again.
He usually wasn’t so far away, even though he was just down the hall.
You stroked over the base of the ear sticking out from under the blankets, his other ear folded under his cheek while little snores left him. Completely zonked. After a while, weariness began to creep back up on you as the adrenaline subsided, your limbs heavy. It would be dawn soon, a new day with more unknowns lurking around familiar corners.
It wasn’t even a thought before you were laying down on the pillow beside the little bogwing, the faint scent of stale, mixed cologne squeezing your heart as you gently adjusted the child. He squalled quietly at being disturbed, half-conscious before he snuggled back to sleep against your chest and your heart settled.
Just an hour, that’s all you needed. Just an hour, then you could go back to your own bed.
It wasn’t an hour. It wasn’t even two.
Indeed, it was the sound of the ocean that pulled Din to consciousness hours later rather than you moving in your sleep. Filaments of his dream mingled with the noise, merging with the mythosaurs roar and confusing the warrior to whether he was awake yet or not.
All his muscles felt…loose. Achy. It was likely down to the fact he’d slept in his armor for the first time in ages, but the soft, firm mattress beneath him suggested otherwise. A comfortable bed highlighted aches a less forgiving surface – namely the floor – masked with its hardness. On the one hand, he was disconcerted by the comfort, but on the other hand, his muscles never felt so relaxed.
That was until he noticed you weren’t there.
At first, Din guessed it was because the bed was so big. In the Razor Crest, there was very little wiggle room for either of you on the single sleep mat you used. The bed you’d slept in last night was made for couples. Big enough for a man his size to fully enjoy his woman – in every position – without being impeded, while also allowing him to hold you close whenever he wanted. With all that extra space, he assumed you’d simply rolled over onto your stomach.
But when a searching hand found only the cold mattress and an empty blanket, he knew you’d been out of bed for longer than a few minutes to use the fresher.
His eyes snapped open, confirming your absence and his fingers curled into the rich maroon comforter he covered you with after slowly working you over the edge and filling you with his seed hours before. Sitting up, he groaned inaudibly under his helmet as his back complained at the change in sleeping arrangements. Part of him thought the mattress too soft, that he’d fall through it and never stop falling. He’d get used to it eventually, he hoped.
Your bag lay open at the side of the bed when he swung his legs over it, rolling his neck and shoulders to shake them out of their squishy state of relaxation. His shirt was missing – of course it was, the little thief – so he knew he wouldn’t find you wandering the house naked, unfortunately.
He had an inclination as to where you were and, after using the fresher himself, decided to go see if he was right.
Before he left the darkened room, he paused at the access button and instead pressed the button beside it. The shutters groaned behind him, from disuse and stiffness, but still parted slowly. They allowed early morning sunlight to pierce the sliver of transparisteel that only grew the farther the shutters opened until Din was standing at the edge of the world.
Taking a moment to appreciate the view, Din approached the transparisteel. On the second floor, the ground and cliffs were hidden. Only the endless stretch of sparkling ocean was visible from here. Back however many thousands of years, when space travel was only a dream and people were confined to the planet they were born on, Din could easily imagine that a sight like this was as awe-inspiring as the cosmos.
No wonder your people revered ocean gods.
Letting the sun soak the bedroom in much needed light and warmth, Din left to go and find you.
His first instinct had been correct, as usual. You were with the child in the room the little womprat had commandeered the day before. The one with all the helmets, distinctly more masculine than your childhood bedroom. A brother? Din didn’t want to ask where he was, knowing it wasn’t likely to be a happy answer.
The image of you both sleeping though, tugged at something low in his stomach. A yearning for a reality like this. Such things were perilous to dwell on, especially for a man like him. A Mandalorian. But he couldn’t deny that something tectonic had shifted in your relationship. Something that made imagining such things, roots and family and connection, so much easier.
It was a change so drastic, yet so silent, that it blindsided the warrior for a moment.
He sat on the edge of the bed now, unwilling to disturb the peaceful scene while mindlessly stroking the back of your calf that was exposed when you turned over onto your side. The muffled sensation of leather on your warm skin made him want to remove his glove altogether to feel that silky softness skin to skin, but in that moment, you stirred.
Yawning deeply – Maker, you must’ve been tired – you stretched with a feline arch, your arms over your head and a sound so candidly seductive, Din had to yank the chain on his resolve tighter.
Horny fucker, he mentally chastised himself. The kid was here. Not in his hover-pram, but quite literally sleeping in the bed with you. He couldn’t be giving into base desires just because his sex drive didn’t know when to quit whenever he was around you.
“Morning, kitten,” he rasped instead, noting the bleary smile of a woman not yet fully awake on your lips. One without the burdens you carried every day. Innocent. The vision was only solidified further by the content little noise you made in response, dropping your hand to his thigh plate.
“Mm, hey,” you sighed, voice deliciously thick from sleep, “sorry, I had to check on him last night…must’ve fallen back asleep.”
He wasn’t surprised.
Your bond with the kid was strong, as deep as any blood connection someone could have with a child. The simple fact of the child sleeping in a different room compared to the Razor Crest would be an adjustment for you both.
“It was a long day,” he agreed, squeezing the back of your thigh as his hand roamed back down behind your knee.
Groaning, you stretched again, disturbing the green alien beside you who grizzled awake.
“It’s gonna be a long one today too, I feel.”
You sat up, Din’s eyes drawn helplessly down to the way your stomach crunched easily beneath his shirt. Another intrusive thought, of how your stomach might look swollen and round, rose in his mind. Eyes heavy, he was far slower in banishing that thought away than the others when he lifted a hand to brush away errant strands of hair from your face.
“The Commander said your alor wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, right?”
“Mhm,” you confirmed, your attention more happily preoccupied with greeting the child as you picked him up to kiss the top of his head and let him wrap a clawed hand in the length of your hair, “gives us time to do a little digging ourselves, don’t you think?”
He couldn’t fault your logic.
Din didn’t know how politics on Pamarthe worked, but your alor seemed powerful and would likely be taking charge of any and all attempts to find the children. Your parallel investigation of Jedi activity would have to work around that stalwart force.
You let the child down so he could crawl haphazardly over to him, scaling the height of his thigh to gurgle happily at the stoic warrior.
“Morning, kid,” he stroked over one wrinkly ear while he half-listened to your stream of consciousness.
Your mind truly was an incredible thing. Having just woken up, he could practically hear the gears starting up and whirring to life, running until they were at maximum capacity as you plotted and planned how to make the most of the day. All the while sat cross-legged on the bed in an oversized shirt and your hair a mess from his hands.
You never looked more beautiful.
“No.”
You rolled your eyes in exasperation at Din’s blunt response.
He was sat at the dining table, back to the wall with his blaster parts laid out in front of him. He was – needlessly in your opinion – cleaning his weapons. Again. You didn’t think there was another blaster in the entire galaxy in more pristine condition, than Din Djarin’s. Even during your Rebellion years, you didn’t think you ever saw a soldier take such care of his weapons. You cleaned your own blaster more than you used to, granted, but it was nothing in comparison to the Mandalorian.
“Good talk,” you huffed, passing him by on the way to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.
There was the dull sound of him placing the piece he was cleaning back on the table. Quick as a serpent, his arm banded around your waist from behind to pull you back onto an armored thigh. You yelped, surprised by his speed and the strength of that forearm that kept you a willing prisoner against his hard chest.
“Okay, wait.”
His words rumbled through you, vibrating from beneath his chest plate and down your spine like perfectly polished river rocks caught in the current, “Ask me again.”
You really tried not to be charmed by his attempt to be more communicative. You really did. But he was trying, and that softened the edges of your impatience to nothing more than a fiore bun; round and squishy.
You puffed an exhale, your hand dropping to his forearm instinctively to keep it there.
“I think we’d get more done today if we split up,” you repeated the statement that initially had him refusing before you finished speaking, “you can go bring the Razor Crest to the hanger here, and I can go into town with the kid to pick up supplies we desperately need if we’re going to be staying here.”
Din grunted, his malcontent palpable as his fingers flexed into the soft flesh at your waist.
“There’s no need to split up for that.”
That was better than a no, at least.
“Isn’t there?” you frowned, wriggling within his hold to sit across his lap instead, better able to look into that achingly familiar T-visor, “You can use the jetpack to get to Stag Seaport way quicker by yourself than going the long way around on the speeders. I can do some digging while I’m in town without the spectacle of a Mandalorian distracting every doe that crosses our path from telling me what they know.”
Din’s ears pricked, you could tell by the slightest tilt of his helmet. His hearing was as sharp as his eyesight down the scope of a blaster, you should’ve known he’d pick up on it.
“Oh?”
The word escaped him in a purr. A deep gravel that, to any normal person, would sound like a growl. But that was just Din. Even his purrs were intimidating. You didn’t react, you’d only dig yourself deeper.
“Does, hm.” He hummed, running a wide-palmed hand up from your knee along the side of your thigh casually, “Do I detect a hint of jealousy in my kitten?”
Colour burst across your cheeks, heating them with the immediate mortification of being caught reacting so emotionally to such a harmless statement. You spluttered, rolling your shoulders back with indignant pride even as you sat preening on the lap of a man who could make you beg with the crook of a finger.
“That’s not what I meant,” you sniffed, looking down your nose.
Not entirely, anyway.
You weren’t the jealous type, but you were possessive. Pamarthen women, especially Carria does, were ridiculously attractive. As feminine and ethereal as the woodland creatures they were likened to. Flirting, casual sex, harems…they were all common aspects of Carria culture that might catch an off-worlder, namely a Mandalorian, off guard.
While Din might only be interested in you, his mere presence would set tongues wagging.
He was a warrior. He walked like it was big – it was – commanded a room like he knew what to do with it – he did – and wordlessly made lesser men submit like he could fuck their women better than them.
He could.
He was everything a Carria woman looked for. Stars, he was everything a Macteer woman looked for, and they were notorious for seeking only the strongest attributes in a mate. She-wolves were a force to be reckoned with at the best of times, they needed someone who wouldn’t crumble when they flashed their fangs.
“Mm…even if it was,” Din’s hand stopped at your hip, pulling your attention back fully to him when he lifted it to cup your jaw firmly and forced your eyes to remain helplessly on his visor where he could see the truth, “does are too skittish for me. I like my woman to roar, even if it is only a meow at times.”
How dare your stomach flutter at that.
You swatted his shoulder, nothing in the way of him seeing the fluster on your face with the grip he kept on your jaw. Damnable man. The chuckle he released was as warm as it was filthy. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, exactly what turned you on. Then his hand shifted to the back of your neck in a gesture more gentle – but no less possessive – so he could drop his forehead to yours silently.
Your cheeks still hot from his teasing, you tried to appear stern.
“I do not meow.”
How the comparison Biran made nearly two years ago stuck still boggled your mind. But the affection with which the Mandalorian crooned kitten to you was indescribable in its intimacy. Sometimes, you almost liked the sound of it better than your name, if only because he was the only one who called you it.
“You sure?” he teased, “I’m nearly certain that’s the sound I hear when you’re bossing me around.”
He tightened his hold around you pre-emptively in case you really did live up to your nickname and claw him to shreds. When your jaw fell to the floor, aghast, he couldn’t prevent the laugh from bursting under his helmet at your expression.
“That’s so rude!” you crowed, disbelief at your lovers audacity making the entire thing funnier as a laugh of your own threatened to escape your lips. You pressed them tight together to stop it. You needed to have some dignity.
His foresight had been correct – damn him – and when you squirmed to try and stand with what you considered righteous fury, his arms stopped you from doing much more than wriggling pathetically on his lap.
So much for your dramatic exit.
“Easy, kitten…” Laughter still lacing his tone, the breathy drop of his voice stalled you with its sudden heat, “keep moving like that, and we’ll get nothing done today.”
Oh.
You became aware of the slightly hardening length under you. Both your pussy and ass throbbed with awareness. He’d been inside both the night before on the shores of the sea. Stars, he hadn’t even filled your ass entirely before you came. You could only imagine what it’d be like when you were able to take him fully without restraint.
Your throat suddenly dry, you swallowed. A low growl – one you felt more than heard – rose in Din’s chest. It was like your thoughts were playing in a holovid for him to see, his intuition uncanny. Maker, you were insatiable these last few days, both of you. Which was saying something. But as much as you wanted him to bend you over the dining table to go for round three, you had work to do.
A sneaky idea rose in your mind then, and you wiggled your ass again experimentally. His grip tightened immediately, a warning snarl rumbling in his chest. Biting down into the pillow of your bottom lip, you dropped your hand deliberately to the front of his flight suit.
Din’s growl of your name was a rare second warning. The last one you would get. Anything after that would be a well-deserved punishment.
“Mmh?” you hummed airily, your fingers tiptoeing lightly over the semi-hard shape of him. Not enough that he’d feel much under the thick duraweave, but enough to tease him the way he’d been tormenting you all morning.
“You know…” you continued seductively, nudging your nose into the carved cheek of his helmet and basking in the shuddering exhale you heard coming from under the lip, “if we split up, we can get back to this much, much quicker…”
“You sly fucking…” Din growled in realization, outmaneuvered by your strategy. He couldn’t keep the faint hint of pride at the way you’d seamlessly manipulated the situation to get your own way out of his tone, though. What could you say? You weren’t a one-trick-pony, and seduction was an art form you eagerly indulged in all your life.
He didn’t even finish his sentence, sighing with a clunk as his helmet fell back against the wall in defeat. You didn’t think it was premature to give yourself another point in the tally, honestly you deserved two just for style.
“Fine. Fine,” he relented, releasing his grip on you and swatting your ass when you stood from his lap victorious, “we do it your way.”
With a bounce in your step, you continued on your way to the kitchen, flashing him a bright smile over your shoulder. He looked about as flustered as his armor would allow, and it turned your grin cheeky knowing you were the cause of it,
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Leaning back in the chair, Din’s posture shifted arrogantly. His legs spread, you could easily make out the hard bulge of his cock straining against his flight suit and just like that, your fleeting moment of control evaporated.
“Not as hard as I’m going to fuck you the moment we get back, ner baruur.”
