#also the mountain ash thing makes perfect sense | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

netherfeildren · 1 year ago

Text

The Cassandra Complex : Chapter I : Apollo

Series Masterlist

(Din Djarin x F!Reader)

Summary: Enter: A man who is not so much a man, but an effigy, a wound of steel and armor and Creed – secrecy and masked faces, above all else.

Enter: A girl who is not a girl, but a creature helmed in darkness and spit out unto the galaxy broken and unmoored.

Enter: The creation of myth.

Content Warnings: Dominant Din Djarin; Unprotected sex; Creampie;Size difference; Size kink; Rough sex; Overstimulation; Spanking; Brat taming; Touched-Starved Din Djarin

Rating: Explicit 18+

A/N: Hello, friends, and welcome to the new story!

A few notes: We are starting prior to season one’s canon, and I am doing what I want and making it so that Din already knows about the Force and the Jedi. I make free use of canon and the timeline in whatever way I see fit to suit my own horny purposes, sorry. If things aren’t canon or don’t make sense pls don’t tell me. I am naught but a fragile flower who wilts under harsh criticism.

Please note as well, that I do describe the FMC as having two different colored eyes although I do not specify what color they are.

Also, I will be updating the tags as we go along so as to avoid spoiling too much too early on.

Thank you and enjoy!

Word count: 8.1K

Read on AO3

PART I

CHAPTER I : APOLLO

Is it a god inside you, girl?

Anne Carson, Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides

The first time you meet, he’s sitting in the corner of the shithole cantina on the shithole backwater planet you currently find yourself on: Nevarro. Sometimes you were wont to flight – in search of a nowhere place in the middle of a nowhere part of the galaxy to lose yourself. And the barren landscape of the volcanic planet, a broken star of red, the only interruption in the black field of ash, no wind, no life, no sound; it provides the perfect environment for getting lost when necessary.

And then one day, unexpectedly: him. He is a shining, metallic, mountain of a man.

Mandalorian.

Whenever you’d felt too suffocated, strangulated, in need of a moment, a breather, a reprieve from the reality of what you were… what you are becoming – this place is enough of nothing to be just the perfect something. When you’re not busy flitting from planet to planet, sector to sector, looking for something to fill the gnawing void within you. Before landing here, you’d been on Sorgan for a time. It’d been… nice… peaceful, or whatever approximation of peace you could partially recognize after an existence such as that which you were currently trying to run from. A temperate climate, kind people, but after a while, you’d happened upon a community one day, and they’d been so… so together, so familiar. Happy, they’d be so openly, unabashedly, uncomplicatedly happy. It was simple, and it had made a terrible lance of poisonous jealousy roil through you. Jealousy and anger and bitterness and a loneliness so painful that you’d had to flee, as far and as fast as you could from the reflection of all your envy and shame. And so you’d come here instead, to Nevarro. A more barren, emptier sort of place – better suited to your ilk.

“I’ve never met a Mandalorian before,” you croon up at him, smoothly sliding into the booth he’s currently occupying in the furthest dark corner of the cantina, only the gleaming silver crescent of the curve of his helmet visible from the other side of the room.

This is the first of many lies you will tell him.

No response. Only the dark, yawning pit of his visor faced slightly away from you.

The stark curve of his helmet gleams brightly. Beautiful. He looks strong, thickly built. His shoulders, so broad. The armor adorning his torso is beaten and worn, and yet, there’s something so… what’s the word? Lived, perhaps, about the facade of him. This is a creature who has lived – who has seen things, who has battled and survived and most assuredly killed.

Maybe a little like you, but good. For this you know with certainty about Mandalorians – a flash of a pained scream, beskar crumbling beneath the force of you, for not even what could be considered the most endurable alloy in the galaxy could withstand something of your nature, blood, so much blood, and the sound of such defeat as you do the unforgivable– they are good and honorable and worthy – great warriors. But perhaps, on the surface, with a face of shared, painful history, of survival, maybe there are some things between the two of you which could be called similar.

“I’ve always been curious, though… Always wanted to meet one.” You sidle closer to him. There’s something about him, the weapons, the breadth of his shoulders, the silence, which starts a chilled little shiver of fear that flashes and coalesces into something hotter and wetter deep in your belly, the closer you get to him. And the feeling of it – of apprehension, of standing in the presence of something other, something that could perhaps best, even you, it is exciting and arousing and different to everything else you’ve ever encountered.

Still no response.

“You’re hard to come by now. Not many of you left, right?” A curdle of shame and regret hidden beneath your wry tone, “A girl’s got to get extra lucky to find something as interesting as you nowadays… something as pretty too.”

He does react to this, finally, and a little shock of victory fizzes in your belly at the fact that he’s at last deigned to give you even a semblance of his attention, for you are desperately in want of it, as he turns his helmet the fraction of an inch in your direction at the sound of you calling him pretty. So, it seems even a Mandalorian is victim to vanity.

“Oh, so you can hear under there,” you quip, “I was beginning to worry…”

And then his voice, deep, and of potentially the lowest and smoothest baritone you’ve ever heard, comes through the modulator, “I can hear.” Clipped, and even maybe, a little cold.

“And he speaks too!” He flexes open the fingers of the gloved hand that lays on the table. You’re annoying him. “How exciting.” You cross one knee over the other, elbow propped up on the edge of the table and chin cupped in your palm, looking up at him. He’s tall, even sitting. Your joint presses into the hard muscle of his thigh, and you feel him scoot just the tiniest bit away from you. You have the uncontrollable urge to snap your teeth at him. You must surely be at least half his size, especially with all that beskar covering him. Don’t act so scared, big, bad Mandalorian. I’m just a little girl. You don’t know what I actually am.

Helmet now turned entirely in your direction to keep an eye on you, he says, “What are you?” Or… whoops, maybe he does know.

You ignore his question. “You know, I met a whore once – who claimed she’d fucked a Mandalorian. Is it true you just pull out the important bits and get on with it? Seems a bit cold, no? Even for a paid fuck?” He jolts a little at your vulgarity, and you flash him a wide grin, wriggle one delicate eyebrow provocatively. “No game?”

He turns his body to face you more fully now too, his thigh pressing into yours once again as he takes you on directly. Perhaps a warrior's instinct that can sense he is not in the presence of something to be trifled with. The helmet cocks slowly to the side. Silent, silent. Not one for many words this Mandalorian, although, it seems you’ve provoked him now.

“What are you?” he says again, voice measured.

“How do you mean?” You let your voice end on an upward lilt, and he shifts minutely, as if agitated at your uncooperativeness.

“You’re not– I don’t–” The helmet tilts the other way as if inspecting you, and you cut him off before he can finish.

“Oh, so many things.” You roll your hand on your wrist in a fluttering wave, tapping your fingers quickly against your thumb one by one, flexing a muscle you’ve not allowed yourself to use in a while and repressing it, all at once. You’re watching him so closely you see the small pivot of his neck to glance at your hand, and then back to your face. “Who can keep track anymore? So many strange creatures roaming the galaxy after the fall of everything. The Empire. We’re all just madly careening around as whatever the moment requires of us, aren’t we?” He’s quiet, still inspecting you, and you feel his gaze like a brand on the skin of your face. Like fire, like something that you remember from a nightmare, and that you think should be painful, but now only feels exciting. “So, what are you, Mandalorian? What does the present moment require of you?”

He goes silent again, and you watch the subtle downward tilt of his helmet as he inspects the length of you. You wish you could see if he was ogling the tight swell of your breasts beneath your dark clothes. You tilt your head side to side, smile big at him again, and you’re pretty sure you hear an agitated little huff of annoyance slip through the modulator.

And then: “I’m not interested.” He turns back to face away from you, both fists now firmly planted on the table’s surface, clenched into tight balls of clear annoyance. “Go away.”

Oh, he’s funny too. You throw your head back in a quick laugh, “Did I offer something?”

Silence.

“Dirty mind, Mandalorian.” You drag the vowels out to irk him just that extra bit more. “What? Just because I made one little mention of a whore means that, I too, must be peddling my wares?” And you knock your knee into his beskar clad thigh again. He scoots a smidge away from you, and you follow him, laughing again. Oh, you really should stop provoking him, but it’s just turning out to be too much fun. And you’d been watching him for weeks now, every time he came in here for a new bounty puck. You’d so wanted to talk to him, had snooped around to find out he’s in the Guild, and now you finally are. It was just too much for a girl who had too much time on her hands, and too many ugly thoughts she’d rather forget, roaming around in her mind, to look away from a moment of distraction such as this.

“Stop,” and it sounds like he’s gritting his teeth.

You snicker. “Stop what?” in a sing-songed lilt that you know must be grinding his gears. Poor, shiny Mandalorian.

“Whatever it is you’re doing – speaking to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want something from me.”