You were right, as usual.
Using his Rising Phoenix cut the time it took to get to the spaceport almost by half. Your advice to follow the coastline, across the white cliff faces that cascaded down into the waves beneath, ensured he didn’t get lost amidst the disorienting scale of the sea or the confusing labyrinth of hills and forestry.
Small fishing vessels rocked gently on the water, Din’s helmet picking up the occasional shout from one of the men on board to another. Hauling great nets of silver-toned fish onto the deck, a line of conservation droids immediately began sorting through the catch rapidly. Finding egg-bearing females, the young, or other species that accidentally got caught up in the net and tossing them back into the ocean.
He wouldn’t be surprised if fish from that catch ended up in your possession when they made it to the fishmongers. You liked seafood, he recalled. You were always in a good mood on the rare occasion he landed on a planet that had any semblance of water on it, knowing it meant fresh fish for once. You’d been buying fish that day on Mynock before he made the journey to Arvala-7.
Din snorted under his helmet, dark eyes turning back the direction he was flying.
To think, he planned to avoid you. Fearing he’d end up in a sarlacc pit or something equally disastrous given how up until that point, your paths only ever crossed when he was injured. Din didn’t fear much then, bar his helmet being removed or dishonoring his Creed, and part of him now wondered if what he feared had been the feelings you nudged awake inside him.
Back then, they were nothing close to what they were now. Maker, it took months to even find his way to your bed, but those first encounters were like the first cracks of a crater before a volcanic eruption. An inevitability. There was nothing he could’ve done to stop it.
Fishing boats were eventually replaced by great vessels on their way to and from the seaport. What looked like several airship carriers sat docked on the horizon, flanking your clan’s territory with an impenetrable strength he found staggering. For one clan to possess all this…
Pamarthen clans were evidently much, much larger than Mandalorian clans. Perhaps, before the Great Purge of Mandalore, it looked similar, but he’d been too young, too…focused on his training on Concordia to notice.
He steered clear from landing directly in front of the Razor Crest, however more convenient it might have been. The area was technically an active spaceport and Din didn’t want to gamble of his abilities to outmaneuver X-Wings and cargo ships.
Instead, he landed at the foot of the bridge that connected the big island to the ports. It was a bit of a walk across, both durasteel bridges made for industry with a size to match. He could stretch his legs though, and casually observe those who passed him. In his line of work, he never knew who he might see or what odd behavior he might notice that would lead him to who he was hunting.
The Mandalorian didn’t quite know what he was looking for when it came to the Jedi, truth be told. Not someone who looked like the child, but something that embodied…magic? He didn’t fucking know. What did magicians look like? Did they wear cloaks and hoods? Did they levitate instead of walk? How was he supposed to tell the difference?
Wait.
A group of people passed Din on the other bridge and his eyes were immediately transfixed. They weren’t levitating, but everything else about them looked straight out of the mental image Din had been using this entire time.
Three figures, hooded and cloaked in coarseweave robes of a deep red, walked unhurriedly behind two armed soldiers. Their blaster rifles held to their chest on standby, they were donned in black combat gear and what looked to be dense, black chainmail covering their heads. The links fell like water down to their chest and possessed no discernible features – no eye sockets or mouthpiece – bar the way the mail settled over their faces. The peak of a nose and curve of a forehead, nothing else.
Was this the way outsiders saw Mandalorians? Surely not. His helmet concealed his appearance but gave him a name, a purpose. Those mail masks looked like they were made to wash away the identity of anyone who wore one. They didn’t look real.
These guys were just…walking around. After looking for so long, Din always assumed sorcerers existed the way the Tribe had; secretly. They might not even be sorcerers, but these guys looked like they knew shit about magic, and that was as close as he’d gotten since his journey began.
It was probably why his next move wasn’t as calculated as it usually would’ve been.
“Hey, you.”
Din called across the wide open space between the bridges, the audience roar of the water beneath turning the space into an arena. He approached the edge of his side slowly as both faceless guards turned, placing themselves between him and their charges.
He held up a hand in peace, the other hovering over the butt of his blaster should he need to draw it quickly. Neither guard lifted their weapon but kept them tucked to their chest, the barrel pointed down. Ready.
“A Mandalorian? On Pamarthe?” A voice rose in Basic from the group.
One of the guards jerked his head marginally, not expecting one of the robed men to speak. With some reluctance, he stood half a step to the side for the one who spoke to get a better look at him. Even with just a hood, the thickness of the material shadowed the man’s deeply wrinkled face effectively.
“In full regalia too, how rare.”
An uncomfortable feeling surfaced in Din’s stomach, like he was a wild, exotic creature kept in captivity by Core planets for their inhabitants to ogle and stare at.
Whatever assumption Din had about these men and their secrecy, was wiped clean when the one who spoke pulled his hood down, revealing an elderly human man with stringy, grey hair combed back from severe, heavy brows. His charcoal eyes set Din on edge, a strike of lightning tensing his spine with instinctive awareness.
“I have some questions for you,” Din responded, ignoring the obvious appreciation the man had for his armor. This was nothing new for a Mandalorian.
The two figures that remained hooded looked towards each other, unfazed by his words. The man with the unnerving eyes arched one of those thick brows, thin lips twisting into some semblance of a smirk.
“I understand you’re not from here, Mando,” he explained slowly, raising Din’s hackles from the condescension in his tone, “and whoever sent for you has obviously given you a wasted journey, I fear. But we are not questioned by anyone.”
“That’s about to change,” Din retorted, he’d had bounties like this before. Big fishes in small ponds that shit themselves the moment he struck back. He didn’t need to waste actual energy into scaring people, their spines were usually brittle enough to snap from a growl.
But something about these people did unnerve the Mandalorian. The way he knew not to underestimate the reinforcements gang affiliates could call to overwhelm him with sheer numbers rather than skill. They obviously knew that too, because the grin never left the robed man’s face.
He merely reached back to pull his hood back over his head, a leer of contempt shining in those flat, black eyes when he turned back the way the group had been walking before Din interrupted, “We shall see about that, Mandalorian.”
One guard kept him in his sights, flanking the rear as his companion led the group away. He didn’t turn back around until they were some distance away and even then, Din knew their muscles must be tense in anticipation for him to strike.
Part of him wanted to. To force them into submission and answer the questions he had. Two guards were nothing to a warrior of Din’s caliber and they knew it too. But something stopped him. There had been observers to this exchange, passers-by who slowed to watch and Din realized by their hushed whispers that he’d done something wrong.
One such person actually approached him, the whelp with the crush. Bryn.
“Mister, Mister Mando—” came the thickly accented greeting.
Maker give him strength.
Din’s eyes flickered to the boy, even as his helmet remained trained on the group slowly growing smaller the farther they walked away. When Bryn waved a hand in front of his visor though, thinking he hadn’t heard him, Din’s impatience won out, and he growled, grabbing the boy’s wrist to yank down.
“What?”
“Ow, ow ow—” Bryn complained from where Din had twisted his wrist subconsciously. The warrior released him with a click of his tongue, annoyed, “By Llyrian, you’re strong. Though, I’d expect nothing else from a Mandalorian…given the stories, but—”
“What is it, boy?” Din interrupted.
“I—well, I’d be careful with the Sentinels,” Bryn frowned, looking out towards the group Din had been contemplating jumping, “They’re a law onto themselves here, not a good idea to get on their bad side.”
The Sentinels…where had he heard that name before?
“I can handle myself, kid.”
Bryn’s hazel eyes widened at the perceived offence he’d caused Din, waving a hand in front of him, “Of course!” He mumbled something in Pamarthen, a rapid string of words Din couldn’t understand before rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, “I don’t know how to explain in Basic, but even the rhaer has limited power over them.”
Din arched a brow, unseeing to the boy who only had his stoic, unmoving helmet to go by. Now that was surprising. The same leader who had fleets of airship carriers and land far as they eye could see was not wholly in charge of certain people who lived on it? That was something he would have to ask you about later.
“I get it,” Din rumbled, Bryn still valiantly trying to describe such a niche topic in his second language, “thanks.” He tagged to the end, frowning when the young man smiled. Had Din ever been this green? This insufferably…hopeful?
Unlikely.
Bryn was young, likely only eighteen or nineteen years old. He hadn’t seen a fraction of the horrors someone even ten years his senior would have.
“No problem, Mister Mando,” Bryn puffed his chest, proud of himself.
“Just Mando, is fine,” The Mandalorian sighed, feeling a headache coming along already and desperately wishing he could remove his helmet to pinch the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave it off.
"Mando, wizard." Bryn nodded, “What’s brought you back here so soon? Did you find Commander Carria last night? He came looking for you, but you’d already left by then. I told him you’d planned to go to the Tipsy Hart since I said that’s where I thought he would be but obviously not, since he showed up at the spaceport—”
“Picking up my ship,” he grunted in a desperate attempt to stop the talking and turned back towards the spaceport.
Was this what Din had to look forward to when the kid started talking? Thank the Maker he seemed to age at a snail’s pace so he’d have a few years before that hopefully started. His thoughts screeched to a halt, a mudhorn colliding with him when he remembered it didn’t matter when the kid spoke, he was going to be with his own kind, not Din.
It soured his humor further, and when Bryn took it upon himself to walk with him, Din almost took it out on the poor kid. But the realization that he wouldn’t experience the child talking the way Bryn was now softened the warrior marginally, enough to not shoot him.
“The Razor Crest, right? She’s very old,” Bryn continued conversationally.
Huh. Maybe he would shoot him after all. Did he speak so candidly about everything on his mind? Din wouldn’t like to know how women reacted if he told them exactly what was on his mind the way he was to the warrior now.
“Never call a woman old, kid,” Din heard himself say as they walked into the makeshift hanger where the Razor Crest sat, “Whether she’s a ship or the girl you marry.”
“Oh,” Bryn replied quietly, mulling his words against whatever it was that took up the mind of a boy his age.
Sex. Usually sex.
Din snorted, what was his excuse then? Age evidently didn’t matter, when a man had a woman like you in his bed night after night. How could he not think about your body, your sounds, your pussy squeezing every drop of come from him whenever he got the chance?
“No wonder Llysa got mad at me when I said she was too old to learn how to pilot a Mantaris…” he mused to himself, scratching the back of his head where two delicate braids met the tie that held his hair in a messy tail.
Oh boy.
Din stopped by his ship, typing in a code on his vambrace to drop the shields and open the ramp. The kid was a disaster and even worse, he had no idea he was. There was a call in Pamarthen from across the harbor and while Din couldn’t understand most of it, he recognized Bryn’s name.
The boy shouted something back jovially despite the impatience in the other man’s voice.
“I gotta get to work, but it was nice seeing you again Mis—Mando.”
Din dipped his head in acknowledgement, watching as Bryn started jogging in the direction the voice came from. Something compelled him to speak though, an effect that Pamarthens seemed to have on the warrior.
“Bryn,” Din called, partially hoping the kid wouldn’t hear him. No such luck. He looked over his shoulder at the Mandalorian, slowing down and Din snorted to himself. Annoying as he was, there was something refreshing about Bryn. While he hadn’t seen the terrors you or he had in the war, he represented a new hope for a future untouched by what happened.
“Encourage that girl to learn,” he rasped, dipping into the pot of knowledge he’d accumulated from you, one that grew larger by the day, “don’t underestimate her.”
Confusion crossed Bryn’s face and he wondered briefly if his words had fallen on deaf ears, but after a moment, an unguarded smile lit his face and the boy nodded. With a lazy salute as a parting thanks, Bryn left on his way back to work and despite not getting any information from the Sentinels, Din didn’t feel the entire journey had been a waste.
It had been far too long since you and the child went on your own adventure together.
Fallow Ridge was the perfect spot for it.
You could’ve taken him to a village closer to the house, but that far north didn’t see much traffic and information would be harder to come by. Fallow Ridge was more central, about an hour away by speeder and boasted some of the best bakeries on the island. Located just off the main artery of roads leading to the Seat, it wasn’t uncommon to see members of other clans passing through on their journeys.
After Din had taken off to Stag Seaport and double checking your comms still worked in case he needed to find you, you bundled the little alien into his brown satchel and were off.
You hadn’t been lying to Din when you said you’d need to pick up supplies. No one had lived in your house for over six years and apart from the things Kyr left for you, there was little more than mothballs and dust in the cupboards. Not to mention clothes. After Din had unceremoniously ripped one of your two remaining pairs of pants last night, you were in desperate need of new ones.
Parking your speeder just outside the low stone wall that marked the perimeter of town, you nodded politely in greeting to a group of young pilots half-dressed in the pants of their flight suits, sleeveless undershirts displaying the antlers of their Mark proudly against tanned skin. You wondered if you knew them, they looked young enough to have been children when you left – like Bryn – so the changes would’ve been drastic enough for you to be uncertain.
Cobblestone buildings sat on mismatched levels across the uneven terrain. Some further up on hills where small paths branched off from the main street, while only the roofs of other houses could be seen from where they were situated further down an incline.
The kid was mesmerized as the bustle of daily life overwhelmed his senses. A hum of chatter, welcoming and lively, mingled with the sounds of trade as people shopped, gossiped and generally appeared untouched by the ravages of a post-war universe.
But the scars could still be seen, quiet as they may be.
Absent figures, a disparity in the number of people your age compared to older generations, more cybernetic prosthetics than before from both the bombardment and returning rebels. Even the prices in the transparisteel of shops were higher than you remembered, significantly higher. But that’s what happened when you had a destroyed spaceport; trade became complicated and therefore, expensive.
“What do you say, cutie?” you looked down at your hip where the child was babbling happily with distracted grabs to anything and everything he wanted to explore, “Food or clothes first?”
It was a redundant question, the second the word ‘food’ left your mouth, his large eyes were sparkling with an excited coo.
“Good idea, maybe we can grab more fiore buns before they sell out for the day too.”
His ears wiggled eagerly, the memory of his small mouth blue from the berry jam inside the buns last night making you laugh quietly to yourself. You weren’t the only one who was a fan of them. Even Din seemed to enjoy the uniquely tart flavor, opting for a second without needing much convincing.
You wandered from stall to store, taking advantage of the freshness that came from an agricultural planet. The bakery – thankfully – still had fiore buns coming out of the oven and, after a sample, you left with a baker’s dozen. The kid complained when you stopped him from crawling into the bag to get at them, knowing there’d be none left if you gave him an inch.
When you got to the grocers – for preserved foods you were more familiar with on ships and other planets – you were suddenly struck by the reality that you weren’t on another planet, or on a ship. You were…here.
An emotion surfaced in you, one you weren’t able to translate into Basic. Hireach. A Pamarthen term with no real translation that was used to express both homesickness and nostalgia. It was a complex mix of melancholy and happiness, grief and yearning for something that still existed but was irrevocably changed.
You felt it as you followed familiar paths that were missing…something, and no matter how hard you tried to put your finger on it, the answer seemed to get more and more tangled, more indefinable.
It wasn’t necessarily a bad emotion, nor was it indicative of any great tragedy. Truly, to experience hireach was only possible when you had good memories attached to it. Hireach illuminated the irreverence of time, how your former life now fit like a shirt much too small. How it strained across your shoulders and back, not painful but…uncomfortable. No matter how much you rolled your shoulders and tugged at the material, it never seemed to sit right anymore.
“Hullo?”
You were shaken back to the present by the shopkeeper behind the counter. A bag of supplies between you, the woman looked at you with a mixture of confusion and caution.
“Sorry, I was klicks away, how much did you say?” you reeled off, scrambling on autopilot to regain your footing in the conversation instead of how strange it all looked and felt.
“Forty-seven credits total,” the woman smiled, the action tight and somewhat forced.
That was certainly different, but you couldn’t blame her for being mistrustful. With everything going on, it was no wonder people were on edge. Speaking of…
“Terrible business, isn’t it? The children.”
The seamless slip into what some might call ‘gossiping’ was familiar territory for the shop-owner, and it thawed the suspicion you’d garnered from your spacy attitude. Her shoulders relaxed and with a morose expression, she nodded.
“Aye, the poor wee things. May Amhra guide them home.”
“Amhra guide them,” you echoed distractedly, glancing around the shop.
“If she can’t, then the rhaer will,” the shopkeeper nodded confidently, ringing up the credits you handed to her and talking about your childhood friend as though he were a god among men, “I don’t think there’s a man on this planet more determined to find them.”
Her confidence in Kyr comforted you. Hopefully, the rest of Clan Carria held the same sentiment. It was one thing to be perceived as a ruler, but it was better still to be seen as a guardian. And Kyr Carria was the embodiment of the lone stag watching over his herd; silent, observative, strong.
Who else did that sound like…
“I’m sure he’s doing everything he can,” you added to the conversation diplomatically.
“Lot of lions coming through these parts too, looking for Skyla,” she handed you your change, “and nothing against them personally, but where was that urgency when our fawns went missing?”
There was an edge of frustration in the woman’s tone, her brows furrowing with a downturn of her lips. The friendship between Clan Carria and Clan Leyghin was strong, but it wasn’t immune to skepticism and misgivings. Skyla Leyghin’s disappearance was treated differently because she wasdifferent. Regardless of how equally tragic it was for any child to go missing, the only daughter and heir to the most steadfast clan on the planet was a devastating blow.
“Hopefully, with so many people looking for her, they’ll find the others too,” you navigated the statement carefully, empathizing with her annoyance but put in an awkward situation of being tied to both clans intimately.
She mulled over your words, nodding curtly in response, “What chance do any of those wee fawns have, if they’re only a secondary thought?”
It was your turn to pause, considering her rather…wise observation. Uncomfortable as it might be, you couldn’t deny the truth behind it.
“Kyr cares, they’re not second in his eyes,” you said by way of answering because truthfully, you didn’t know how to answer her. She was right, and it made you more uncomfortable as both a medic and as someone who now knew what it was to love a child. It had always been this way though, but absence from your planet had enlightened you to the reality that you didn’t agree with it.
“I believe it’s Rhaer Kyr to us,” the shopkeeper corrected you coolly, her eyes turning suspicious momentarily, likely contemplating either your view on him or relationship to him, “we don’t all address him so familiarly anymore, keep that in mind.”
Bantha balls.
He was just Kyr the last time you were here, he’d always been just Kyr. But he wasn’t, was he? He was descended from gods, if the stories were to be believed. He now sat as ruler of Clan Carria, one of the most powerful clans on Pamarthe. He was never just anything, you had simply lived your life so close to the sun that the light and heat became normal.
For the first time, you experienced a burn for flying too close to it.
“Right…” you trailed awkwardly before giving your thanks to the shopkeeper, parting with her as politely as possible as you left the store.
The child was getting fussy in the satchel by the time you dropped everything off in your speeders saddlebags, bored and you figured there wasn’t any harm in letting him stretch his little legs.
“Wanna walk for a bit?” you asked, lifting him out to place on the ground beside you. You could do with a slower pace for a while.
After stopping by a small media store on a whim that – thankfully – had different holovids of Moray and Faz than the one the child already had, you spotted two pylbucks and their riders walking down the main street.
Their fur a beautiful copper color, ivory horns curled back from their heads. One had a splodge of white in the middle of its head carriage, and the other a splatter of white over its left eye. They must have been by the same sire. Powerful bipedal legs with ivory talons similar to their horns clicked along the stone with every step and the child was utterly enthralled by them as they grew bigger and bigger the closer they came.
These weren’t just regular pylbucks either, these were bred with a specific purpose in mind. Intimidation and control. War. That meant the men riding them were guards themselves, dressed casually as one held the reins loosely in one hand while he carved something. His pylbuck shook its head with a grunt, short mane catching the sunlight. The rider – unperturbed – looked up from his work and leaned down to pat the long, wide neck of his mount affectionately.
You, however, were more curiously distracted by the striped tattoo where Carria antlers usually were around the bicep. With a variety of lengths and width, the double-loop emulated the stripes of an apex predator.
Pamarthen lions.
These were some of Attycus’ men.
“You’re far from the Hearth,” you exclaimed pleasantly as you came within earshot of the two soldiers.
“Quickest way to the Snags,” the younger of the two men called back, bringing his pylbuck to a halt beside you and flashing you with an easy smile.
“To the search party?” you asked, inattentive to the soldiers smile. These two might have more information.
“Aye,” the second soldier stated, “we’re part of their relief.”
Kyr was due to return tomorrow, that made sense. To have a relief party though, meant they’d had no luck in finding the children thus far, which wasn’t likely to change by morning. You tried not to let your disappointment sink into despair at the thought.
“Has there been any news?” you ventured to ask, perhaps a little too nosily but you’d never gotten anything in life from sitting pretty and passive.
The soldiers appeared amiable though, and you didn’t feel the need to be totally on your guard around them. The older of the two, a handsome man with long blonde hair streaked with silver sat up straighter in his saddle where he’d been reclined as he whittled something small and beige in his hand.
“Nothing yet, miss.” His grey eyes followed the child as he waddled closer to his mount and tried to reach for one of the pylbucks’ short, raised front legs, “It’s like they’ve all just vanished into thin air.”
“How is that possible…” you wondered aloud, crossing your arms at the paradox of the situation.
“That’s the scary part,” the younger soldier added, propping his heel up on the saddle easily to rest his elbow on it, “it shouldn’t be possible.”
“Aye, but there were cases like this before,” the blonde mentioned, dismissing the younger man’s quizzical look, “during the first Galactic war, lots of kids all over the galaxy went missing inexplicably.”
“Yeah, but that was a war,” his partner answered with some impatience, as if this wasn’t the first time it had been brought up, “and it wasn’t just kids, people in general were never heard from again. Killed in combat, sold to the Hutts…there were more ways to go missing than trees in Siodam’s Forest.”
You listened intently, taking a leaf out of Din’s book and gathering more information by observing and absorbing than inserting yourself into the conversation. You had to agree with the younger soldier, it was like comparing Gungans and the Naboo; they were nothing alike. The situation during the Galactic war was widespread, and indiscriminate. What was happening now was intentional, calculated.
“Careful,” you crouched to scoop the child up when one of the pylbucks noticed the little menace tugging at the fur closest to its talons, causing the creature to try shake the tickle away.
Your movement pulled the soldiers attention back to you from where they were debating the situation amongst themselves. The younger of the two frowned in confusion, glancing between the child and you and likely trying to reconcile the logic behind the pairing. The older man merely smiled, crow’s feet and laughter lines revealing themselves on his features.
“Don’t let that cub out of your sight, miss,” he rubbed his unknown craft on the rough leather of his thigh to polish it of any splinters before leaning down from his pylbuck to hand it to the kid, “both our clans have lost enough already.”
The child eagerly took whatever the man gifted him and when you caught sight of the roughly whittled lioness mid-stride, you were reminded of all the good that had been overshadowed by your apprehension in coming home. Where men defended their lands with the same knife they use to craft toys for children.
The little bogwing was enamored with his lioness, keeping her clutched tight in his small hand and babbling incomprehensibly at the soldier who listened attentively. He must have been a father himself, his patience that of a parent willing to listen to the same thing over and over.
“Thank you,” you translated, running a hand gently over the top of the bogwing’s head, “may Siodam lead you down safe paths.”
Both soldiers dipped their heads graciously at your words and with a nudge of their heels into the side of their mounts, they took off again. The child waved happily after the men, shaking his new toy in hand. They left you in a far happier mood than you were when leaving the grocers, light refracted kindness banishing the shadows momentarily.
Walking with a lighter step, you veered down one of the paths off the main street. You only had to untangle the lioness twice from where the child had somehow managed to get it wrapped in your hair. You were still extracting a few strands as you bumped the door open into a little known boutique hidden amongst the glades. Sewn by Saeda.
It sold the most comfortable, most flattering pants you’d ever owned. There was some witchcraft in the way the material shaped your ass and thighs, and you’d happily thank Saeda for selling her soul in order to procure it.
A bell – ancient and unusual – rang overhead with a gentle tinkle.
A woman looked up from her work at the noise, flashing you with a welcoming smile as she draped the measuring tape she’d been using around her exposed neck. Shiny, onyx hair was gathered in a messy nest atop her head and flyaway strands framed her face in a way that was usually carefully crafted by stylists, but you knew immediately was natural.
She was a beautiful woman. Olive skin practically glowing with deep, moss green eyes rimmed in thick, dark lashes. When she stood, you wondered if she had any bones at all, and wasn’t just pure, fluid energy with how effortlessly graceful she was.
“Welcome! Is this your first time here?” she asked pleasantly, her accent difficult to place, but likely from the more southern archipelago. Where the clans of Olvaer and Tahru resided.
“The first in a long, long time,” you admitted on a chuckle, letting the child down once you were certain he was preoccupied with his lioness and wouldn’t get into anything he wasn’t supposed to.
“Ah, you were probably expecting to see Saeda,” the woman sounded somewhat apologetic, “she’s semi-retired now, so I help out a few times a week. You can call me Zyra.”
It would be easy to dislike Zyra simply for being beautiful. Maker, you’d faced enough prejudice and contempt in your field for the same reason over the years. But there was something inviting about the woman, something genuine in the way she spoke. She inspired trust, whether it was in fashion advice or something deeper. She was probably one hell of a saleswoman, that was for sure.
You offered your name in return, a moment of recognition flashing across her eyes before it vanished and she moved around the counter to help you.
“What can I do for you and this adorable little guy today?” she asked, her question making you glance around the store that was teeming with selection. More than you’d seen in a long time. For so long, scrubs, a uniform and more practical clothes were all you wore, it was what you were comfortable with.
“Honestly? I’ve had more clothes destroyed in the last few months than I ever grew out of as a child,” you admitted, the atmosphere Zyra created in the shop making you feel equal parts at ease and confident.
Her brows rose, a sparkle of curiosity lighting her eyes, “For only good reasons, I hope?”
Yeah, you liked Zyra. No banthashit and with a sense of humor. The flush on your cheeks was answer enough, the other woman clapping her hands together once with an excited thrill.
“I know it’s contradictory as someone who makes clothes, but when a man rips them off…” She fanned her face lightly, her skin flushed.
You snorted, making your way over to a table where a variety of sizes and colors of the pants you wanted were neatly folded.
“Okay, yes—but I literally have one pair of pants left,” you complained, laughter lacing your tone as the ridiculousness of the situation made you giggle. You had just met this woman, and yet here you both were, talking about how you liked it when men tore your clothes off.
“Good!” Zyra sniffed from the other side of the table where she was checking for your size without even needing to ask you it, “That keeps me in business, give him my thanks!”
You both burst out into peals of laughter, the small store filled with the noise and you were infinitely grateful that there was only the two of you. Anyone else who walked in would think you both lunatics.
“Actually, I have just the thing for it—” she clicked her fingers while you were wiping the corner of your eyes from getting into a kink of laughter for the last few minutes, “wait here.”
Your brows furrowed lightly when Zyra disappeared in a flurry to the back of the shop, leaving you with the child who was sitting on a small stack of pants you picked out, patting the soft material. His ears were drooping, a clear indication that the day was catching up on him and your new clothes were tempting him to make them his bed.
When Zyra returned though, you hoped he had dozed off with the way your lips parted and face heated at what she brought out.
Could it even be considered clothes? Of course not, you chided yourself, it was underwear. Beautiful underwear, but definitely not something to be worn outside the bedroom. It would be a travesty to cover it up with clothes.
The sensual black set was beautiful enough on its own, classic and understated, but your eyes were drawn immediately to the delicate silver chains that looped in loose layers down the halter-neck of the bra and beneath the bust. You could practically feel the coolness of the metal on your skin, how good it would feel when you were overheated from lust.
But that wasn’t the thing that made you blush, your mind emptying. The matching suspenders were shaped to define and exaggerate your hips and thighs, and it reminded you of something you were certain wasn’t on Zyra or Saeda’s mind when they made it.