“What could I possibly want from you?” You bat your eyelashes at him. “Who’s the one peddling their wares now, Mandalorian, hmm?” He says nothing now, and you know you’re pushing him, you can see the vibration of his restrained agitation in the lines of his thick arms, but there is something needling and annoying and obnoxious inside of you that wants his attention, that wants to incite him. And so you make a mistake that perhaps, is not a mistake at all, but a call for something more, for a reaction from him because as you slowly start to lift a single finger up towards the curve of his helmet, you say, “Tell me, what do you have to offer?” At the same time, he pivots and snaps up to grasp the thin of your wrist in a bone crushing grip as you’re about to make contact with the smooth surface of the gleaming beskar helmet. And you know you were asking for it, that you should never have even insinuated that you were going to touch a Mandalorian’s helmet, and that this is only your own doing, but as his harsh strength makes contact with you, so unexpectedly, he’s so fast, that you’re caught almost entirely unaware, you react on pure instinct. A reflex so embedded into the deepest and most poisoned recesses of your mind, that despite the fact that you know this is the last sort of reaction you should exhibit, that above all else you needed to keep this part of yourself hidden and secreted away from the rest of the galaxy, you can’t help yourself when, at the moment that his crushing strength slams your hand back down onto the table, twisting painfully so that you’re crying out in shock and hurt, you weren’t going to do anything to him, you just wanted to touch a little, you can’t help it when you let go of the reins on your power, and you feel the Force snap out of you like a band of rubber, to crack out and wrap around his arm and rip his painful grip away from you. Another inviolable tendril shoves against his chest plate to push him back. His movements, too abrupt, too unexpectedly aggressive to give you a moment to temper your reaction, to give you a chance to remind yourself that this is not one of your painful, dark memories, that you’re free, you’re free, you’re free, and suppress your reaction to not reveal yourself.

The two of you pause for one long moment, him by force, and you in shock and fear and slight nausea as you pant breathlessly. It’s been a long time since you’ve lashed out like this, since you’ve used the Force in front of another person, and the sensation of being perceived, of being seen for what you truly are is disequilibrating and terrifying and sickeningly liberating all at the same time.

One thick arm of his is held up and pinned against the back of the booth the two of you are ensconced in, hidden from prying eyes, at least. His legs start to shift restlessly, seeking purchase or trying to kick out, and you pin him there too, lest he try and hurt you again.

“I do not like to be handled so,” you admonish him, clicking your tongue. You can feel the seething fury rolling off him. “I wasn’t going to do anything to you. I am not going to do anything to you.” He’s got a blaster strapped into a holster at his thigh, and you’re sure his vambrace is hiding several other nasty tricks up his sleeve. You eye them both. “If I let you go, are you going to try and hurt me again?”

“No,” he growls out.

“No,” you mock back, but release him anyway, letting an impenetrable wall settle between the two of you. He immediately goes for his blaster, and you block his reach which has him furiously growling and lurching towards you, only to be met by the invisible Force impeding his attack. He spits a frustrated volley of curses in a language you can’t understand, but that you’re fairly certain is Mando’a.

“Ah, ah, no blaster,” you tut, and he settles, going suddenly, shockingly still, watching you watch him. “You really are quite poorly mannered and surly.” There’s a part of you that is still slightly unbalanced, heart beating painfully against the cage of your ribs, but you’re trying to hide it behind a wry smile and light tone. Echoes of pain and hurt and cruel and unyielding hands molding you into a thing that was just as cruel and unyielding. You cannot tolerate being handled like that anymore, and you feel contrite that you’d provoked him into doing so. Sometimes it is still difficult for you to remember how it is you’re supposed to behave around other people.

And then something you weren’t expecting, for he says, “You’re a Force weilder. You’re a Jedi.”

You let out a barking laugh. “What do you know of the Force?”

“Are you?” He presses.

“Yes, but no, definitely not that, no.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing. Or… whatever the opposite of a Jedi is, I suppose.”

“The opposite?” He shakes his head, “I don’t–”

“Hmm…” you cut him off, turning to make sure the two of you still haven’t been noticed. “Not anymore. I don’t use it anymore.”

“Oh, no?”

“Well… you’ve gone and ruined that now, haven’t you?”

“You started–”

“All I was trying to do,” you interrupt, “Was make nice. I’d always wanted to meet a Mandalorian,” Lie, “Haven’t you ever heard of a little flirting? And I fear, now, you’ve painted them all in a very poor light,” Lie, “Look at how rude you’ve gone and been, when all I wanted was to be friends,” Another lie, “A shame…” you heave a big sigh, “You really are very beautiful.” Truth. That fist clenches again, and you cock your head to the side, getting one last good look at him. You feel suddenly sad, you don't want to go. You’ve enjoyed this brief moment you’ve gotten to talk to him. Even if you’d gone and pissed him off and ruined it all now.

“It was nice meeting you, shiny. Even if you were an abominable beast about it.” You give him a nod of your head, and a quick two fingered salute before you’re sliding out of the enshroudment of the booth and slipping out the back of the cantina, into the dark alleyway, leaving him behind.

The last glimpse you catch of him out of the corner of your eye before the door shuts behind you, is the sight of him scrambling out of the booth and starting towards the door to follow after you.

A glutton for punishment, then, so it seems.

You flit through the dark, dirty alleys, scampering from shadow to shadow. The city streets around you, gone quiet now as the sun over Nevarro sets quickly, and you can feel him hunting after you. He’s strong, and you can almost feel the heavy weight of his life force even at a distance, almost as if the goodness and honesty of his character is a presence of its own, sentient in a way. And he’s angry, and you can feel that too, charging after you, provoked, even if he does it on entirely silent and measured feet. You can sense that ravenous curiosity and frustration at being bested and evaded pressing up against you, chasing after you. As if there were some dark red thread connecting the two of you from spine to rib bone, leading him to you, pulling him along your trail. You tiptoe the lines of the shadows silently, making your way through the winding city streets, feeling him getting closer and closer, trying to confuse him, even as he gains on you anyway.

And then he’s there.

You feel a massive hand, strong and sure, clamp around the back of your neck, but his touch is measured this time – he’d heeded your warning. His other hand wraps around the bend of your elbow, twisting your arm back behind you, and then he’s kicking open the nearest door, what seems to be some sort of storage alcove, the space dark and humid and mildewed, and pushing you inside. He shoves you away from him once you pass together into the darkness, and you catch yourself on the edge of what feels like some sort of table or workbench.

You laugh breathlessly. Overwhelmed by the thrill of the chase, of the feel of his hands on you, the surrounding darkness, the sound of his own panting breath through the modulator of his helmet. You hope he’s just as overwhelmed, disequilibrated, as you are now.

“Oh, you again?” you laugh, turning to face him, bracing yourself back against the table. All you can see of him is the silver crescent of the curve of his helmet, the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim light of the moon seeping in through the cracks of space around the door. He is a steel giant.“Did you forget something? Need me to hand your ass to you again, Mandalorian?”

“You’re a fucking brat. Anyone ever tell you that before?”

You gasp mockingly, “Me? Never.”

“Why is it that everything you say sounds vaguely like a taunt? Like you’re trying to provoke me.”

And, oh, he sounds just so unbearably serious and put out by you, that you pout, forced to match his serious tone with one of your own. You force the smile to leave your voice, “Maybe because I am,” and your voice goes quieter, softer, because again, truth. There is something about him that incites provocation, you want him rattled, come undone. “Maybe I want to see what happens when a man made of metal loses control.”

“I can’t – I don’t–” His voice, even through the modulator, is its own flavor of foreplay. “I don’t know…” he says again, whispers it, his tone seeping through the helmet, entirely uncertain, or at war with himself.

He takes one menacing step forward, made even all the more intimidating by the vast difference in your heights, the sheer breadth of him, the darkness wrapping around him so that all he’s made into are slivers of gleaming silver flame here and there. You feel the whisper of one leather covered finger skim lightly over the outside of your right forearm, another soft touch to the left side of your waist, and you shiver all over.

“Not a virgin? Your Creed lets you fuck?”

“No.”

“No, what? Use your words.”

Silence. Stubborn, silent, tin can.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Whores?”

A grunt.

“Aha! Gotcha.” You start to toe your foot forward, bending your knee to make contact with him when you find his leg, tilting slightly away from the table so that you can slide your thigh between his legs. “Is that what you want me to be for you?”

“No.” Fucking monosyllabic–

“Then what do you want from me? Why did you follow me?”

“I don’t know…”

“Don’t lie.”

“I want to fuck you.” Your cunt goes soaked and tight at his words, because yes, yes yes, this is what you were leading him to. Finally, he’s caught on, and then he’s planting a strong, broad hand to the center of your chest and pushing you back into the table, and pressing the hard, unyielding length of himself against you. He’s hard and swollen beneath his pants, you can feel the thick heft of him against your belly as he presses into you, and you bring your palms up to slide against the unprotected sides of his strong waist, sending him into a full body shudder as you touch him, helmet falling forward on his neck as he hunches over you, hands planted on the table behind. You can hear his labored, panting breath huffing through the modulator as you run your hands along the planes of him. He’s huge, pure muscle beneath unrelenting beskar, and if you weren’t the creature that you are, you’d feel slightly frightened at the unbelievable strength he’s made up of. He is a thrumming effigy of restrained power beneath your hands, different to that which makes you up, and you feel the strength of him once again, humming through the Force. His light burns so bright, almost blindingly. He’s strong.

You slide one of your hands up his chest plate, tucking your fingers into the top-most edge to bring yourself up and closer to him as he curves over you, bending you back into an arch over the table’s edge. Your other hand reaches for his wrist braced against the table, wrapping around it, so thick your fingers don’t meet, to tuck your fingertips into the space where his sleeve meets his glove, and at the feel of your bare skin on his, just there, just there, he growls, deep and savage in his chest at the same time that you let out a breathy, warbled moan. His other hand shoots up to grasp at the small of your back and press you into him, his fingers digging painfully into your skin. He’s burning hot, sweltering, and he slides his palm lower, tilting your pelvis into his as you hitch one of your knees up the outside of his thigh to his hip, and then your cunt is rocking against the thick length of his cock, and another breathless, pained groan from the both of you as you make contact there, pushing and pulling against each other. You want to taste his skin, his tongue, you want to kiss him, to feel him licking into your mouth. You pull yourself in closer by the hand tucked into his chestplate to press your face into the warm space between his helmet’s edge and the folds of his cowl. He smells so good, like leather and sweat and metal. Something earthy and musky, something that proves to you that despite the beskar, there is only a man of flesh and blood and want beneath.