Your holster. Namely, the one Din gave you. The same one that drove him feral every time you wore it. Maker, the man had fucked you a few times when you were wearing nothing else. Made of the same black lace and chains, you reached forward to trace one of the silver hoops, mesmerized.
It had been a long time since you wore anything remotely like this, not since you enlisted. There’d never been a reason and then, there’d never been an opportunity.
“Well?”
You jumped when Zyra spoke, the excitement in her voice hushed with anticipation when she saw you admiring the set. Blushing, you dismissed the idea of buying it. You didn’t need it. Maker, you never ended up wearing much at all where Din was concerned, and he wasn’t a man who needed a visual aid to get horny.
Your pitiful excuses fell on deaf ears as Zyra hooked her arm around yours to lead you to a floor length mirror. You could’ve dug your heels in, but your resistance was paper-thin, and you followed her.
“Feeling beautiful is as good a reason as any to spend credits,” she explained, placing the hanging set in front of your body so you might get an idea of how you’d look in it. She didn’t need to, you were honest enough with yourself to know you’d look good in it.
“But if you do need another reason, there’s only two for why a woman buys this set, in particular.” Zyra continued, piquing your curiosity as she handed you the set for you to feel how unbelievably soft it was beneath the lace.
“Oh?” you prodded.
“Either it’s for a man who’s lucky to have you and needs to be reminded of that fact,” she smiled over her shoulder at you on your way to where the child was snoozing on your stack of clothes, “or it’s for a man who knows he is, and deserves to be rewarded.”
Well.
You smiled at her, recognizing you’d discovered a friend in this new landscape of your old life which was a far rarer find than a set of beautiful lingerie.
“How can I argue with that logic?”
Missing.
Missing.
MISSING.
Dirt kicked up and staining strong legs. Pacing, pacing, pacing but no one. Not there. Gone.
GONE.
You heard the screech before you saw it, coming up to the house at twilight. The setting sun cast a low light that mixed with purple shadows on the land and turned it into a dream. Or a nightmare.
The noise pierced the skies, sending flocks of nesting birds out of trees. It was like a dying animal, or an enraged one. A primal scream of anger that made your eardrums quake with pain and woke the child from where he slept on your lap.
And there it was, racing across the fields of nerfs grazing in the distance at a speed unnatural even for the species it looked to be.
A pylbuck.
Notes
Llyrian – Pamarthen god of the sea.
Amhra – Pamarthen goddess of the wind and weather, wife of Llyrian.
Maldo Kreis – a terrestrial ice-covered planet where Din crashed the Razor Crest in Part 1 of the New Republic Arc, and in S2E2 of canon lore.
Rhydian – readers older brother who died during the Battle of Malastare in 4ABY.
Hoverball – an intergalactic sport I liken to baseball. I had initially wanted to use get’shuk as the sport Din referenced given it is a Mandalorian sport (similar to rugby) but given that reader was unlikely to know what it was, would make poor Din’s joke fall like a lead balloon. We couldn’t have that.
Fiore buns – a sweet roll filled with bright blue jam and glazed with milk and honey.
Clan Macteer – one of the three sister clans of Macteer (the barrow wolf), Blayd (the maned wolf) and Shunak (the fiore fox). Did you know! The Fiore fox which represents Clan Shunak was called as such because of the blue that tips its ears and tail, allowing it to hide amongst the fiore without being seen
Conservation-droids – something of my own creation, though I’m certain something similar exists somewhere in the lore!
Sentinels – druidic sect of Pamarthen culture, more to come on these guys.
Mantaris – short for a Mantaris-class amphibious medium transport, this iconic ship capable of adapting to atmospheric flight, realspace and underwater. Developed through a co-operative effort between the Naboo and the Gungans to colonise aquatic moons in their orbit, I have transplanted a similar type of ship onto Pamarthe given it is also a predominantly aquatic planet. Quick note, the Mantaris is one of my favourite ships in the entire SW lore! It’s design is beautiful and the creativity behind it truly added something wonderful to the visuals of The Phantom Menace.
Kyr Carria – leader of Clan Carria, around 8-10 years older than reader who knew him growing up due to the friendship between his younger brother Kai, and readers brother, Rhydian. This friendship became something more briefly when reader was around nineteen.
Hireach – I took inspiration for this term from the beautiful Welsh word hiraeth that I learned many years ago in school. It carries mostly the same multi-layered meaning. It’s been described as a combination of homesickness, longing, nostalgia and yearning for a home you cannot return to, no longer exists or maybe never was. It can encompass grief or sadness for who you once were or what you lost. All tied in to the losses of your home not the same as you once remember it. It’s honestly one of the most beautiful words I’ve ever come across.
Moray and Faz – A holoshow cartoon for children. I have assumed that it was popular around the time of, or just before, Stitches as it’s recorded in lore that Han Solo used to let his son, Ben, watch it.
Pylbucks – these are ungulate creatures of my own creation while taking inspiration from the many, many variations throughout SW lore. The closest in appearance, and thus in name, are the kybucks native to Kashyyyk. Master Yoda famously owned several kybucks over his long life, and was known to have an affinity with them.
The Hearth of the Lion – the seat of power for Clan Leyghin, one of three lone peaks dotted across the Pamarthen landscape.
The Snags – nickname given to The Grey Wildlands by locals. An impenetrable area of Siodam’s Forest where speeders, ships and even humans struggle to pierce. A single mile can feel like ten with branches grabbing hold of your skin and clothes, slowing you down and concealing your path.
Clan Olvaer – clan of the solar bear located in the south-eastern islands, more tropical and sandy than the more stormy, rocky islands of the north.
Clan Tahru – clan of the tahg, a horned bovine, similar to a water buffalo.
#djarinsbeskar writes#din djarin x reader#din djarin smut#din djarin x you#din djarin#the mandalorian#the mandalorian x reader#stitches#the mandalorian fanfic#the mandalorian smut#mando x reader#mando x you#the mandalorian x you#din djarin fanfiction#star wars smut#mando smut#pedro pascal#pedro pascal fanfic
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Kinktober Day 29
WELCOME BACK TO KINKTOBER. This event killed me for a whole year and I'M BACK. The prompt list is made by @xxsycamore
If you want to read 2021's Kinktober the masterlist is on my pinned post.
Happy reading sluts. And remember to reblog
29: Cumming in pants | Accidental stimulation
He's been busy writing his book. And you know what that means? That he's been too busy to give you attention! How dare he. He's constantly all over you wanting attention, wanting to touch you, wanting to be touched and you have a few days off as a break and he's deep into writing his next novel.
The nerve. He gets up to get coffee and something to eat and he's back to writing. You will admit, it's hot to see Arthur dedicated to his work. But he should be dedicated to you.
Good thing you have a plan. Arthur has maybe gotten eight hours of sleep in total this week. Once he starts writing he can't stop. He only breaks to get his caffeine to stay awake. You think he deserves a break.
"Arthur?" No answer. "Arthur?" Still nothing. You get closer. "Arthur!"
"What is it love? I'm quite busy," he doesn't even look up.
You pout. But luckily you already had a plan. You were standing there in your bra and underwear with your shirt in hand. Raising it above his head you drop it on his lap.
You guess he was finishing the word he was on before looking down to see what you dropped. Putting his pen down he spun around in his chair and got wide eyed.
"Love, you-"
He started to get up and you pushed him back into the chair. "Stay there."
Damn. He even has his glasses on.
You turn him back around and push him into his desk, leaning over his shoulder. "Why don't you tell me what you're writing about? You've been writing for days after all."
Your hands gently massage his shoulders and then run down his arms, interlocking your fingers together.
"I think that can wait," he turns his head to give you a kiss but you stand up. You may have had to stand on your toes slightly, but you rest your boobs utop his head, still holding onto his hands, playing with his fingers.
He groans and tilts his head back, your boobs basically just resting on his face now. "You're teasing me, love. I thought that was my job."
"I thought your job was writing," you giggle and move your boobs off of him, not going to give him the satisfaction.
"My apologies, love. You know how I get. Once I get an idea I have to start writing."
He tried turning his chair again but you kept your body in the way.
"I know, and that's why I think I need to punish you," you smile and move his hands behind the chair, and use his ascot to tie his hands back. You made sure to grab it on your way in.
Finally you drop something on his lap again. Your underwear. He only has a second to look at them before you move your hand under his glasses to cover his eyes.
"Hmm. We have a blind fold in here somewhere don't we?" Keeping one hand over his eyes you start opening the drawers of his desk. "Ooo! Even better."
"Love? What do you think you're doing?" He couldn't see anything and was trying to remember what you could have possibly found in there that would work.
Handcuffs. You found handcuffs. You put the cuffs on his wrists before untying his hands. You needed both hands for that.
You used your body to block the chair from spinning. But Arthur just tried to look over his shoulder to get a peek at you.
"You're being naughty. I should have you over my knee to spank you."
"You'll be too tired to do that," you take his glasses off and block his vision with the fabric now and tie it behind his head. Finally you spin the chair around.
"Look at you," you purr and sit on his lap facing him. It was a good thing his chair didn't have arm rests. You drape your arms over his shoulders and play with his hair. "I've barely touched you and look at how hard you are. Your cock is going to make your pants rip at this rate."
You slowly rock your hips against him and he groans. You hear the cuffs moving as if he's trying to get his hands free. "Take it out and ride me already."
"I don't think you're in the position to be giving orders, love."
You were having too much fun with this. You move a hand down, and using your nail you press against the right fabric of his pants, going up and down in a straight line.
Just the slight friction got him to gasp. He tried to raise his hips but with no luck.
"P-please, love. Just take it out and stroke it a little. Play with the tip. Anything!"
"Hmm," you act like you're thinking about it. "I think you're going to be my little slut for the evening."
You can see his face getting red. "Do you like that?" You use the tip of your finger to draw the line now. "Do you want to be my dumb little slut?"
He whimpers and tries to move his hips again. One hand grabs the bottom of his jaw so that you're looking at him dead on, while with your palm you press hard against his crotch.
The sound he made was unholy, but it was music to your ears. "I said: do you want to be my dumb little slut?"
He nods his head quickly, moaning out approval.
"Use your words. I haven't fucked you senseless yet."
"Y-yes. My body belongs to you, love."
His moans get louder as your palm rubs in circles. "Good boy," you let go of his jaw.
Arthur's breath picked up as your palm added more pressure. You began kissing him, taking both hands off of him to unbutton his shirt to feel his chest.
You squeeze his pecs and give his nipples a pinch before getting down to his abs, your fingers just grazing the waistband of his pants.
He begins to whine into your mouth. You take your lips off of his wanting to hear all the noises he has to make.
Two fingers run up and down the outline of his shaft before maggassing where the tip is.
"Stop! N-no!" His body jerks and he tilts his head back.
"So you don't like that? I thought that was your favorite place to be touched," you tease and your fingers instead touch his thigh.
"Nooo! Please don't stop! K-keep touching me!" He bites his lip but it doesn't suppress his groans at all
"You mean like this?" You go back to touching his tip. You felt his cock twitch. "I wonder if I should let it out. I don't think you deserve that just yet."
"P-please," he sounds so out of breath.
A dark spot comes through the fabric from all his leaking precum.
"I have a much better idea. One that a slut like you will enjoy."
You stroke his cock through his pants, focusing on the tip.
"Ahh! Love! N-no I-"
The spot expands and the moans get louder as he cums. You stop rubbing him and smirk.
"You made a mess in your pants. When did I say you were allowed to cum, love," you grab him by the jaw again. "I should make you walk around with that stain in your pants. Show everyone how much of a needy slut you are. I didn't even need to take your cock out."
You begin to get his belt off and chuckle. "Your cock is still hard too. If you're a good boy I'll put your cock inside of me."
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BILE AND BLUE PANSIES
theend4’s supernatural poetry event
hey everyone!! egan here<33
so…. i recently hit a follower milestone… and i want to say thank you!!! wtf fr!!!! i love all of you so so much. i’m still an internet baby, but i’ve been active in different fandoms since around 2017, and this past year has been one of my favorite fandom experiences ever. i’ve made some really good friends and gotten inspired by so many different artists, writers, and ideas. thanks so much for being on this crazy journey with me.
SO WHAT?
one of my favorite things i got to do this year was share my poetry with you guys! it’s been an absolute joy to receive so many lovely messages from you saying how much you love my work. truly, your feedback means the world!
so, in honor of that, i’d like for you all to share your poetry with me! whether you’ve got 7 published poetry books or you’ve literally never even read any, i’d love for you to try your hand.
OK, WHEN?
September 18—September 24th, 2022
ALRIGHT, NOW HOW DOES THIS WORK?
READ the poems in the prompts, and then think about what you like about them—themes, voices, characters, endings, beginnings, word choice, formatting, etc!—and do some brainstorming!
WRITE one or more poems inspired by the ones listed! when i'm inspired by a certain poet, i like to try out writing in their syntax, their mannerisms, or their subject matter. give it a go! (for example: richard siken breaks up his lines across the page. if you've never tried this, playing around with indentation can be a super fun way to break up your lines!)
POST your poem either as a screenshot, photo, or plain text post to tumblr. (note: please provide a transcription of your poem in the caption if you decide to upload a photo.)
CREDIT the author of the poem you were inspired by in the caption! i won't reblog poems that don't give credit to their inspirations.
TAG your post with #bluepansypoetry and @ me so I can share your lovely creations!
DO YOU HAVE READING RECOMMENDATIONS? PROMPTS EVEN?
i do!!! please find my list of all-time-fave recommendations of supernatural-esque poems that i love below!! each day of the event focuses on one poem as a “prompt” or inspiration, so please read them all to see which ones you like! i tried to include a variety of styles. GOOGLE DOC OF THE POEM PROMPTS HERE!