His palm slides to grip the lush of your ass, rolling you onto his length harder, pressing deeper as if he could fuck you through your clothes.

“Are you going to let me fuck you, little brat?” he pants, ending on a stuttered groan as you hook your calf around his waist and press your foot into the small of his back to grind particularly sharply onto him, pressing your clit into the edge of his utility belt, “Please, just– just–” you gasp, head falling back on your neck. And then he’s spinning you abruptly and pressing between your shoulder blades so that you're bent entirely over the table, cheek smushed against the hard surface. That wide palm slides down the slope of your spine, squeezes your asscheek harshly so that you’re moaning out in lust or pain, you can’t tell.

“Was that a yes? Who can’t use their words now?”

“I liked it better when you weren’t talking,” you grouch, but then his fingers have somehow snuck their way up beneath your tunic and under the edge of your trousers, and he’s ripping everything down to leave you bare and unprotected from the sudden onslaught of that huge expanse of leather clad palm cracking down painfully on the soft skin of your ass so that you’re scrambling to find the opposite end of the table to pull yourself away from him. A pathetic little screech claws its way out of you, and he wraps the length of your hair around his fist to pull your head back and up, turning you into his own little bow string, head resting back on the hard pauldron over his shoulder.

“Where do you think you’re going? I caught you, you’re mine now.”

“Fuck off–” You try, but he clamps his fingers around your jaw, squeezing the fine bones of your face to cut you off, his other hand in your hair gives a sharp tug that makes the tips of your breasts go hot and tight and your cunt clench around nothing. You can feel yourself dripping down the insides of your naked thighs.

“Open your mouth,” he orders, shoving the thick of his fingers inside to press down on your tongue. You try and moan around him, protest or something, but you can’t help but run your tongue around the digits, tasting the smokiness of blaster residue, the tang of whatever he must use to oil his gloves. “Finally, some silence. I like you better like this,” he taunts you with an imitation of your previous words. He bends his head forward, “Get them wet,” he murmurs, voice soft and sultry through the modulator, and the moan you give him now is all desperation as you let saliva pool heavy on your tongue to coat the leather.

When he pulls them from your mouth, tugging your head back further so that you can look up into the dark tee of his visor as he slides his spit slick gloves between your thighs to press against your throbbing clit, your whimpered little mewl has a chastising tut filtering through the helmet, “Slippery, little thing.” He starts to press slow circles to the aching bundle of nerves, sliding down on every other swirl to press gentle, teasing pressure to your clenching opening. “Did my chasing do all this? Do you like being hunted, brat?”

“Not–” you moan as he presses down hard on your clit, then back to the mouth of your cunt, giving you just the tip of his finger, “Not a brat,” you struggle to get out.

“No?” He starts to press two fingers inside at once, both of you groaning in tandem. “Maker – fucking tight–” He scissors his fingers inside of you, twisting his wrist to fuck you open, making room for himself inside of you. “Don’t know if I’ll even fit in here.”

“No,” you groan, low and drawn out, and then, yes, whispered breathlessly, one of your arms reaching back to hold onto the wrist of his hand still twisted in your hair, trying to find purchase on anything to anchor yourself with. Because the stretch of just his two fingers inside of you – you can hear the slick squelch of your wetness as he starts to fuck them in and out of you slowly – is so unexpectedly obscene. You had not expected to find yourself in this position with any man, especially not one like this – had not thought you were yet ready to be touched by another person. Not so soon after– “Please – m– more. I want–”

“You think you’re ready for my cock, little one? Have I stretched this tiny cunt out enough?”

“Yes– yes. Just do it.”

“Fuck–” You listen to the wet little pop as he pulls his fingers from you, and the clink and shuffle of his belt and armor as he pulls himself out of his clothes, and then he’s shifting behind you as you brace against the edge of the table. The burning hot blunt tip of his cock skimming against the round of your ass, and you feel him spread his feet wide, bend his knees, and then his cock is there at the slick mouth of your cunt, and he’s thrusting up and into you on the downward roll of your hips, and Maker, he’s deep like this. Suddenly, twin strangled groans of pain or relief ripping from your throats in tandem as he grinds deep, deeper, for a moment. You feel the heavy kick and throb of his cock inside of you, and he is too big, too thick – he forces you to take it anyway. Stretching you in a way you’ve never been before, your eyes smart, forcing your body to make room for his inside of you, it leaves your breath to stutter out in a weak little puff of shock.

And you moan, using the palms of your hands against the edge of the table to grind yourself back onto him while his hands clamp tightly around your hips, his fingers so long they almost meet at the center of your belly beneath your navel.

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. That’s so good.

You can’t tell which one of you is speaking. You can't even tell if you’re still breathing. And then he starts to move.

You knew he’d fuck hard, from the first moment you’d seen him, you knew.

He pulls his hips back, the slick wet, the grasping walls of your cunt trying to suck him back in, and then the scorching slide of him pressing back in, in, in, grinding again, those long fingers pressing down on your belly so that you feel him from the outside too.

“Harder,” you beg, because of course you want more. You are a creature made of greed and hunger. You always have been.

“Quit. You’ll take whatever the fuck you’re given,” but his hips slam back in, a savage growl punctuating the movement.

He gives it to you almost brutally, without pause or thought, fucking punched out breaths and whines from you.

“Shut up,” he spits on the end of one particularly deep, harsh thrust that’s followed by a high pitched mewl from you. “You want every piece of shit on Nevarro to find you split open on my cock like this?” Your head lolls back limply on his shoulder, the wet slap of his heavy balls against your clit overwhelming the sound of your thoughts. You can’t speak, your brain is currently being jostled within the confines of your skull by the force of his cock splitting you open. “No? Then be a good girl, and be quiet,” his voice, rough, even through the modulator is almost drowned out by the wet, obscene sound of him pounding into you.

He brings one of his hands back up to your jaw, turning your head slightly so that your nose is almost smushed up against the chrome of his visor. He wants to look at you. The hard beskar of his chest plate rubs harshly against your back on every push upwards of his hips, and you’re sure that’ll hurt later, but right now you just can’t seem to care. You can feel the humid, warm air of your panting breath, foggy against the gleam of his helmet, and you bring one of your hands up to the wrist holding your face, holding on for dear life, sanity, you’re not sure what. Your other hand twists back into the hanging fabric of his cloak so that you can pull yourself more tightly back into him as he slows his thrusts, making them longer and more drawn out. “Yeah– like that. Settle… good girl.” Your eyes flutter shut. Too much, too much. It should hurt. You wanted it to hurt. Not gentle, you don’t want it gentle.

“Harder,” you whine, plead.

“No. How I say.” He rolls his cock into you over and over, your slick sliding down your thighs, the backs abraded by the plates of beskar over his own legs. He’s so deep, so big it hurts so good. Even if you want it harder, it still hurts so good. The hand at your face slides down to rip open the fastening of your high necked tunic, reaching inside and under your breast band to pull out the heavy aching weight of your tit and pinch your nipple, rolling it between his strong leather clad fingers – more high, desperate mewls that have him groaning deep in his chest. You’re sure if your face wasn't so close to his you’d never be able to hear them through the helmet, low and rumbly and so delicious.

“Fucking beautiful,” he murmurs low, cupping your breast to plump it up, massaging it in his palm.

“What? You can see?”

“Yeah– fuck yes, I can see.”

“Not fair,” you whine. It’s so dark in the little room he’d pushed you into, you’re not even going to get to take a good look at his cock before this is all over.

“You don’t need to see. You just need to be good and take it.”

“Do you ever kiss?” you ask him suddenly. Irritated by the fact that you’ve not gotten to ogle him – or kiss him. If he even does that.

Another deep roll of his hips, a tight squeeze to the swinging globe of your breast, “No.”

“That’s a shame.”

And he responds immediately, voice subdued and even, underneath the helmet, despite the fact that you feel like he’s cleaving you in two. “Maybe next time,” he says. His palm slides down to your belly then, the other pressing down between your shoulder blades to fold you over the table, hands moving to wrap around your hips and lift you up and back onto his impaling cock so that the tips of your toes are left skimming the ground beneath, your fingers scramble and claw for purchase against the wood of the table. You can feel the wide tip of his cock punching against your womb on every thrust in and stars flash behind your eyes, mouth hanging open pathetically.

There is nothing gentle about the way he fucks you. Like he wants to split you in two, like he wants to make sure the shape of him is branded into the center of your body so that you’d never forget this. The sticky sweet coil of your orgasm starts up low in your belly, and you feel molded in his image for one second, pushed out of yourself to stand on the sidelines and look upon the sight of your much smaller form draped over the table and being fucked into so savagely by this silver blade of a man.

And then: they’re fucking bare, they’re fucking raw, and it has been so, so long since he has felt the touch of another person, someone else’s skin on his that was not bestowed upon him in violence or with the barrier of a sheath between. It is an almost overwhelming feeling, that of your hot, soaking wet cunt pulsing around him, you’re about to come for him, he can feel it. The fluttering of your inner muscles, delicate thing that you are, your thighs shaking as you struggle to push yourself back on to him to get it harder, deeper. He is, almost, made faint with the feeling. And those eyes… you’ve got the strangest multicolored eyes. One enshrouded entirely in darkness compared to its bright counterpart – as if one had forgotten to take that last step into the light. You’re fucking beautiful and–

You snap back into yourself. No, no, no, stay out of his head. Stay out of his head. Focus. You push yourself up again so that your back is against his chest, and he bands one tremendously strong arm around you, gripping your breast tightly. You feel him bend his knees framing your thighs to change and deepen the angle, and then he’s pounding right into that tender, devastating place inside of you, and your cunt twists and floods with your orgasm, electric shocks of pleasure numbing your fingers and toes. You can do nothing more than let him do with you what he will. Your toes aren’t even touching the floor.

He presses as deep as he can, grinds for a moment, and then he folds you over the table once again and presses down harshly on the small of your back with one heavy palm as he pulls his cock from you and finishes himself off. You listen to the wet thwack, thwack, thwack of him pulling on his cock, and then the searing hot spurt of his come is hitting your ass and the exposed seam of your fluttering cunt, a savage growl ripping through the modulator as he squeezes all of the air out of you with that unyielding hand. You’re like a pressed flower between the pages of a book – wilted and frayed, but still held in the image of that which you once were. At the last spurt from his cock he brings his hand to your ass, spreads you apart to rub his spend into the tight furl of your ass, and then further down into your throbbing, overly sensitive clit. All you can do is cry and whimper weakly, still trembling from your own orgasm. “T– too much, nooo,” you whine pathetically.

“Easy – easy, settle.”

You feel him fall to a crouch behind you, pulling you apart with both hands by the meat of your ass to look upon the sight of your blushed, fluttering hole. Messy, little cunt, you hear him whisper. He rubs his come into your trembling thighs, over your swollen clit again, inspecting every vulnerable inch and crevice of your sex, and then he’s pushing two of those thick fingers back inside of you, the passage made slick and fucked open by your mingled come. “Just one more, little one. Want to see it up close,” he murmurs. You try and wiggle away, tears of oversensitivity brimming beneath your lashes, I can’t, I can’t, you think you whisper, but he’s inescapable. He clamps one hand painfully over your asscheek, keeping you spread apart for his inspection, the other one buried deep inside of you so that his fingers are hooked against your g-spot where he presses over and over, quick and relentless, his fingers almost vibrating inside of you until your vision is going white hot and a buzzing sound rings in your ears, and you’re crying for what you think might sound like mercy or something equally despeerate. “Yes, fuck, yes. Just like that.” Your answering sob does not prompt him to abate, for he keeps his fingers pressed against that spot inside of you until you’re leaking an embarrassing amount of wetness down your thighs, until the rippling throbs of your orgasm have finally settled. You feel his head fall forward, the beskar of his helmet pressing against the space where your asscheek meets your thigh, and he holds there for a second against your burning hot skin, the scorching soothed by the cool metal.

You can’t stop shaking, you feel, suddenly, like you might cry. You were not prepared for something of this intensity, to be touched like this, and now that it’s happened you’re left reeling. You don’t even know his name. And now you’re sure he’ll go away to wherever it is that Mandalorian bounty hunters run off to, and you’ll never see him again, and you’ll have to live with the memory of this forever. And something like this… amidst all the other horror that lives within you, you’re sure that the intimacy, the fervor of this, will make it hurt all the more, even compared to all the rest.

He uncoils behind you, rising up to his towering height. You listen to the rustling of his clothes, and then he’s smoothing a large palm over the slope of your trembling back and reaching down to pull up your trousers, tucking your breast back beneath your tunic, righting your clothes for you without commentary. When you think you’ve finally caught your breath, or can at least pretend you’ve done so, enough to push yourself up from your position over the table. Your eyes feel pinched and hot, your heart beating so hard, almost painfully, within the confines of your ribcage that it feels as though your bones are rattling beneath your skin, knocking together in the imitation of a death rattle so that he’ll surely know that you feel two paces away from falling apart entirely.

“You’re… Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?” Voice stilted.

“No more than I wanted you to.”

He’s silent for a moment, uncomfortable. You can feel the sensation of him pulling away, getting ready to make a run for it. “That’s not–” he cuts himself off. “Do you– do you spend much time on planet?” He’s awkward, uncomfortable now with this unnecessary notion of seemingly required small talk.

“No.” Lie. You like Nevarro, you spend more time here than anywhere else.

“What’s your name?” It shocks you that he asks, for you know he’d not give you his if you asked it of him in return, but for one infinitely painful, insanely uncharacteristic moment, you want to tell him. You want to give him your real name desperately, tell him who you are. But if you were to do that, then you might tell him what you are. And then he’d hate you, and the memory would be ruined, and you have so few good ones, that this one must be protected at all costs.

So instead you say that which you have no real desire to say, do what you have no real desire to do, and make sure that he thinks you’re not interested, that you have no desire to ever see him again. Maybe next time. Your heart gives a surprisingly painful pinch, your eyes growing hotter by the second. “This was just a fuck, don’t get all sentimental on me now.” Your voice is so cold, so uncaring. You hate the way you can make yourself sound sometimes. You sense him snap with tense shock, and he nods once, succinctly. “Very well. Thank you… for this. I suppose.”

You lean back against the table, trying your hardest to appear as unaffected as you can. You turn your face to the side, roll your cheek over the hill of your shoulder. “It was my pleasure.”

He turns to go, his cape snapping with the sharp abruptness of his movements, and he pulls open the door of the little storage room letting a flood of moonlight sweep in to shed light on the construction of this memory you’re assembling brick by brick to preserve in your mind for as long as you possibly can. Your eyes sweep over the length of him ravenously, trying to catalog every single detail of him, the incredible breadth of his shoulders, the silver gleam of his beskar helmet, the sweep of his cape, the arsenal of weapons strapped to his body, lethal. He turns back to look at you for one moment, the yawning darkness of his chrome visor, “Don’t get killed, Mandalorian. There are so few of you left now.” And truth, truth, truth, for it would be a shame beyond imagining for a creature such as this, something so strong and beautiful and other, to perish when so few like him remain. He pauses to take you in, as well. You wish you had the courage to ask him what he sees when he looks at a thing like you. The tears are right there, and you hate them and feel weak and disgusted, but also relieved, and you could fall to your knees, in this moment, to thank the Maker that you still possess the ability, the heart, to cry, to succumb to something as trife as tears. You hope he cannot see them. The helmet cocks to the side for one second, perhaps he too is cataloging you to his memory. He nods once, and then he’s turning and gone away into the night. The door snicks shut behind him, and you’re alone once again.

You pause for a moment, hoping that relief will come. He’s gone, you got what you wanted from him. You should be glad. But there is only the screaming thought of wait, there was still more, there was still more that I wanted from you.

You let yourself sink slowly to the ground, hand braced against the edge of the table he just fucked you over, lest your shaking legs give out and have you planting face first into the dirt. You fold your legs beneath you, tuck your wild hair gently behind your ears, your movements measured, trying to breathe deep and slow, in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t cry, there’s no reason to cry. But shouldn’t we be glad we can still cry? Isn’t it a sign that not all is lost? That there is still a part of us that feels enough to shed tears? This should be a good thing. And so you let the tears fall. You fold yourself over as small as you can, one hand pressed over your hot, leaking eyes, another over your mouth to keep your sounds contained, and you sob as quietly as you possibly can. It was so good and you’re crying and you’re alive and you’re free. You are free, and you should be glad of this. Cry, cry, but cry for your own victory, for your own freedom, for the chance to cry. This is what victory feels like. This is what it is to be alive.

And so, here is your truth: It is a difficult thing, to shed the facets of the dark side after you’ve lived with it for so long. To be a Sith is to forsake all connection, all peace. There is only passion to strength to power to victory to the Force, but it is always alone. Always against someone or something else. So, yes, it is difficult to shed the facets of the dark side that have made you the thing you’ve been for more than half your life, since the time you were stolen from your cradle, your parents slaughtered, and spirited away into the shadow of a cruel and unforgiving master. What is it to know exactly how your life will play out, to see everything, to be so aware of what you will be – and to still be lost? Part agony, part madness. The pieces of you that are secretive, that like to hide, to run, these are especially difficult to let go of, and you are so, so interminably sad, you live in it. It’s all you feel you are now, after the dark, after the fall of the Empire and the Sith, after escape, after freedom, after you’d so forcibly ripped its claws, that were so deeply sunk within you, out by sheer force of will, by sheer force of desperation, you worry that it’s taken a piece of you with it, your soul. That it had eaten a piece of you. That you don’t have one anymore.

You don’t even know his name. And even if you’re certain he would not have given it to you, for one moment, you feel an incredible lance of regret that you did not give him yours.

But then: a person without a soul could not cry.

And so this must only be proof of the fact that you must still possess yours, as shriveled or weak as it’s been made, you must still have one. You must. You must.

And you think: I am not unfamiliar with this half life – there is a wound inside of me – dark and putrid and festering. But perhaps my tears will heal me. Seal the wound closed.

You feel lonely – worse, you feel strange. Once, you were terrible – now you are only yourself. So you cry for the passion of the moment, for the way he made you feel, for the loss of a name, for the truth of freedom.

Chapter II

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog : Follow and turn on notifications for new fics!

#TCC fic #din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin/reader #din djarin/you #the mandalorian smut #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #the Mandalorian

553 notes · View notes

p1nkcanoe · 6 months ago

Note

mushy may has so many good prompts but also u could consider feral mountain fuckin swiss up against a tree in the forest idk

mushy may is always fantastic, but unfortunately i can never commit to a month's worth of prompts, so i'll take your second suggestion for a ride.