SCHEDULING NITTY-GRITTY
SEPT 18: “french novel,” ritchie hoffman
SEPT 19: “colosseum,” jericho brown
SEPT 20: “fragment 147,” sappho, translated by anne carson
SEPT 21: “cagnes sur mer 1950,” jorie graham
SEPT 22: “road music,” richard siken
SEPT 23: “telemachus,” ocean vuong
SEPT 24: “object permanence,” madeline cravens
BUT I'VE NEVER WRITTEN POETRY!
i hear you say. yes. i have never tried oil painting, but i would like to! i believe it's important to keep an open mind when practicing new arts—you're never going to be "good" right away of course. besides, my goal isn't to write "good" poetry. (ok, maybe a little.) but i write poetry because i feel like a wildfire when i do. i write poetry because i might die if i don't. art keeps us alive. words feed the soul.
the best advice i’ve gotten about how to write poetry… is to read poetry. read bad poetry. read good poetry! and then sit down for a hot second somewhere and write. write for 8 minutes without stopping. you can write "i don't know what to write" 100 times over if that's all that comes to you. or you can write a play. describe the space around you. talk about what you had for lunch. something will come to you, i promise. and if it doesn't? gently put it away for now. there isn't any rush. you can come back tomorrow.
FINAL WORD
first: no hate speech! second: if you do create nsfw work, please tag it as such. i want everyone to be able to participate in this event safely.
thank you once again for being on this journey with me, whether you arrived today or have been here since before i even got into supernatural, i love you all dearly. good luck, and happy creating!!
also, if you were curious, this event is based on my poem (and song) blue pansies! which you can find here, if you like!
LINK TO THE POEMS AGAIN!!
remember to tag your work with #bluepansypoetry, and happy writing!!!
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🥔 po-tay-toes: one of the hobbits invited you for a meal; who are dining with? Which of the seven meals are you enjoying?
🍃 leaves of lórien: what gift would you most like to receive?
🌟starlight: you're allowed to live in one of the Elf Kingdoms of Middle Earth, which one are you picking?
🧂 best salt in all the shire: which small joys do you most look forward to? (particular tea, using a perfume, rereading a book, etc.)
☕ may I tempt you with a cup of chamomile?: What is your favourite hot beverage?
🌳 fangorn forest: Which of Tolkien's creechurs is your favourite?
🕷 creepy crawlies: which of tolkien's creatures do you think is the most frightening?
🔥 barbecue: who is the worst antagonist?
🗝 lost heirloom: which heirloom/object in the films or novels would you like to learn more about?
🍲eowyn's home cooking: which other way could the ring be destroyed? (funny answers only)
📕 the red book of westmarch : what is your favourite quote(s)?
👑the silver crown: the war is won, the world is saved, the king has been crowned. Who are you partying with at the coronation?
🏔 the misty mountains: the pass is treacherous, which two characters are you taking with you to make it over the mountains?
🌋 mount doom: what middle earth take are you throwing into the fire?
⚙ technology: everything is exactly the same but you can give one character a modern invention. Who is it and what are you giving them?
⛵valinor: we're approaching the end of this game, is there a take/opinion you absolutely want to share?
🦗 weta: you're allowed to take one prop (or the canon useful version) home with you from the set, what are you taking?
☀ when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer: either share a piece of good news or something you're looking forward to.
There, a nice short ask for you! ^_^
🥔 I'm dining with Frodo (and maybe Sam if he's around, because you know he'd be a great cook). I feel like we'd have plenty of things to discuss and we could discuss history and Elvish stories and make up poetry and sing songs. Yep, I'm daydreaming about this now.
🍃I don't think it's a surprise to say I want a sword. Imagine going off from Lothlorien on your quest and getting a First-or-Second Age sword from Galadriel herself! Although I would also be partial to receiving a vial of Earendil's light.
🌟What do you think? (Rivendell, it's Rivendell and always will be, I want to live in Rivendell so bad.)
🧂 listening to a good audiobook on the way to work (a thirty minute drive either way gives me a lot of time to get absorbed into a story). recently a good small joy for me has been playing LotRO at the end of the day. Also watching The Chosen on Sundays with my dad. I have a couple of hair clips and earrings I like that I think look really pretty on me and they make me feel fancy, so I've enjoyed that.
☕ I like coffee--I do enjoy tea, but I'm really picky because sometimes it really just tastes like hot water with a hint of leaf. I like flavor (so no black coffee for me, I have to have cream and sugar).
🌳Depends on what "creechurs/creatures(?)" means; if humanoid creatures, then the Elves are my favorite. If not, then...I like Huan. Talking dogs from Valinor just sound cool.
🕷The first orcs--the sheer body horror of twisted Elves having been tortured and corrupted into a form so adverse to what Eru Iluvatar created them to be is wonderfully terrifying. I enjoy those takes that rely on them being more or less like normal Elves, but just...to the left. Evil. Against anything good and warded off by beauty, the exact opposite to what Elves have been established to love. (Despite my misgivings about RoP, I really like what they did with Adar, he was a good idea.)
🔥?? Not sure. Feanor, maybe, just because it's unclear whether he's an antagonist or not. I think Sauron could have been more present in The Lord of the Rings, but Tolkien had a reason for not really showing him, so I can't call that 'bad' either. I've never really cared much for the 'antagonists' in Tolkien's works, simply because he's not that concerned with them as characters other than representations of evil corrupting good.
🗝 Maybe the Elfstone? I like the idea of this relic from the First Age being passed down to the Kings of Gondor in the Third Age, and I'd like to know what happened to it afterward. Also the maker of it is ambiguous, so it has a mysterious past.
🍲Glorfindel takes it back to Valinor and they throw it in the Void. It either becomes nothing or Feanor and his sons keep it out of reach of Morgoth until the Dagor Dagorath.
📕 There are....so many. But the one I thought of first was: “The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”
The one I thought of second was: "And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness."
👑 The hobbits would be great partiers!
🏔️ Aragorn would be a great companion—he’s climbed many mountains in his day. Maybe also Arwen, I just have a feeling she’d be a good traveling companion in hard times. She doesn’t appear much in the book but I get the sense that she’d be a loyal friend who looks after everyone.
🌋 There are so many bad takes I don’t even know. Character-wise? Russington. I can see the appeal, I get why people ship them, but also they are cousins. Actual Middle-earth centric? Maybe that the Valar are horrendous at their jobs and meddled too much/didn’t do enough. The Valar were working for the good of Middle-earth and, more importantly, to fulfill the plans of Eru Iluvatar, which I think is extremely importsnt to look at from Tolkien’s Christian POV. Of course people do have some valid criticisms, and fans can think whatever they want, I just think that sometimes I see people missing what Tolkien was trying to do (it’s something that took me years to come to terms with as well).
⚙️ I’d give Elrond medical science and bring HollersandHolmes’ AU to reality.
⛵ I don’t think so…
🦗 I’d take Legolas’ pair of knives. I’ve wanted them since I first watched the movies. They’re so elegant, so Elvish!
☀️ I’m pushing myself out of my comfort zone this year and trying to be such a more social person! I’m more confident than I was this time last year!
#guess what ask I stumbled across in my drafts?#completely forgot about this#ask game#lord of the rings#jrr tolkien
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So GRRM said that Tyrion, Arya, Dany, and Jon are his four most popular characters! Coincidentally they are also his favorites as he admitted. And also coincidentally they are the main characters along with Bran. And Dany and Jon and Arya are my three favorites and he knows their fates. I really hope it’s “good” fates
I'm smiling seeing another message from you! We have the same favorites, for me it's Dany (obviously), then Arya, then Jon.
I already knew Tyrion was his favorite, he said it multiple times, and that Aya and Dany were his two next favorites. I'm glad I saw this post where he mentioned Jon as well. It makes sense they're his favorites though: otherwise, why would he chose the outcasts as his key five characters? And it also makes sense that he already knows their endings. Changing things as he writes or not knowing where he's going with every character (like Dolorous Edd or Hot Pie as he said) is normal, but he does know what he's doing when writing the key five. It would be quite awkward to not even know where the key five characters' arcs are leading.
I also hope they're not bad fates. We know the ending is bittersweet, but the problem is that some people seem to think that it means at least one of the key five (if not more) needs to die. Huh... why? Just because they're still alive at the end of the last book doesn't mean they're not traumatized by what they've been through and their losses and that there's not a lot of work to do anymore. I've already said an ending with Dany dying would be awful, Arya dying would be an awful idea as well. Jon's already dead at the end of ADWD, him dying a second time for good would be a bit much in my opinion. There's less speculation about Tyrion's death, I don’t see him dying as a clever ending either.
Honestly, I don't think it's cliché for the key five to be alive in the end. It doesn't mean the ending won't be bittersweet, and it's more interesting to see what they're gonna do after everything that's happened to them and around them. What's cliché for me is to just get rid of some characters, like Dany and Jon dying to save the world, because the author can't think of another ending for the heros of his story. Now, I'm not fooling myself, I have absolutely no hope of ever reading the end. But Martin falling into clichés and easy endings for the key five characters after subverting tropes in the previous novels would be very disappointing.
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First let me say Your input is always so thoughtful and much appreciated! Second, do you think the rumors are true about not getting a KP Season2? I've seen people say it's because MA are the face of KP and they're too busy shooting their movie, but from a business pov doesn't it seem silly not to capitalize on KP while it's still hot? Esp when we don't even know how the movie will be received
Hello,
Thank you very much for your kind words. If season 2 isn’t happening, I doubt it’s only because of Mile and Apo schedule and the movie. I don’t really get what BOC is doing, do they even know themselves? They could be making decisions as they go based on what inspire them, for all we know. They have two main leads far too busy and 14 other actors who aren’t doing much?! Except for Jeff Satur.
For instance, what is Bible next work, move? As you said, ‘Doesn’t it seem silly not to capitalize on KP while it’s still hot?’ It’s what anybody would do. But they perhaps need a break from filming, etc. I don’t understand why they embarked on a world tour, delaying production of season 2 if they really intended to take advantage of KP’s success? Unless they’re unable to do so because of creative and production matters.
I believe one of the main issues is probably the script and working with the novel authors. It’s their creation so they have a say in what can be changed or not. If one hasn’t read the novel, one doesn’t really get how much work BOC put on the script. To each his own, but for me the novel is a mess, I couldn’t finish it, and for the avid reader that I am it’s rare. I have my own concerns with BOC but they did a remarkable job, they worked so much on characterisation which was lacking in the novel, the plot and they got rid of the use of rape to create fake angst. They created a unique story while keeping the essence of the novel. Vegas in the novel and the one in the series are certainly not the same. And what the authors have in store for the next novel is as troubling as the first one.
What else could it be? Financing? I doubt it. They have made a lot of money. BOC can also feel the need to explore new territories, have new adventures, they’re many ideas, books out there worth exploring. They can be picky now. They’re also rumours of next season focusing on the side couples. It could be an option but would they still call it KinnPorsche?
For me Mile and Apo have outgrown KinnPorsche, I don’t think there is more they could inject in those characters. They have done their best. They need to find other challenges and go beyond their own expectations. But I also understand emotions are involves, the love for instance Apo has for Porsche would make him perhaps go for more, if he has the time, of course.
In my humble opinion unless Mile and Apo are returning, with an amazing script, they should really stop there. It’s better to go off with a bang than a lukewarm reception.
I do believe the movie will be well received, it’s the right movie at the right time, and BOC knows it. People are more interested in what Asia entertainment industry has to offer. Thailand soft power hasn’t really been explored in depth and offered to an international audience lately. Let’s not forget Mile and Apo have now many followers at home and internationally. BOC doesn’t really need financial success, they had that with KP, they need to make an impact, seduce the critics at home and internationally and if the public follows, then BOC wins and wins BIG. And Mile and Apo of course get a crown.
Hugs,
LP.
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for @drarrymicrofic prompt 'Found' and @flufftober day 8 prompt 'Shooting Stars'
~~~~~~~~~~~
Draco examined the book in his hands with an unsettling curiosity.
It was like the worn hard bind cover with rusted metal tipped corners was desperately trying to attach itself to his clammy skin.
Something in him was oddly afraid of lifting the cover and seeing the pages. As if a key would slip from between the pages unlocking something he knew he wasn’t ready to accept yet.
He turned and gave Harry Potter a veiled glance over at the crimson sofa by the fireplace.
He frowned.
Without a conscious thought, his head snapped towards the window to see if it was snowing. It wasn’t. Why wasn’t it? Why should it? It was October, after all.
A star shot across the sky instead, leaving a glittery wisp behind that vanished in a blink of his unfocused eyes.
.....It had been snowing…..then....
Then? …..When? ….What.....
"Would you like me to read it to you?" Potter asked, turning away from the window from where he’d come to stand and took a sip from his cup of cocoa.
Draco suddenly craved a cup of cocoa too.
Draco, however, never asked for things from Potter. Why should he? He was imposing as it is despite Potter always telling him that he wasn't imposing; ‘don't be ridiculous, it's your home too, isn't it?’
Potter gently took the book from his hands and smiled when he looked at the title on its spine. He looked up and Draco, like ever since he had come back from the hospital, tried not to stare too deep into those piercing green eyes. It was difficult not to and he often failed much to his displeasure.
"Find Me" Harry read in a soft voice, letting his thumb stroke the fading title on the cracked spine.
Pott - Harry had a nice voice, Draco had noticed during his time here; deep and smooth during day and low and silky at night.
And something inside him wanted to hear more of it, more of this book which he was scared to open himself but that beckoned him with all its frayed pages and maybe set aside his pride and also ask for that cup of cocoa he so wished to drink while sitting on that plush sofa with crayon scribbling under the warmth of the fireplace with its coral red brick work and the beige rug with soot spots and the cinnamon candles that never ran out and perhaps - perhaps Harry.
Harry......
"Harry."
Draco had no idea why he had just blurted out the other man's name out of nowhere.
So he quickly added, "I'd like that. The book I mean, if you want that is."
Harry blinked for a second, his lips parting, then slowly turned to look out of the window with eyes just slightly wide if you looked close enough – which Draco always ended up doing - before facing Draco back again.
And Harry's face glowed under the soft shimmer of the fireplace as he, all at once, grinned one of his wide, bright grins that made the glasses on the bridge of his nose shift up with his flushed cheeks.
Draco immediately received a cheerful, "of course!" and aah, the hot mug with steaming cocoa, the mug that had a crooked creature printed on it which looked a mix between a dragon and a peacock. It was somewhat creepy but Draco was getting used to it.
Now, all he had to do was wait for the snow.
“To me it proves that life and time are not in sync.....” Harry began to read from a dog-eared page and yeah, Draco could definitely wait.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Ik I'm late for the day 8 prompt but i was waiting for the right inspiration and it came! the last line that Harry reads is directly taken from the novel Find Me by Andre Aciman. And the title is also a phrase from there. I've been reading this amazingly moving novel currently and I simply simply had to incorporate it here for this. So I indulged myself :p
#drarry#draco malfoy#harry potter#draco/harry#harry/draco#microfic#rating: unrated#@drarrymicrofic#@flufftober2022#day 8#prompt#Harry Potter fandom#harry potter fandom#all mistakes are my own#drarrymicrofic#boldlyinnocent317#my writing#CW:Memory loss#bi317writes
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So I mentioned Closer and Closer Still the other day. Gotta give a Six Sentence Sunday update on that now. :D
"I went to visit my father today," Barry replied, voice equally quiet. "I haven't seen him since he was arrested. There wasn't a trial, so... but it was like everything happened yesterday when I saw him."
"Do you want to talk about your visit? I admit... I am curious as to why you choose to speak with him now, after all this time. But I also recognize this is a very private thing for you, Barry. So if you would rather simply to have company or to be alone..." hesitantly, Wells reached out to take Barry's hand and squeezed it. "I'd like to be there for you, if you'll let me."
Eobard - I'm gonna be supportive, this is totally the correct social thing to do and will make Barry want to be friends with me.
Barry - He's holding my hand!!!! *blushes*
Disasters the lot of them. Eobard's not really taking Barry's crush on the Reverse Flash too seriously here. After all, he knows what it's like to have a childhood crush on the Flash and that there's a difference between crushing on the idea of someone and actually having feelings for that person. And since the Reverse Flash killed Nora - saving Barry from an abusive home in the process - that's just an idle childhood crush that's resurfaced, right?
When he realizes that Barry likes him as Harrison because of how well they're getting to know each other - with the Harrison persona being rather paper thin these days... that's really gonna throw him for a loop. Because he does rather like Barry too, after all. This Barry. Who he thought he'd hate as much as the previous timeline's Flash... but he doesn't. Can't.
I'm working on the second chapter of Welcome to 2015, but that's getting close enough to being ready to post that I'm just gonna wait on it. I do have a Buffy fic that I'm working on, though. I'll post a snippet from that. Another Buffy/Anya fic, though not part of the series I've been writing on and off.
Buffy's honestly a little bored with the stripper part of the party, but at least Halfrek was right about Anya enjoying herself. Buffy sends Dawn out of the room - the room the stripper was in, anyway, they had two reserved - and then spent the rest of that time the stripper was present with Tara playing 'guess what's in the box' regarding the gifts they'd brought Anya. They both guessed Halfrek's was a dildo - they're right - and that Dawn got her a bodice ripper type romance novel - they're both correct there too. (Buffy had gotten Anya a new dress to wear on the beach during the honeymoon and Tara got her a box of condoms. Which had Buffy doing a spit-take with her champagne when the box was pulled from the tissue paper filled bag. How was it that Buffy's gift was the only one that didn't involve sex in some way?)
The rest of the party is fun, though, with them nomming on green cupcakes that match the bridesmaid dresses and watching a marathon of Anya's favorite rom coms on pay per view. They take over the hotel's hot tub at one point, everyone a little tipsy except Dawn.
It's a S6 AU where Buffy and Spike don't hook up, but instead become good friends. Things fall out a bit differently when Tara and Willow break up. And Anya winds up living at the Summers' residence after her wedding to Xander doesn't actually happen.
It might tip over into Buffy/Anya/Tara, but right now the only ship I'm really planning on is Buffy/Anya.
#six sentence sunday#the flash#buffy the vampire slayer#fanfiction#barry allen#eobard thawne#barry x eobard#buffy summers#tara maclay#anya jenkins#buffy x anya
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What's your favorite Alexis Hall book and why? Also - are you excited about Husband Material? I'm really curious to see what he's going to do since we reached a HFN ending in the last book. There is a lot of development that could happen (paticularly with Oliver *fingers crossed*) but I'm not sure what he will think needs development.
As of right now-- Probably Pansies. Pansies is a wild ride from start to finish. The main character, Alfie Bell is a late bloomer on the gay scene. He comes out later in his adult life and has trouble reconciling between his now gay self and the young little homophobe he used to be. To make matters blurse, he has a one night stand with one Fenimore James O'Donaghue... the boy he used to bully religiously for being gay.
Why it's my favorite: Fen and Alfie are... HOT messes. Them together?? an even bigger hot mess. each scene with them is full of knives (usually thrown by Fen, and for good reason) but. both of them are so full of hurt and hope it's always interesting to see which is going to prevail in the moment.
Sometimes it's hurt--- and you get glimpses into the damage that Alfie carries; His homophobia didn't sprout from the ether. It was very much instilled in him by his parents and his community... and sometimes you see Fen's damage; a clearly queer man in a very conservative and fearful North England community.
But then you also get to see their hope-- Alfie falls head over heels for the absolutely venomous and wild Fenimore, while Fen has to reconcile that despite being BULLIED by Alife, he still had a long standing crush on the jerk. Except?? Oh no he's just a damaged human being coated in toxic masculinity and when he's SOFT he's the best and oh no here comes those old feelings again.
It's different from his usual works. It feels more like ALFAD than BM. and I absolutely love his like... richer?? exploring the trauma and deep pain kind of works.
Husband Material: I've been waxing on this one for awhile. I don't think Alexis had ever planned on Husband Material being a thing when he wrote Boyfriend Material. A lot of his works are one offs; or if they become a serial they tend to shift focus on to other couples. (Winner Bake, Something Something, Spires, ect.)
However, Alexis has also had several opportunities to continue on works after they were seemingly "complete"; which is in the case of Kate Kane and now Spires. He mentions that he's always got ideas floating around "Just in case" he gets the opportunity to do more work with one piece or another. So I feel like Husband Material is very much his "oh, this was popular??? I've got a just in case already drafted in my notes LET'S GO I can work on this BECAUSE A) I want to and B) financial incentive." So I have enough faith in him to wholeheartedly believe it's NOT GOING TO suck! So I have that to look forward to.
As for the plot... Honestly, I don't think we're going to go back to Luc's perspective. His perspective in this relationship seemed to round itself off nicely in Boyfriend.
So I think we might be going into a book from Oliver's perspective. Which?? I really hope for because that would be dope and what the series more or less needs. Luc got a lot of healing in the first novel, so now it's Oliver's turn! I also wouldn't mind a dual perspective on HM either, where we get a bit of Luc and a Bit of Oliver (similar to what he's done in A Lady and A Duke) just. so we can get to see Oliver tick a little more since we're all invested in Oliver's growth.
The thing I want to see the most in Husband Materials is Luc's mom going "ah yes I have a SECOND GAY SON LET ME LOVE YOU IN MY WEIRD WAY."
because honestly Oliver deserves that so much.
ALSO OH SHIT IT comes out on WEDNESDay holy smokes
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Diane, I am wondering something about writing and you are very wise and very kind.
For context, I've been seeing a therapist for a few months and just saw a psychiatrist Sunday night and they both used the phrase "dissociative daydreaming". It started when I was about 13 and I'm 28 now and it is getting in the way of my life. I'll be having a one-on-one conversation with someone alone in a quiet room and completely miss a few seconds of what they say, and I zone out a lot when eating at restaurants and it creeps people out. The psychiatrist says we are going to work on getting this under control in the next couple months.
The thing is, I like writing fiction and I do a lot of my imagining while I'm in this "zoned out" state. You know, that being a major part of dissociative daydreaming. So I'm wondering, sorry for assuming (assuming makes an ass out of you and me), but if you do not also dissociative daydream, or any other fiction writers here do, how do you think about your stories? Do you just sit down at your desk and say to yourself "I shall write a story now" without leaving your unoccupied body staring at a wall?
First of all: my apologies for having taken so long to get to this... my ask box is so piled up with overdue stuff right now. (sigh) And thanks for the nice words. I don't know about the "wise", and sometimes I screw up the "kind", but I do what I can with what I've got.
Anyway, re: "Do you just sit down at your desk and say to yourself 'I shall write a story now' without leaving your unoccupied body staring at a wall?"
...Yeah, pretty much. Here's how the story-building process usually goes for me.
First I outline. (As detailed here.) The outlining is for me the equivalent of drawing a blueprint, or doing the measure-twice work that comes before taking a saw to the materials you're going to use to build a bookshelf. For this part of the process, as I assemble the underlying framework of the story, I've found it vital to be as completely present, alert and aware as possible. This is where the order of physical action gets laid out, errors of reasoning get caught, blind alleys get erased from the blueprint, useless character transactions get identified and thrown away, and hunches / incomplete ideas get incorporated.
While assembling the outline, if I find my concentration drifting or somehow compromised, I stop work as quickly as possible and put it aside until I can find time to deal with it when I won't be distracted by other stuff. Much experience has taught me that if I get sloppy about this, I may well wind up being really annoyed about it later on... secondary to having missed something vital about character interactions, or screwed up some important sequence of physical action. The writing time lost in fixing careless errors of this kind infuriates me... so I take my time with the outlining.
It's after the framework of the story is in place that the vaguing-out stages of both writing and thinking about the writing come into play. Over many years I've found that the shower, in the morning, is one of the best places for this. Usually when I'm in active writing mode on a project, the first thing I'll do after waking up (while still in bed) will be to look over the writing done the previous day, and—if there's need—check the outline to see what I was planning to do next. Then I hit the showers.
That's where the ideas really start to flow while I'm unfocused: scene descriptions and action sequences in particular. I don't know what it is, but running water really seems to do it for me. (One time I was up at this place for a writing trip, and plotted about six novels one after the other, over a week. Those tubes in the picture dump a liter of hot water per second onto your head. Very, very effective for me.)
...I'm also absolutely horrified to have to admit that one of the very best places for me to be in order to have dialogue arrive is at the kitchen sink, doing dishes. Possibly because there are few other situations in my day to day life where I more desperately want to have my mind be somewhere else. Anywhere else. (But also: running water again...)
In between these two modes of composition lies a hybrid "full-spectrum" writing mode in which I can switch pretty much seamlessly from total immersion in the scene presently unfolding to a more analytical examination of what's going on: a constant realtime adjustment of format issues, timing, pacing, and a lot of other things. When in this mode I can vague out when necessary, inventing new stuff as needed or refining material that was already there, and then snap back into the mode where I'm keeping an eye on paragraph lengths or whether there are too many em-dashes popping up. :)
...Anyway, that''s how it goes for me. The usual caveat applies here: other people's (entirely successful!) processes will not necessarily look anything like this. ...Meanwhile, I absolutely wish you good results in your upcoming brainwork, and the better management of your own process.
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Yikes!
I just read Alien Daughters Walk into the Sun by Jackie Wang and it made me so happy to see posts from Tumblr put into a book. Like it's something that I've always thought worthy of doing, but to actually see it done and popped up in the windows of my local bookshops is another thing. I think the immediacy of writing for Tumblr is something that we're told as writers to avoid. That is, you should instead take time to dwell and edit and construct a text. And yes, I know that largely this is how good novels and collections are made, but sometimes I think my best work comes from just dumping my thoughts all out onto a page. Because that's what I think. That's who I am. For me, that exactly summarises how I think. I'm tryna write some kind of novella/story atm and I am struggling. So maybe that's why I'm now like y'know what FUCK intention what comes out is what comes out. There has always been this thought that exists inside of me that is like I'll never be able to construct a piece of writing that I've planned. I'll never be able to plan what I write. I'll never be able to properly finish a piece of writing because before halfway I'll be like this is hot rubbish. Or I'll literally just start thinking I'm not gonna finish this and I won't. That is the practise though, pushing through despite every outward and inward signal telling you to stop and do something else. Which is also why I'm here, writing this down in the first place because I'm avoiding what I'm actually meant to working on. Yikes!
Plummeting down the text box though is a different feeling in entirety. This sudden, immediate writing fuels me, makes me feel unstoppable that I can just spill myself out here without knowing what the result will be. Looking back at the end of the paragraph being like these are the things that are actually on my mind. Sometimes Conor can pick up on a mood and ask what's up and I literally don't know how to say it because I don't know what it is. Sometimes my thoughts just float around my head and I try and try to grasp onto them, to turn them into something tangible that I can work with or ask others to help with, but I can never. They leave and I'm left with a head full of nothing, embarrassed that I'm so low without a way to communicate this without sounding like I'm turning into my Mother. Because that's where I've seen this vacant behaviour before, in my Mother as I'm talking to her in the passenger seat while she drives me to school, and she's nodding at the correct times but she's miles and miles away. She'll eventually admit she's thinking about something else. But more importantly there's incidents where she's in the middle of talking and will lose it, will lose the thought and it's impossible to get back. There's a few seconds of an attempt to remember, an embarrassed shake of the head, then finally an immediate task to distract herself from the idea that she's lost that thought. She'll usually go back to folding washing or reading a cookbook or leave the room entirely. It happens to me too, and it happens to my Mother, and it happened to her Mother. My Nana so bright and full of love but without her thoughts. I don't remember much of her when she was my Mother's age, but towards the end of her life she was without them entirely. What do dementia patients think about when they're alone? Do they reflect on their own lives or somebody else's? Do their thoughts become more external than internal? I worry my Mother is headed for this, and I worry that I am too.
So these posts are important because they are how I think. They document my thoughts, and I look back each time a couple of years later and go oh, I guess I did feel that way, because sometimes I genuinely do not remember. And without this form of writing, I would not remember. I'll have moved through it all without knowing how, without knowing where it is I have moved from, without remembering how to connect the dots.
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Yikes!