1.2k words of feral, unglamoured murder ghoul mountain and swiss who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

tw: murder ghouls, blood, minor injury

The summer night is far too quiet for the chase that is happening. It seems that while Swiss runs for his life, that even the crickets have gone to hide and the birds have abandoned their nests. Far from the inner grounds of the abbey there is nothing out here except for himself and the beast silently prowling the earth.

Swiss isn’t normally this loud, this clumsy, but every long stride he takes as he weaves through the trees feels wrong, like this is new land instead of miles and miles of trails and hills that he knows by heart and feel alone. He’s been running for an hour and the muscles in his thighs feel like jelly, his lungs like smoldering ashes, but he can’t stop now. The earth ghoul is always right on his heels. Before the moment that his toes hit the dirt, Mountain is already three steps ahead of him.

The sky had opened up in the morning to release a heavy blanket of rain that turned the ground to mush and thickened the air. Swiss is covered up to his neck in mud. His heart beats out of his chest in such a rapid pattern that he fears the vibrations are echoing throughout the forest and not just pounding in his ears. It’s so loud that he can’t even hear the coo of the creek as he approaches it, the one that he’s waded through a million times and more, and the sound that his bare feet make as he tears through the surface is deafening. For the first time since he tore through the iron fence gate to escape the gardens, he hears the earth ghoul make a sound. He laughs.

Swiss realizes far too late that the creeping current of the creek is his bane. He continues to run and the water grapples at his ankles, wraps around his shins, and in barely a foot of water, he trips, landing hands first in an uneven bed of water stones and algae. The pain that shoots up both of his arms is immediate, and a gash in the meat of his palm begins to stain the water pink. He’s fucked. He’s already dead, he’s decided. As a last attempt at saving his borrowed vessel he sucks in a breath and makes a last attempt to run for it.

He gets further than he expected he would considering he’s leaving a trail of breadcrumbs to follow as the blood continues to drip from his fingertips and swirl within his senses, overwhelming and rich, but that little ounce of hope dissolved altogether when he feels the crunch of scorched earth beneath his feet and realizes in a terrible flash of petrification that Mountain had purposefully been herding him since the moment he found him, not chasing him.

In his fits of panic, Swiss had led himself right into Mountain’s den.

A clearing in the woods, a nearly perfect circle of nothing but the remains of his victims, animals and unfortunate siblings alike. It stinks of the lingering stain of death and decay, and the ground is rough no matter where he tiptoes, still etched with the scars from when he pulled himself up from a crack in the core so many years ago.

Swiss has been here before, but he was a hunter then. They’d worked alongside each other on the frigid night of a new moon and carried out the bloodiest hunt and sacrifice that Swiss had ever seen in the mortal plane. That was the first time he’d ever experienced Mountain’s earthen form up close, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see it again. While the soft summer breeze swirls around him and whispers terrible things in his ear, he fears he’s about to see it for the second and last time.

Trapped in the center of the circle, he blinks and shifts into his shadow form and in an instant disappears into the pitch black of the night. It won’t be enough to save him, but it should at least confuse the murderous beast for a moment while he plans his next move.

A twig snapping to his right sends his neck swiveling in its direction only to be met with the towering form of his hunter. Mountain, nearly eight feet tall and enhanced within his natural form, molded somewhere between humanoid and a bone-dry, deer-like megafauna. Equally as bone chilling to his core. He reeks of iron and gore and evidence of an unfortunate, slaughtered sibling caught out past curfew stains his chin and drips down the planes of his chest in deep shades of crimson. That poor soul… they never stood a chance.

The creature stalks forward on elongated limbs that are nothing but stretched skin and lean sinew, creeping far too precisely to be searching blindly for the ghoul who has disappeared into the night. He can’t see you, Swiss assures himself. He’s camouflaged and blended seamlessly into everything around him. Mountain is simply searching him out… But what Swiss doesn’t know is that his fear and adrenaline have betrayed him, and through the darkness of the void his golden eyes glow bright, cutting through the nothingness with the light of a thousand suns.

Mountain comes closer, huffing through the empty nasal sockets of the buck’s skull that has contorted his bones and taken the place of his handsome face. Swiss glides out of his way and watches in horror as Mountain tracks his every move down to the twitching of his fingers. Fuck–

“Mountain,” Swiss calls out, inching backwards and tripping over discarded skeletons. His voice booms through the space between them and falls onto deaf ears. Mountain bends forward at the waist, unsheathes his blade-like claws, and prepares to strike. He tries again, one last time, voice desperate to be heard.

“Mountain– hear me, please–!”

The earth beast rushes forward and grapples the multi ghoul precisely by his neck, lugging his body backwards until his spine meets the rough, uneven texture of tree bark, and he gasps out in pain. Feet flailing, he’s been lifted from the ground.

“Mountain!”

The earth beast crowds him, smothering his much smaller body with his own and covering him in the stinking remains of his last victim. Clearly human, the scent is distinctly sweet and sends Swiss’ head in a swirl. Mountain growls and snarls, digging his fingers unforgivingly into his flesh and contorting Swiss’ limbs in directions that he’s sure will break them, but yet they do not break. They ache and his muscles burn beneath his skin as they’re pushed to their limits, but the other ghoul does not tear, does not maim like he watched him tear and maim the terrified Sister of Sin in this very circle. Instead, he realizes in horror that the creature is maneuvering his body. Scenting him. Testing his vessel for something entirely different.

He feels as his spider-like fingers trace the trembling planes of his flesh down to the waistband of his pants, and it’s at the same moment that he feels the strange shape of the earth beast’s cock throbbing hotly against his stomach.

He isn’t here to feed on his flesh. He’s here for something entirely different. He’s chased him here to breed.

this was supposed to be so much longer and i had like another 1.5k words of smut but couldnt figure out how to end it, so lmk if you want the rest and i might get back to it.... toodles

#tw blood #murder ghouls #mountain x swiss #mountain ghoul #swiss ghoul #p1nk ficlet

121 notes · View notes

vickyvicarious · 7 months ago

Note

Jonathan says after the mirror incident:

How was it that all the people at Bistritz and on the coach had some terrible fear for me? What meant the giving of the crucifix, of the garlic, of the wild rose, of the mountain ash?

I wanted to point out that not only garlic flowers were given to Jonathan by the people on his ride, but also wild roses and mountain ash!

And something that all those flowers that were given to Jonathan during the car ride* have in common:

1. they all are anti-vampiric and ward off evil in Balkan folklore

2. they are all mild antiseptics

*honestly Jonathan's suit covered in those flowers while Dracula is driving in the darkness to the castle while Jonathan is passed out like the dead would have been SUCH a good image in an adaptation

Yes, indeed! And in fact, I believe a lot of various anti-supernatural plants and such in various folklore are genuinely medically useful too. It makes sense. If you base folkloric monsters off real threats that aren't understood/explicable with current medical knowledge (such as the theory that vampires hunting down their own families first represents illness getting spread to those with most exposure), but you notice some things are helpful even if you don't know why, then add them in to the story. Or, conversely, if a plant is already known to be helpful in medicine then it makes sense to add another use to it in supernatural stories.

Certainly, the vampire-as-disease is a really valid interpretation for at least some parts of this book. So the antiseptic angle works really nicely here.

As for Jonathan covered in flowers, sleeping as he is carried away to an unknown castle... Not only is it great imagery for the comparison to someone who has died, but it could also fit with bride imagery as well. This ties in super well to the Lenore reference on that same trip, as well as to later Scheherazade or Bluebeard comparisons that can be made. The young new wife (or wife-to-be) carried away to her wedding and (probable) death... it's perfect, and in an ideal adaptation would absolutely be a thing for sure.

#dracula daily #jonathan harker #anonymous #replies

57 notes · View notes

dekusleftsock · 1 year ago

Text

IVE BEEN A GOOD KID AND IVE ACTUALLY LET MYSELF LIKE. THINK ABOUT THE OFFICIAL TRANSLATIONS SO. HERE WE GO BITCHES.

(Along with some other things bouncing around, implications of togachako because of this chapter, maybe even a prediction? This is my FINAL THOUGJTS POST, unless ofc I notice something and I say it BUT HOPEFULLY THIS IS THE LAST AND ITS JUST GONNA BE ME BEING SILLY AND POSTING FANART)

1, i find it funny that Caleb said lickitung than Pikachu since that… totally doesn’t make sense nor was why Twice suggested the name. IDK IM A POKÉMON NERD AND AN MHA FAN SO I JUST FIND IT A LITTLE SILLY.

Like I think Horikoshi chose Pikachu bc it’s the most recognizable Pokémon, along with Himiko’s “chu-chu” noises she makes when she drinks blood ofc, but it was also probably suggested bc… Pikachu has the same blushies that Ochako has…

Not to mention the fact that Pikachu is also representative of Toga’s colors, those of course being red and yellow.

Lickitung makes no sense other than the fact that it paralyzes people/Pokémon by licking them and making them uncomfortable. It’s such a… random gen 1 Pokémon idfk. I can see WHY he chose it, because lickitung is supposed to be a friendly Pokémon that accidentally makes people uncomfortable, but I think Pikachu being said instead just makes far more sense; Pikachu is supposed to be a cute Pokémon. It’s origins in gen 1 were, “I want you to make the cutest Pokémon you can” and the artist Atsuko Nisida had to go through 3-5 iterations of pixel art (bc they would make the pixelated version for the game first AND THEN draw the Pokémon from that) before finally settling on what people call “fat Pikachu” which looked like this

Lickitung works ig by being a Pokémon that ultimately is harmless to people but just accidentally freaks people out and makes them off-put by them, but Pikachu fits much better in a chapter where Ochako calls Himiko’s smile, something we’re supposed to see as creepy, perfect/pretty/beautiful. Comparing her and her cuteness to something like Pikachu just seems like something twice would do anything bc he’s a sweetie like that.

ALSO ANOTHER THING FOR PEOPLE WHO KNOW NOTHING ABOUT POKÉMON: reguri is I think the most popular ship? That might be beat by Selena/ash and misty/ash, but regardless it’s super popular and also is EXTREMELY SIMILAR to bkdk.

This does depend on which version of them you’re talking about, but personally when I read pokespe (the most popular official Pokémon manga, there’s others but that’s just the most well known one) I always thought bkdk were so similar to red/blue to the point it was uncanny. At the time I thought “eh that’s just gay rival tropes there’s tons of other characters in other anime/manga/tv that are similar to them too” but after the mention OF Pikachu and Toga’s purposeful similarities I do wonder if horikoshi was a Pokémon fan in the 90’s during his childhood. That wouldn’t surprise me seeing as the games were such a booming success in Japan (literally it’s the most sold Pokémon games ever nothing has beat it since), so it would make sense if horikoshi was a secret Pokémon fan.

I mean, blues hair is even similar to bakugous but idk, maybe it’s a stretch.

They’re not childhood friends in pokespe, but they are childhood friends in the games, blue bullying him as they got older and pushing red away, red goes and has an emo arc on mount silver by himself without telling anyone, eventually comes down from that mountain in black and white 2 where red and blue are starting to be friends again, and I don’t think they’re seen again until sun and moon where they’re on vacation together in alola. There’s other outside game content that has just… progressively gotten more gay.

AGAIN, IM NOT SURE IF HORIKOSHI HAS READ THE POKESPE MANGA OR IF HE PUT THIS MUCH THOUGHT INTO IT! However I WILL say that if you enjoy bkdk you will probably enjoy reguri and the pokespe manga, especially since it has a more interesting plot than the anime or games, along with being less corny. It’s a lot more… I don’t wanna say graphic but honest? It wasn’t really made in mind that it would be targeted overseas like all the other Pokémon stuff, so it’s just more honest about environmental issues and pet abuse and things like that. Red and blues character arcs and friendship, along with Leaf’s character arc is very interesting just by itself, highly recommend.

MOVING ON… my Pokémon nerdiness aside, I love Himiko’s defiance to conform to hero society especially as a villain. Will she go against this vow because she sees herself as a full fledged villain? I wasn’t really sure.

She didn’t, which is great, but I also think those themes of pity and feeling like Ochako is still looking down on her… remind me exactly of Katsuki.

I also find this page and what toga says quite interesting.

Saying that she KNEW ochako was sad too, that’s a VERY interesting observation to make when thinking of someone you “hate”.

And I like the distinction that Ochako wasn’t afraid of Toga because of her smile being creepy, or that she was trying to harm her or tsu, but because she couldn’t understand why she was smiling during a fight.

More bakugou vibes/lines

If/when they ARE canon, explicitly and completely and all that, then that would make mha a, and idk if it’s the first, shonen GL + BL. That would be fucking crazy.

ALSO THIS? THIS IS ABSOLUTELY NOT AN IZU//OCHA MOMENT… let me explain.

It’s a couple of things: Ochako is not explicitly saying how she wishes she could talk about her love with Izuku, instead it seems to be more framed as talking ABOUT Izuku.

He’s not even looking at her, and she’s not looking at him; no, instead Ochako and Himiko are looking at each other, and talking about the importance to talk about your feelings openly, how she admires that quality to Himiko.

In a way this is Ochako saying “No, don’t become like him, this is why I admire you. That trait makes you admirable, it’s a trait I love in you.”

And lastly, that marriage proposal. Is it REALLY a marriage proposal? How romantic or platonic is this this scene?

Well, I went back and read chapter 348 to find out, and a little detail disregarded, not only by me but everyone else, was the line, “If you ask me, being a couple means being one and the same. Makes sense right? Nothing else… would fulfill my desires.”

And then ochako in 393, purposely bearing her feelings to Himiko and offering her blood to her? Even with this knowledge? The knowledge that Himiko would see this as a confession? Fucking crazy.

For all her flaws, I can perfectly picture why Ochako would prefer someone who sees romance like she does, openly unapologetic about her feelings like she is, over someone who can’t even see a teenage girls confession as an actual confession of love. Way to be selfish Izuku.

(God he would be SO offended at all the shit talking I’ve been doing to him recently HAHA! BUT HE NEEDS TO HEAR IT BC HES AN IDIOT WHO SHOULD BE TAKING HIS FEELINGS SERIOUSLY. How are you going to let the hot headed blonde kid that bullied you be better at this. HOW.)

So yes, I think this is so explicitly romantic, I literally thought this scene would never fucking happen because I KNEW how gay it was, how gay everyone KNEW it was—but god damn. Horikoshi you mad man.

#togachako #himiko toga #togaraka #togaocha #ochako uraraka #mha 393 #mha chapter 393 #mha deku #togachako brainrot

99 notes · View notes

makriiii · 1 year ago

Text

Caught (Arthur Morgan x f!reader)

Word count: 2.6k

Summary: You rode up in the mountains after the rest of your gang- the O'Driscolls- planning to rob a train belonging to a Mr. Cornwall. Come to find out, the O'Driscolls weren't the only ones who were preying on this train.

Author's notes: This is my first time posting a fanfic, so any constructive criticism is appreciated! It's not entirely lore accurate, and I changed a few things here or there just to work better with the story.

Warnings: 18+, fluff+angst, slightly nsfw, mentions of blood and gore. Also, spelling mistakes.

Pt 2, this isn't a oneshot ;)

Wattpad or Ao3

♡

Caught.

Wind whistling through the swaying tree tops above you and muffled hoofbeats on the path beneath you interrupted the otherwise near perfect silence.

Your chilled breath formed small clouds in front of your face with every exhale you took, quickly whisked away with the blowing that cut against your face.

You were huddled closely to yourself. The cold was getting to you, and it had been ever since you'd been sent up to this god forsaken place.

It was your gang's first step to the robbery everyone had been rumoring about, a rich man's train, so you heard.

'Cornwall.' You recalled, thinking back on the plan Colm had proposed to the lot of you. One that didn't excite you simply due to the climate.

It was getting later and later, the ride taking significantly longer than you'd initially expected. Having left a few days after your comrades, it seemed you had missed out on a storm with all the fresh snow that rested on the ground.

As much as you hated their company, you did feel safer with the whole lot around. Less for you to worry about.

However, not long was it for you to spot the camp through the thick trees. Though it didn't light much excitement in you at the dark and dreary sight as much as you hoped it would.

Something was wrong. That much was made clear when you heard no commotion, no sign of life. In fact, it was quite the opposite when you came upon large lumps in the snow.

Frozen bodies and blood were spread all about the path. They weren't fresh, at least not by much. Still, you brandished your revolver, scanning the small and torn down mining site.

There were too many to count, all dead. Some of them you recognized, others were face down or too deformed to identify.

"Christ..." You drawled in a long sigh, sliding off your seat and losing the warmth you had from your horse's sides. A quick shiver ran up your spine while you rubbed your arms for warmth.

The whole place was a ruin, and although it seemed unlikely, you searched the place cautiously. Making sure the ones who did this weren't still here awaiting any more poor suckers such as yourself.

Having found the place completely ghosted again, you, yourself, were grateful for having missed your own possible execution by a few days. But you still soured at the fact nothing was left for you.

Everything had been ransacked and stolen. An involuntary groan escaped your lips as the delayed realization finally caught up to you.

You'd be here, entirely alone, in an area you had almost no knowledge of prior to your arrival and with people no better than you somewhere out there.

The thought less than comforting in every sense of the meaning.

A low growl hums from your stomach. Consequently, making your eyes blink open slowly.

Your whole body ached from the cramped position you kept in all night to stay warm, the fire you had stoked now a small, cold heap of ash.

Early, no doubt. The sun had barely risen from behind the tree tops and boy, were you glad to see it, knowing it wouldn't be so cold, easier for you to work.

A few minutes had passed, and you tried thinking on what to do, but your mind remained blank as the aspect of removing yourself from your bedroll seemed just as bad as starving.

Still though, hunger bit at you until you relented and begrudgingly got up. Grabbing your shotgun from your side, you peered out at the forest you had rode in from.

There was to be something; deer, rabbit, anything really as long as it was just you you were feeding.

The wind from the night before had let up, and thank the lords for that. Anymore of it, and you feared you'd end up no better than the rest of the unfortunate men at your feet.

That thought sparked a whole chain of questions in your head again.

Who else was up here with you? Who knew your gang was here, and where are they now? All questions you'd likely never have the answer to and hoped you wouldn't get.

As much as you tried focusing on hunting, the thoughts ate at you, and so did your paranoia. You head whipping around to any snap or snow slipping off the needled branches around you.

You weren't alone up here, and that had to be considered if your life was something you planned to keep for longer.

You thought of the train. Were you still to attempt that? One woman against who the hell knows how many men, with enough bullets that would have you descending far below any hell that might exist.

You were ill equipped, if you put it lightly, and all your men were dead. No use of them dead.

Countless scenarios ran through your tired mind as you trudged through the resistant snow, knee deep and reflective in the morning light. Someone would've definitely thought you a zombie had you been in any town like this. Drab and completely on auto pilot.

Just then, a small flash of fur out of the corner of your eye yanked you from your thoughts, causing you to jerk to a halt and cock your head over.