I just read Alien Daughters Walk into the Sun by Jackie Wang and it made me so happy to see posts from Tumblr put into a book. Like it's something that I've always thought worthy of doing, but to actually see it done and popped up in the windows of my local bookshops is another thing. I think the immediacy of writing for Tumblr is something that we're told as writers to avoid. That is, you should instead take time to dwell and edit and construct a text. And yes, I know that largely this is how good novels and collections are made, but sometimes I think my best work comes from just dumping my thoughts all out onto a page. Because that's what I think. That's who I am. For me, that exactly summarises how I think. I'm tryna write some kind of novella/story atm and I am struggling. So maybe that's why I'm now like y'know what FUCK intention what comes out is what comes out. There has always been this thought that exists inside of me that is like I'll never be able to construct a piece of writing that I've planned. I'll never be able to plan what I write. I'll never be able to properly finish a piece of writing because before halfway I'll be like this is hot rubbish. Or I'll literally just start thinking I'm not gonna finish this and I won't. That is the practise though, pushing through despite every outward and inward signal telling you to stop and do something else. Which is also why I'm here, writing this down in the first place because I'm avoiding what I'm actually meant to working on. Yikes!
Plummeting down the text box though is a different feeling in entirety. This sudden, immediate writing fuels me, makes me feel unstoppable that I can just spill myself out here without knowing what the result will be. Looking back at the end of the paragraph being like these are the things that are actually on my mind. Sometimes Conor can pick up on a mood and ask what's up and I literally don't know how to say it because I don't know what it is. Sometimes my thoughts just float around my head and I try and try to grasp onto them, to turn them into something tangible that I can work with or ask others to help with, but I can never. They leave and I'm left with a head full of nothing, embarrassed that I'm so low without a way to communicate this without sounding like I'm turning into my Mother. Because that's where I've seen this vacant behaviour before, in my Mother as I'm talking to her in the passenger seat while she drives me to school, and she's nodding at the correct times but she's miles and miles away. She'll eventually admit she's thinking about something else. But more importantly there's incidents where she's in the middle of talking and will lose it, will lose the thought and it's impossible to get back. There's a few seconds of an attempt to remember, an embarrassed shake of the head, then finally an immediate task to distract herself from the idea that she's lost that thought. She'll usually go back to folding washing or reading a cookbook or leave the room entirely. It happens to me too, and it happens to my Mother, and it happened to her Mother. My Nana so bright and full of love but without her thoughts. I don't remember much of her when she was my Mother's age, but towards the end of her life she was without them entirely. What do dementia patients think about when they're alone? Do they reflect on their own lives or somebody else's? Do their thoughts become more external than internal? I worry my Mother is headed for this, and I worry that I am too.
So these posts are important because they are how I think. They document my thoughts, and I look back each time a couple of years later and go oh, I guess I did feel that way, because sometimes I genuinely do not remember. And without this form of writing, I would not remember. I'll have moved through it all without knowing how, without knowing where it is I have moved from, without remembering how to connect the dots.
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“Fourth Wing”
25/12/2023
Reading progress: 105/498 (21%)
Read through since last update: 105
I'm not going to lie, throughout this last year or so, as "Fourth Wing" reached the height of its popularity, I kept thinking whether or not it would even make sense for me to give it a chance. Sure, I do like a good YA novel, and I am a huge lover of dragons, but I know this book would potentially not be cut out for me.
Still, when I noticed my library finally had a copy available, and when I heard my friend actually liked it and thought of it as fun, I decided to give it a chance.
I don't expect this to be my favorite book. Far from it. But I do hope it's at least going to be entertaining. So I'm staying positive! I actually do hope I'll like it in the end. And I do hope I'll like the romance part of it!
And so, without further ado, the notes so far: (Spoilers ahead!!!)
I hate when female characters, especially teenage or adolescent ones, are portrayed as if they hate their perfect, curvy body because it's not up to another character's standard. It's such a pet peeve of mine. If you want to have an unattractive or flawed character, at least try to make one. Don't try to sell me a beautiful girl that somehow doesn't understand she's beautiful. We've been over that trope one too many times.
The dialogue is so tacky. I feel like I'm reading a fanfiction made by a 13 y/o.
She's surprised she passed the physical even though her mom mentions she was one of the top applicants?
Wait a second. The riders quadrant is the only sector that takes up only volunteers. But what about Xaden then? And the other rebels?
Chapter 1 is done. It's extremely info-dumpish. Too much is said, as if the author wasn't ready to let go of her first draft and was concerned her bland characters wouldn't keep her reader's attention, so she compensated by revealing too much, which, in my case, didn't work. I started reading this with low expectations, but seems like they weren't low enough...
At least three people have asked her if she's really the General's daughter in the last 5 pages.
Maybe it's because I just read "Gideon the Ninth" and was blown away by how realistic Muir portrayed physical exertion, or if it's my own experience in sport, but I don't vibe with the way Yarros writes about Violet's training and her approach to high stress during some performance (like walking over the parapet). It feels so... Plastic. Unrealistic.
Things are looking up after chapter 2. Even though I feel as if there's still too much happening, it's at least becoming more interesting. But I am yet to find a character I actually find likeable. All of them are so bland...
It gets a little better, then it gets a little worse. That scene with Xaden on the rotunda and Dain trying to protect Violet is so forced. And for what? And now she's running? And for what? Is Xaden really this animalistic to hurt Violet in broad daylight, without being provoked? (Going back to this after continuing with reading and I still don't really understand the point of it?)
I hate how easy this romance is structured. Xaden is the bad guy that secretly probably has the hots for Violet, while Dain is the "good guy" that seems to be the right choice, but is way too overprotective. And Violet is the token beautiful, snarky female protagonist that doesn't comprehend her worth. It's like they were picked straight out of the "generic love triangle mold".
I do wanna read this book. I wanna know what comes next, I'll confess that much. But the balant info-dumping that happens in every chapter... Not to mention the incredibly poor worldbuilding... It sticks out too much for my own liking.
Okay, okay! Now we're talking! That Battle Brief class was actually very well constructed! Much better that what I've seen so far. Now that was a good scene where I got a lot of information in a very interesting and entertaining way!
As for stuff that's been revealed. I like the idea of wards. I like the idea that they're faltering. I like how Violent used her chance to prove she's cunning! Nice nice nice.
Okay, I'm 50/50 on the sexual talk. Sometimes it's fine, sometimes it's so forced. The fact that guys train without their shirts? Idk, weird and yucky in my opinion. I know this is a romance, and I'm no prude, but like... Not liking this choice. Mostly because it's kinda stupid. They don't wear shirts cause they fear someone is gonna grab them by it and use it as their advantage? By that logic, they should be completely naked? (You could say I'm nitpicking, but it's weird. And I'm entitled to my own opinion. 🤷)
The training montage was cool! I really like how brutal Imogen was with Violet. Made the ending so much more effective. And painful. That's going to hurt for a while.
Can Dain just fuck off already?! I know he's worried, but damn. Leave the girl alone! She doesn't know what she's doing, but she's smart enough to push through anyway.
I do love the relationship Mira has with Violet. And I like how they kept that one little memory of Brennan. Yes, it's useful, but it's also obviously comforting, and I love how that feeling was portrayed in the text.
I get you, Violet. I'm not keen on names either. I suck at them. But still, Yarros really doesn't have to keep making a background out of every single character that appears in this book. Violet doesn't know their names because she doesn't have to. Like, come on, just say it's some guy and move on with the dialogue.
I really liked that snarky little remark from Xaden when he says she should go back to bed. 👌
Speaking of which, glad to know the separatists are teaming up and scheming. Because now I'm wondering what they're scheming about. What's the catch here? 🤔 I'm guessing that there's more to the rebellion that meets the eye. In other words, the Naveare ain't as guiltless in the whole thing as they present in Basgiath.
Yoo, Rhiannon and Tara?? Nice. Knew there was something fruity about her.
Oh, stuff is cooking. I like the whole part with Brennan and Naolin, the former rider of the black dragon, though there's something left unsaid here. It's unlikely he wanted to revive Brennan just because he wanted to win a favor with the General. Something else is at hand here. Maybe love? Maybe treason?
Violet really put herself into deep shit by going a little too far with her concoctions. Fighting Xaden next? What an ending to a chapter.
Okay, I'm done for now. Probably gonna continue tomorrow (especially because I got sick and now I'm bedridden :<).
After a very rough beginning, this book started to be really fun and I'm glad I kept reading! It is generic, but at least things are finally starting to fit into place and it seems like Yarros finally grew into her style. (If that makes any sense.)
#reading journal#reading#dnevnik čitanja#dnevnik citanja#dnevnik#journal#fourth wing#rebecca yarros#fantasy#romantasy
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guden thought dump
(pronouns will vary, it's not deep I prommy)
the OP is so so so hot everyone is x100 more beautiful somehow . FANS. truly whats hotter than women dancing w fans. actual fav op after kiden's.
ok so im v bad at parsing lyrics in songs of any language by solely hearing them but im p sure they mention Ishiyama - the temple at which it is said murasaki shikibu wrote out the entire tale.
i've heard that ayana has a background in ballet?? norimune could high kick me any day of the week
being bi really amplifies things
hajimeyouka ^^
well the goal here is to make the tale of genji into actual history. that would implicate and fuck up the existing imperial lineage ig.
its soooo weird to see kasen being so friendly and vibing w his teammates bc usually he has a massive stick up him . he even lets ookurikara go his own separate way pursuing the shikigami (?) like???? thats a step up from the hostility theyd share n he's more trusting of kara in this honmaru.
individual fights now. norimune really is stealing the show i cant tear my eyes off herrrr.
its so cute how nansen and himetsuru call each other hime no aniki and nan-kun........ and nansen being taller than hime too. like an elegant elder sibling indulging the younger scruffier one.
hmmm so in GM the 'rainy night conversation' scene where genji and co. r dissecting what kind of woman would be the best to pursue takes place in hahakigi, literally the second chapter, and the opinions of women they put forth in the text r presented as worldly advice that spurs genji to realize that he loves fujitsubo, and in the long run, also shapes his motivations behind kidnapping wakamurasaki ("it is probably not a bad idea to take a wholly childlike, tractable wife and form her yourself as well you can"). while the entire thing does reek of misogyny its more nuanced and bealievable given that the characters justify their opinions w anecdotes (also very fucked up in their own right). guden sort of downplayed the nuance there by solely having genji, to-no-chuji et al focus on beauty and a few quick lines resembling a summary of one or two paragraphs of to-no-chujo. it serves its purpose but......i would have liked it to be a bit longer.....
OHHH MY GOD one of them says 「美しさは人を惑わせる」 / beauty leads people astray which is just like kasen saying 「美しさは兎角人を狂わせる」 / beauty tends to drive people to madness' in kiden. didnt realize my blog title could fit both sutes
*touken danshi roasting the misogynistic convo* this has so many layers bc. written by a woman -> story centred around a casanova -> adapted into a stage play for a franchise that only has male characters -> all of the roles are played by actresses
this kasen uses his hands while talking and its such an extrovert trait its throwing me off lol.
gyoukan: between the lines of the text vs honpen: main story. so gyoukan is the designated period where the people behind the roles of the characters of genji monogatari retain their original sense of self, while during honpen they completely become the characters n forget their real selves. so koshosho no kimi (one of murasaki shikubu's close friends) is the antagonistic empress mother of the tale, kokiden no nyogo.
hmmm i wonder what the mechanism that determines the turnover of gyoukan/honpen is. the touken danshi arrive in heian-kyo, and find the entire era under control of this dichotomous influence, but how did the hra even manage to pull off smth on this scale? and why even give leeway to the touken danshi to break this process by keeping the gyoukan as a loophole?
but actually id say gyoukan serves its purpose in expanding upon the finer aspects behind the work and working it into the narrative.
so murasaki shikibu's caught on to the fact that the novel's story should be destroyed to stop this historical aberration and passes the book onto koshosho no kimi's keeping and thats why shes been resisting the forced characterization even tho its honpen rn
they made rokujou no miyasudokoro an ONMYOJI
koshosho hands three books to kasen. im glad they kept this little detail bc in fact genji monogatari is divided into three parts: the first two deal with the life of Genji and the last w two of Genji's prominent descendants, niou no miya and kaoru. theres much academic contention abt how much of the later chapters murasaki shikibu herself wrote, whether there were supposed to be more chapters, all the complications added from the fact that no original text exists etc etc but sute's understandably not involving itself w all that.
how come rokujou Knows shes in a story,,,,
like what is the criteria for someone to be aware theyre an actor
norimune's so Pretty its like hes a statue in a display case made to be revered . the curves of your lips rewrite history etc
kasen literally has sparkles in his eyes when talking abt how genji is a tale of love + how his prev master was one who lived alongside love and nansen paws him and says 'you bring up your former master everytime' wwww
norimune and himetsuru whispering to each other behind norimunes fan is,. literally the peak sexy use of a fan
apparently hosokawa yuusai used to be regarded as an authority on genji .... and thats why kasen is so passionate in his explanation of it. what a nerd (affectionate)
nansen being disgusted by the fact that genjis #1 love was a woman that resembled his mother . girl it gets worse hang on tight
make way for the hottest most haunting fucking part of this sute (starts reciting th names of all 54 chapters) boy am i glad i read all the chapters guden covers
honpen time....utsusemi's chapter. really fun that they included the snippy remarks towards genjis lecherous insistence and nansen's tsukkomi to genji flattering himself. this man keeps getting more and more disgusted by genjis actions towards women its so funny
yeah they did the sex.
the poem that earns utsusemi her name in genji monogatari (just gonna shorten that to GM from now on) is: 'underneath this tree, where the molting cicada shed her empty shell / my longing still goes to her, for all i know her to be' referring to the kimono she leaves behind while escaping him. but the poem kasen recites is 'just as drops of dew settle on cicada wings, concealed in this tree / secretly, oh secretly, these sleeves are wet with my tears' which is actually utsusemi's own reply to genjis aforementioned poem in GM.