That there was your meal. Possibly the only one for today, so you remained motionless.

The rabbit bounced through the fresh powder at its feet, clearly not having noticed you yet.

You dug your boots into the ground, slowly raising your gun and aiming, mumbling a small sorry to the poor varmint who was unknowingly about to become someone's meal.

A pop followed in response to your pulled trigger, the echo sounding from all sides of the surrounding canyon, which made you wince at the thought that someone other than you might've heard it.

The rabbit now laid in the snow, giving you permission to collect it, dragging your feet through the powder to grab your meal.

You turned back the way you came, and made for your little run down shed. If that was even the right word for it.

The fire crackled once more in your arrival as you finished your food. Saving the rest of it for your travels.

You couldn't stay here much longer, and with that in mind, you had to come up with what you were to do. Rob a train solo, or go back empty-handed?

The second option was safer, of course, but where was the thrill in that? Thrill was what kept you in this business after all.

There was nothing you did that didn't already risk your life, even just traversing down this mountain could have you saying your last prayers. So if you were to die, why not do something you hadn't done before? Stupid as this decision was.

With a full belly, you decided to look through camp more thoroughly; for anything that'd leave with a more detailed understanding of the train robbery you were to commit, as Colm handed you his barest of explanations.

Yet, the more you searched, the harder anything was to find. Whoever pillaged, did it well. The dynamite, the plans, everything was now in their hands, which meant train attendants were likely not the only thing you'd have to worry about today.

You cleaned up all your belongings, stomping out the fire and packing your horse.

The trail back was just to the left of you, but you pushed on away from it before you could change your mind.

The scenery became sparse with snow, much to your relief, as you made further down the mountain. The railroad sat below you just a couple hundred yards.

You had your eyes peeled for anyone who had clearly made a great effort to join you.

Once you felt you made it close enough, you stopped in a shaded forest area, hiding your horse away in the cover of trees.

There was a ledge and a small tunnel which had hefty rocks near it - a perfect hiding spot with a vantage.

You fiddled with a blade of grass, unfolding, refolding, and tearing at it while you waited for the train, though arguably more so your unnamed and unseen enemies.

It was nearly past mid-day, but before any doubt that the train had already ran by, voices barely caught your ear.

Your eyes flicked to where it sounded from - men and their horses. A frown worthy sight, but not an unexpected one.

You slid further behind the cover of your rocks, making sure you couldn't be seen by them.

The blade of grass in your hands got replaced by a small pair of binoculars to get a clearer look at the group.

There were no shortage of them that stood on the ledge overlooking the track. No doubt the ones who ravaged your entire gang's camp. If you weren't careful, you'd be added to the body count.

You counted six from afar before you spotted a seventh one willy-nillying around in the small clearing by the tracks.

Another man in a navy coat rode down the steep hill to meet the one in the clearing, helping him draw out the dynamite.

As you studied the ones on the ledge. One face seemed familiar in a way to you. It wasn't long till you recalled some gang Colm had qualms with. Some Van der Linde if you were correct.

You weren't quite sure how this would work out for you. The train attendants seemed easy to work around with enough caution.

But your cocksure thoughts from earlier started dimming. A whole other gang of pure no-good criminals who would probably know exactly what you are with a quick glance suddenly made you a lot more nervous.

What was worse, was the long standing hatred each gang held for another.

You felt at this point, your more rational side near convinced you out of it. Being alone and all, you'd have to relent.

Defeat had grasped you completely, but you didn't want to leave, not yet at least. Curiosity kept you seated. You wanted to see how this would pan out for them.

The loud motion of a train moving along on the tracks drew your attention, as well as the gangs.

All the men on the ledge now covered their faces, and the ones in the clearing scurried off out of sight.

Your thoughts cleared when the train sped around the corner, approaching the spot the dynamite had been planted. You covered your ears, the train getting closer and closer.

You furrowed your brows when nothing went off. Why were they waiting so long?

It only took a second before you realized it was faulty. You perked up with this prospect.

Three of the gang members shared your reaction when they quickly dismounted and ran to the opposite side of the tunnel.

You didn't care to pay attention much longer as you got up without hesitation, making for your horse with speed.

Spurring hard, you caught up to the train that hadn't yet passed you too far.

With a quick glance, you made sure you had no one behind you. Though it seemed their access to the tracks was not as clear cut as yours.

When you finally turned to look back at the train, your mouth flew open.

One guy dangled off the side as crossed a bridge, the other helping him up.

If you were crazy for this, they'd be psychotic. You certainly didn't think them to be ballsy enough to jump on top.

They didn't notice you, thankfully, and with that you cleared your head and focused.

If they were shooting, you could be stealing. Stealing what was yours in the first place. After all, they wouldn't notice your shooting amongst all the others.

You rode right up to the last train car before you finally heard gunshots. Instinctively ducking closer to your horse as you weren't sure if it was you getting shot at.

Reluctantly you looked up, and saw no one. With that, you couldn't waste anymore time.

An involuntary leap of nothing but faith landed you on the back ladder of the final train coach.

You watched as your horse slowed behind you and all you could do was hope she didn't get in the way of the other members who followed.

Gunshots continued the ring out in the cabins ahead of you, making their way up to the engine.

The door next to you was the only thing keeping you from this score, sending a bullet through the lock that kept it hitched shut.

The metal flung open with its release, which made the sounds of men more apparent to you.

You weren't quick to peer around, readying yourself for the rain of bullets you were likely to receive.

Forcing your arm in the way of fire, you shot indiscriminately inside the cabin, hoping your bullets would find them.

Now you gained enough confidence to peep back over, you saw only one slumped. The rest each held a great look of fear and fury.

You hissed at the time this was costing you as you reloaded. A few gunshots shot through the metal side of you, which motivated you to work faster.

Sliding out from behind the door swiftly, you popped each one with precision. Simply no room for no precision, lest it was your life you intended on losing.

The worry of being shot died with the men as you walked into the train cabin.

It was something to be marveled at for sure. Warm gas lights pulled you in, illuminating the wooden decals and Scarlett seats.

Your boots met with a cobalt rug now stained with the same color of the furniture, your doing, really.

Ruffling around in all of the cabinets and dressers that sat to the sides of the inside, you found two lock boxes, which didn't take much time to break into. That or it was another bullet breaking through it for you.

You listened for each and every gunshot, hoping they wouldn't end soon, that thought being filled with pure irony.

The inside of the lock boxes held train bonds and a great deal of cash, too much for you to count through now as you stashed it and made it to the door that flung around in the wind.

The train was going too fast for you to jump off, or at least want to jump off, but staying on wouldn't do you much good either, that much quickly prominent when you heard the final shouts of some men and the screeches of the wheels as you jerked forward with the halting train.

"Shit." You scowled.

Blowing a whistle desperately for your horse, you leaped off the now stationary train, maneuvering through the rough mounds and rocks that littered the surrounding terrain.

You crouched down with trepidation when you heard yet another round of shouting and gunshots.

As soon as you ducked behind a boulder, you checked if it was directed at you. And it seemed not yet.

You needed to get out of here before they realized that you weaseled around, or you'd be on the same horizontal plain as the train attendants.

Whistling again, you prayed your mare would find you without catching much attention. And attention was exactly what she caught.

The largest of the men, the same who had been in the clearing, pointed directly at you. Barking out loud commands at the others whilst your mare innocently trotted straight up to you.

Now you got real nervous. Your blood ran thin as you sprang onto her back, shaking so much the reins threatened to leave your grasp.

You fled deeper into the forest, the gunshots having now stopped but not the frantic hollering nor the sound of many hooves in your direction.

Losing them in the dark, snowy alps was your only plan, and by no means full proof since the beginning of your day lacked a great deal of proper planning.

#rdr #rdr2 arthur #dutch van der linde #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption two #rdr2 #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan #enemies to lovers #red dead fanfic #lemon fanfic #arthur morgan fanfiction

133 notes · View notes

touyas-multi-purpose-saline · 3 months ago

Note

may i request camellia with tengai please?? thank you!! 💗

cw: Yandere Themes, Possessive Behavior, Graphic Descriptions of Gore, Death, Violence, Allusions to Kidnapping, Allusions to Non-Con, Murder, Unhealthy Relationships, Uncomfortable Scenarios, General Dark Themes Not Suitable for Immature Audiences, Gender-Neutral Reader. Read at your own discretion! 18+ Only!

author's note: Wow! This was extremely fun to write. This prompt was interesting, and this idea struck me and I just had to write it. I hope you enjoy! This was a prompt from "Yandere Prompts Flower Language" and can be found here . REQUESTS ARE OPEN—READ TAGS. I do not condone unhealthy behavior in any sense! This is strictly fiction! Do not force yourself to read if you're uncomfortable.

PROMPT: Camellia (devotion, perfection): "You know l'd do anything for you, right? My love knows no limits."

word count: Approximately 1.6k.

Hekiji has always been there for you.

Or, well, always is relative and subjective.

It’s been a long time—or maybe, perhaps, it just feels that way—that you’ve been in these desolate walls. Everywhere is four-posters, heavy and thick curtains so blinding are forever drawn. If you stretch your arm out, all your fingertips ever brush are ash and feathers. Faux feathers that feel like fur, the shade of an indigo violet, flowers in bloom that never wilt but never birth.

Chisaki’s weird about them though. He combs through everything and anything he can sweep those strange fingers through, and can hush whatever noises their hissing produces. You’re never able to truly touch those feathers, those wings that could flutter and fly you away, so fertile and real.