RARE kasen boke moment. at least he realized he shouldnt make utsusemi accept genjis advances for the sake of distorting GM's plot bc that would be against her wishes. consent > tentatively correcting history. rare W there. genji could never.
interesting moral conflict here...norimune and choumou would rather cut down petty things like consent for the greater good of protecting history.
ookurikara went on a solo mission to confront genji while the rest (all 5 of them) go witness utsusemis chapter. so their plan mutsve been to break apart the story by either distorting the women's part of the story, or killing genji himself. what kind of insane confidence did kasen have to let kara go on his own to kill genji lol. also whats with the uneven team distribution....
ookurikara smack cam😔😔
genji cant die bc it isnt his time to die, as per GM. so he has infinite revival and plot protection to back him up
ironic that genji calls kara dekuningyou/ wooden puppet as an insult for a hollow and manipulated being bc at the end of the day isnt he also supposed to be bound by the story thats woven around him? yeah hes gained sentience now, but originally he existed inside the fourth wall, just like originally touken danshi used to be metal. but then again, this role-reversal has been brought about precisely so that his story will be recorded as reality, as his own actions, and that would make him better than sword puppets who will always be invisible and obedient toward the saniwa.
kasen: thank you for your hard work, i appreciate it ^^
kara: im not ur errand boy
kasen: ya thats why i expressed my gratitude (classist nod)
no one perfectly knows what the creator intended save for the creator themself, so only murasaki shikibu can know the contents of kumogakure, and she alone will be able to kill him.
thats the 'lack' in GM which leaves the death subject to interpretation. what genjis last moments are like, who he was surrounded by, etc etc will never be known to us. but since theres no description of his death, in what manner will he die....
for the love of god theyre SOOOO. (not meant in a shippy way tbc)
rokujou's actress is so good. thats a fucking villain alright.
hmm when the characters place blame on murasaki shikibu for making them the way they are, theyre also discounting the coherence and agency of the tale that has its roots in courtly affairs
with sentience also comes the indispensable fourth wall . and the newfound denial of free will.
chilllllls when genji wraps the manuscript around kasen as the newly formed genji.
"a tWeLvE LAyErEd KiMiNo woNt SuiT yOU" BET
ughfjdhjsdhvjksnj aoi no ue's baby fjkdsnfkjsdnvjkdsbnfjbwkjfnrkjfnekfnjewbfskdfnrkfnuejfnskjfnjsefnefkjbejkfn this scene is so kfjsndjfkjdnjvkbfgjbdfvnwsedrftgybhnjkmnhbgfrdecfvgbhjbgfdsrxcgvhbjnkmjhuygtfrdtfwghdvbcehefbiuwgnuwifn 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 FUCK😭😭😭😭😭😭KASEN AS GENJI HOLDING HIS BABY 😭😭😭😭😭
BECAUSE THATS SOMETHING NO TOUKEN DANSHI WILL EVER GET TO EXPERIENCE IT MAKES ME A LITTLE INSANE
hes a father....like an Actual Biological father......
ok but that doesnt happen in GM like in no shape or form do they share a happy-married-couple-cradling-their-child moment like that but also i am not complaining
youve got to fucking wonder when aoi says "resembling hikaru-gimi, how beautiful you are!" to her baby is it resembling kasen. Like does she mean the abstract concept of beauty that is general rather than particular or does it have purple hair blue eyes etc. sorry
ach whys sanchoumou spouting nikkaris battle lines. and norimune's saying kogarasumaru's and hime's doing hasebe's
actually i really like this. the government's actually outdone itself . using the power of anecdotes of swords and attaching them to unrelated swords to make them stronger...well ofc the expected end result is for mkzk and to sort out the number he's done on the timeline, but this is still! so! delightfully fucked up!! the end result of increased power takes precedence over individual stories!!! the ichimonji themselves dont seem to mind the fact they might just be an experimental citadel after all .
does that mean that kasen having gracia as master wouldve made him stronger than if he was regular old kasen w tadaoki ..? and ookurikara being stronger without the date attachment ..? but they still do retain their original characteristics. except that kasen is not as intense. <-idk if thats just the way kaichan interprets him or it's intentional writing
hello ms murasaki shikibu finally. fitting that the author takes the role of she who is forever out of genjis reach, and the person playing genji is an avid GM fan thats willing to doom history as we know it to save the author. get you a man like that etc etc<- NOT.
its so very sad that genji has to find a replacement for fujitsubo in a child of all places.
'Because it's from zuka and the cast is all female, the harshness is alleviated, and because it's a female cast, the hellishness of the women who live the story as reality stands out' <- someone i follow on twt said this and its so so true
ive read a bit of murasaki shikibus diary + the context of it and the reason why people were so dissuasive of murasaki was bc she was keen on pursuing the chinese texts and those were, as a rule, male territory. while men concerned themselves w chinese characters, women wrote in kana, and . that is why the big fabric of script they use in guden has only kana on it !! bc its a tale by a women for women. 'The Tale of Genji’s readership too has been naturalized female, at times discussed as if women were the exclusive audience of the tale, not least because by Murasaki’s time in the Heian period fictional tales had long been identified as a generic category for women.' (x)
lmfaoo suetsumuhana's actress-courtier saying she didnt like sei shonagon's makura no soushi as much as shikibu's GM (<- context is that shonagon served the empress teishi and was the literary jewel of her entourage while shikibu was empress soshi's. shikibu had some not-so-polite words to say abt shonagon in her diary w)
rattles cage DEATH OF THE AUTHOR DEATH OF THE AUTHORRR
perhaps soshi asking shikibu abt why she decided to write a tale of 'man and woman' is the only instance she was asked abt her intentions behind it
i like shikibus answer actually. it doesnt advocate for separatism of the 'man' and 'woman' binary, but shelters the motivations and flaws of characters under the umbrella of simply 'people'. ofc the book is a criticism of male whims and ofc guden does take it that way, but the motivations and fates of all characters cannot be put solely in the neat category of 'due to gender', bc in the end even the characters and ofc shikibu herself realize that this is how the wider society has molded them to be. so, it is 'a tale of people'
thatd mean touken danshi are outsiders with no relation or stakes in the tale, they are neither women who have loved/endured affairs, nor are they men that whimsically toy around in love. they are there to voice (ours, the audience's) morality.
so the logic used by th Nobody is: waka and poems are permissible bc they r expressions of the heart, but not prose that contains fiction, which is why writers like izumi shikibu and sei shonagon will be spared while murasaki shikibu will fall into hell. all out of respect for buddhist precepts. (mental note to translate shiotsuki shu's blog entry soon)
and making the lie that is GM into reality/truth will absolve shikibu of her sins
just realized...didn't Ishiyama temple become a sort of tourist spot for allegedly being the spot where GM was completed? Ironic how such a 'heretical' piece of work could come into being in the house of god.
really good stuff in this paper
seeing how protests only arose from the 12th century on and there arent any surviving records of such criticism from the time shikibu wrote , im inclined to think that maybe the unnamed man that confronts shikibu is literally some rando guy from the latter centuries that got picked up by the HRA, from when the availability of printed books led to GM being way more accessible . bc come to think of it - its highly unlikely shikibu would Not know a courtier, the only class that was in the know abt GM. but then again, absence of evidence is not evidence of absence, so maybe putting that 'nobody' there as a placeholder male aristocrat is so he can serve as vehicle for the problems that arise when fiction is come across by those who were unintended as target readers in the first place, in this case, men.
also its sort of ironic how the guy (the nobody) is overly concerned with the metaphysical fate of shikibu while the flow of history has proved agin and again that she remained not only an author that was respected and idealized, but also a historian that was treated as a valuable source on heian noble etiquette. typical patriarchal delusion stemming from misplaced concern.
well either way, whether all this is true or not, its p clear that there have been exaggerations and unproved myths surrounding shikibu and GM all along, whether be for or against, so should another lie really make any difference in the grand scheme of things?
'....aren't we also a big lie? what a sinful existence are touken danshi' norimunes fucking line deliveryyyy
i bet real genji made quick work of koremitsu during gyoukan to appear in front of genji!kasen as koremitsu himself lol
ah the ave maria from kiden
when the fuck did they discover they can travel to diff chapters by flipping pages ???????? itd be funny if kasen just realised that spur of the moment
fitting that empress soshi mentions chuang tzu's 'butterfly who dreams' analogy to describe their situation bc historically, she was so interested in chinese lit that she studied it under shikibu's guidance
wait so this has strayed far enough from reality that the intention has transformed this genji monogatari re-enactment into a genji kuyo? oh this FUCKS
norimune's old man laughter >>>>> mkzk's old man laughter
'the only actual person here is that man playing genji?!' theyre in platos cave. theyre all in platos cave. we were all in platos cave until now. we were all butterflies dreaming we're humans.
its the fact that everything was truly black and white until now history was history and GM was a story that was well liked until some guy came along, threw everything into chaos, managed to mix up actual existences with falsified ones, gave rise to incoherence in the story due to the existence of multiple genjis at the same time, with the sole hope that in the future some people would dig up his bones and recognize GM as a true story, but the only way to stop this contradiction is itself a contradiction: killing the main genji in kumogakure would indeed lift the altered existence of heian-kyo, but it would also accomplish his death which was what he hoped for in the first place. is this really then a plot with no holes?
good lord but that is quite a nose on suetsumuhana. it looks like...something else entirely. not gonna say what
wakey wakey @ ookurikara. congrats to date masamune for appearing in three difftypes of stage adaptations
ive said it already but its so striking how different the types of scenes we're shown of kasen as genji and kara as genji are. kasen's always romancing and getting the best scenes while kara isnt shown romancing at all
norimune is a beaut x100
GOD himes fight sequence w all the wings flapping sfx and the twirling is so elegant ..... what was that HRA formation tho lol they were just being goofy
did i mention norimune is so mesmerizing everytime she's onstage . the sex appeal is off the charts like genuinely
i keep forgetting its a woman in ookurikaras role bc she looks so cool.
I will literally never get tired of the sute trope of having kasen's fight sequences the last w dramatic music precluding his appearance onstage and him spreading his arms wide and going ware koso wa nosada ga hitofuri, kasen kanesada nari! and then wrecking shit up (god there r so many similarities between this fight and kidens hissatsu fight)
shut upppp shut up the kuyou spotlight circling the kikyou spotlight as he realizes his true story >!>!!>I!UH@*#$%^&*(struggles to breathe
final form genji looks like hes stepped out a wuxia novel. jun wu vibes fr
yayyy final fight
i think so far in the entire play norimune's had her stomach slashed in the same place thrice
i like how they include little waltz (?) dance steps into hime's fight choreo
CHILLS as norimune says theyre not the ones who'll kill genji and then all the women walk on stage
ummmmmmmmmmmmmm
🔪⁉️
uhhhhhhh
-_-
the honpen retains its influence on them....ofc they wont be the ones to kill genji. that would be incoherent with the storyline . what do you call it when the characters drawn by a woman for women are in the end too crippled by love to kill the source of their suffering? .... someone who is until the end mean in his love....
after rewinding multiple times......yes wakamurasaki does stick the knife into herself . the thrust overlaps w kasen pushing his sword into genji + lights go off so its jus t silhouettes
ah
its so fitting that genji dies right after wakamurasaki here since kumogakure follows right after maboroshi (the chapter in GM where wakamurasaki dies)
whats a little homoerotic cheek cupping between enemies...heh
we cannot leave heiankyo in any media without mentioning shuten douji ofc
kasen................why . how do you justify that
they let th HRA fucken run off w genjis dead body like bro. BRO I AM SHAKIGN YOU SO HARD . HIS CORPSE WAS RIGHT THERE HOW COME NOBODY THOUGHT OF HOLDING ON TO IT TO YKNOW, ACCOMPLISH THE MISSION THEY CAME HERE FOR IN THE FIRST PLACE .
AND DNA TESTING EXISTS????????????? COULDNT THE GUY'S BONES BE TESTED AND THEREFORE PROVED NOT TO BE GENJI BC HIS GENE POOL WOULD NOT MATCH THAT OF THE PREVIOUS IMPERIAL LINE OR SMTH. I DOUBT THE HRA METICULOUSLY PROGRAMMED THE STORY TO MAGICALLY ALTER THE GENETIC MAKEUP OF THE GUY
kasen says its alright bc itll be imperceptible but. no ? if GM is proved to be real it won't be the first fictional novel discovered anymore??? that's a Big thing
nyan's silliness is so refreshing after That
what. was that contradiction. why . what was the neeeed for a flimsy ending like that. just to secure their citadel's destruction? semt-san i know youre better than thisss i know you can write a complicated ending to your complicated premise but this really wasnt it
'even though you might be broken, gozen sure is carefree' lets just carry on like normal after saying that yeah
hime saw kasen stuck in platos cave slowly realizing he should turn around and said no we hold on to the illusion that everythign right in frotn of us is reality. harsh ? maybe, but it coheres. the ichimonji are after all government tools.
hell is other people hell is us . theres so much potential here for sequels of zukatousute, esp since they brought up og tousute's manba and mkzk. feels cruel to leave that honmaru hanging.
curtain call now
shu is so cute she talked abt how she was out of letter sets so she couldnt send her honmaru's nansen for his kiwame
sayato sumiki saying she'll feel #gudenloss
noooooo maomao is so close to tears ;-; but also WOW the gap moe
so ayana's voice is so much higher than what she uses for norimune... i could listen to her for hours ….. heart is taking -1000 dmg
zachouuuuuuuuuuu aaaaaaaaa. [mimes closing a book] "i believe its time to close this story." *someone from the cast whispering "kawaii!"*
all in all, i think the genji monogatari + jinbutsu storyline was pretty solid and did make for a gripping plot but the ending that the touken danshi chose troubles me to no end......ideally kara wouldve snatched genjis corpse and theyd have given him a proper cremation and theyd have pondered the same things they do after the hra take away genji
or what would also have been fun is kasen and kara realizing their altered stories were due to the government's tampering and thus letting go of genji was a conscious decision between two of them setting up for a nice kurikase / ichimonji-seifu dichotomy where they chose to remain true to themselves while the ichimonji willingly give their stories up and resign themselves to being mere tools
......plus the fact that none of them ever mentioned smth like hope to see you in another sute work! in the curtain call...........aaaa it's too sad
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