Because you’re not supposed to touch him.

That’s rule—he’s the one who has to initiate contact, not the other way around. In a sense, it’s miserable. You can’t even close your eyes and trick yourself into believing it’s your now dead partner holding you again. You just have to lay in the dark of this room, staring at those four posters, each an individual column that appears before you, just smooth mountains with no footholds, just barriers that remind you that you’re trapped here until you die.

That’s why your mind is fleeting, circling around, pacing up the ceiling with shuddering footsteps.

And despite its many laps, it all returns to Hekiji.

You’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. He’s one of the few constants on your brain. Through Chisaki’s weird schedule for you, its strict and strenuous nature, through the disgusting moments of intimacy he forces on you, also very strict because he has to control each movement and he’s very thorough with aftercare in a not endearing way, and through the reality of your ever demise—Hekiji always hovers in the backdrop of those thoughts. He’s always nice to you, pleasant, cordial, sweet even. He’s always been a shoulder to cry on, you think. Even though he has this undying loyalty to Chisaki, he sits through every tear, every sob, every hiccup as you recount the horrible things his boss has put you through. Hekiji always sits in silence. Always. Sometimes you wonder if he’s even breathing. How much has Chisaki told him about his twisted plans for the world? His torture of that poor little girl? His hand in what happened to the original boss of the Shie Hassaikai? His whispers against the shell of your ear that everyone has a role to play and that some people’s role is to be used?

You wonder if Hekiji is slowly realizing.

Because each time you see him, his hands begin to wander. Sometimes it’s something ginger on your shoulder, a squeeze, and you swear that he’s seeing you through those closed eyes. Other times, when you lean against his side, your nose buried within the crux of his collar bones, he’ll let an arm slide down your back, hand caressing your arm, lobster claws with spindling webs. Hekiji is never rough, always calm, but his words are balmy, fueled with a distilled passion that makes your head whirl. He’s so honest, so grounded, and that’s why you always let your hands fall into his lap whenever he cradles you against him.

It’s oddly intimate, and you wonder if Chisaki is aware of what Hekiji does. With Hekiji’s pact to Chisaki, surely he must. It’s so bizarre, so impactful. Does Chisaki care if other people touch you? If that’s so, why did he murder your partner in cold blood? Are you just an object to be passed around to his little yakuza clan?

Oh, who really fucking cares? Hekiji doesn’t do anything to you, just soft, always inviting, and you swear that each time you see him that something changes between you two. You’re a pawn, both of you are pawns, and maybe Chisaki has told him what game you’re trapped in. That’s why things are changing with Hekiji. Maybe you feel nothing for him at all, but you just want something to anchor you to hope and sanity and so your fishing line is being cast out into the tides, chasing a green light to speed through that intersection, to helplessly grab broken oars and beat back, the water flowing.

And maybe through the spitting white caps, even though they’re freezing and you feel like your thumb can’t swipe the salt from your burning nostrils, the boat bounding and sinking further, you realize that perhaps you’ve maybe fallen in love with Hekiji.

What a nightmare.

Fires start knocking at the latches of your eyes, staring through the peepholes, abusing an invitation that wasn’t ever there. The distinct need to bawl makes you feel stupid and childish, makes the subtle breathing slipping through Chisaki’s parted lips all the more hellish. You can’t catch a break. A knife splits between your brows whenever you slowly tilt your head to stare at Chisaki’s face, so demure, and you know there’s a little boy in there who never had a chance and maybe there could be some form of pity if he’d done things to you differently, but all you can see is the inclines of his face and those honey eyes staring into your soul whenever he’s on top of you. You wish, oh, you wish that you could just shove your fingers into his mouth and rip out his uvula, wish you could make him throw up everything he’s ever lived for. You wish. You wish. Oh, you—

The door starts to slide open. It’s slow, deliberate, and not a single sound whistles from its slots. Both of your narrowed eyes widen, but all you do is suck your lips in and hold your breath. Something’s not right, but you sure as hell aren’t about to wake up Chisaki. No one’s allowed to enter his room. Not even that creepy Kurono guy. This is bad, but something begins to bubble inside of your chest. It feels like butterfly kisses tickling the rims of your lungs, but they swell and suddenly you feel like a swarm of locusts are about to crawl out of your teeth. You’re excited. Whether it’s going to be someone who hurts Chisaki, hurts you, or hurts both of you—you’re excited because then you might finally be able to feel some retribution, escape, anything but this.

And as the door fully comes to, everything stops.

Hekiji. It’s Hekiji standing on the other side. His face is shadowed, but you swear his eyes are open, leering, large, and you feel licks of nerves trickle down your spine. He doesn’t stay there for long. He slips into the room, tantalizing, patient, and you feel like your limbs have hit their locks, have made their last click and splintered around your frame, underneath your fingernails. You don't say a word, but neither does Hekiji. It’s so eerily quiet that you can’t hear a heartbeat pump in your ears. So, so, deathly. And then he pauses whenever he reaches the bed, a step or two away from Chisaki’s side. And for a heavy, burdening moment, something that’s weightless but is tar sucking on the soles of your feet to hook you in forever—neither of you move.

Until Hekiji’s hand slowly lifts, palm facing the sky.

It all happens too fast.

Beaming lights, fireworks, a blazing sun saddling through the sky, the devil’s herd, screaming, wheezing, so many sounds and lights, stadium’s cheering, and it’s all concentrated in that singular yellow. Its glow dances across your cheeks, between your eyes, animation, life, and it’s sunflowers smiling at you. A low hum echoes within its chambers, and your eyes crackle whenever they space out, whenever you see a sunshine dome form around Chisaki’s unconscious body. You’re almost unable to comprehend it, but you watch it regardless. Hekiji’s frame is warbling on the other side, rippling bath water filled with eucalyptus and spearmint notes. And then,

an explosion.

It’s more mist and rainy than anything else. Splatters of paint on wet canvas, but it’s copper, it’s metal, it’s visceral. You don't even need to blink. You know what it was, you know what that is. It’s soggy, there’s no friction on the other side of the bed. It’s gone, everything, even the pain in your chest. It happened so fast, too fast, and whenever the halo disappears, meat, sauce, seasonings, sides, and vegetables fall into the goopy soup puddling amongst the sheets. Chisaki’s gone. Just like that. Universe collapsed in on itself into a black nothingness.

But Hekiji’s still here.

And the afterglow of his magic has gossamer fog powdering his cheeks, has those open eyes of his mystical and so so so terrifying. You ask,

“Hekiji. Why did you kill him?”

And whenever he speaks through his mask, through the last tie of his loyalty, you know that everything’s crumbling.

“All of these things you’ve shared with me have been my resolve.”

You slowly tilt your head, carefully pushing yourself up onto your elbows, avoiding the blood.

“Resolve?”

Hekiji is silent. But it’s brief, he’s staring deep into you, seeing more of you than he really should.

“To end your suffering.”

Cotton in your mouth.

“So you… ?”

Hekiji doesn’t even nod.

“You know… I’d do anything for you. My love has no limits.”

Maybe it’s his words, maybe it’s the gore trembling beneath the pads of your fingers, or maybe it’s Chisaki’s ghostly body pressing into your own as a reminder—but you realize that you never had a chance either.

“Love?”

He steps closer.

“Yes. I’ve come to realize that I’ve fallen for you. Worldly desires are hard to pass, and I hadn’t succumbed… until I met you. It was you. You are the one. I’ve realized that you’re the one who’s given me a purpose in this life.”

You don’t even bother fleeing.

“I have.”

Monotone doesn’t register to Hekiji, but whenever his knees touch the edge of the bed and he starts to sink down, hand extended, offered, your shuddering fate is the only form of salvation through his twisted asceticism he’s choosing.

“Master Overhaul was a lie. You’ve made me feel like I’ve never felt before. I had to show you what you mean to me.”

And Master Overhaul’s Chisaki is smearing underneath your palms, teardrops in the rain.

Hekiji is almost here.

“I had to show you where my loyalty truly lies.”

And the weight of his hand on your cheek is your own resolve.

12 notes · View notes

bala5 · 8 months ago

Text

The Cedar Waxwing symbolizes for us the need for change and movement to find the nourishment we need in life. Their sense of community and desire to share the fruits of their labor with one another, reflects our desire to engage our creative nature and joy in making something tangible for others to experience.

Spiritual and Magical meanings of encountering a Cedar Waxwing. Cedar waxwings play an important role in nature by helping to pollinate trees and plants. As totem animals, they remind us to enjoy life’s simple pleasures and to take time to appreciate the beauty around us. In addition, cedar waxwing spiritual meaning can teach us about balance, patience, and self-reliance. May you find peace and solace among the cedar waxwings. the cedar waxwing is often seen as a symbol of balance. This is because these birds are known to live in harmony with their surroundings. In addition, cedar waxwings are thought to possess great patience and fortitude. They are also considered very self-reliant, which is another important trait to embody. They often appear during turmoil or strife, reminding us to remain calm and find our inner center.

The Celts hold the cedar waxwing in high regard, seeing it as a symbol of hope and rebirth. In particular, they believed that these birds represented the spirit of hope and that the waxwing was a messenger of new beginnings. In some Celtic traditions, this bird is seen as an omen of bad things to come; however, this is typically only when the waxwing appears in large numbers. When this happens, it is often seen as a sign that something big is about to happen, either good or bad.

In Far Eastern cultures, the cedar waxwing is often seen as a symbol of good fortune. These birds bring luck and prosperity to those who cross their path. In addition, the cedar waxwing is also associated with longevity and wisdom. It is believed that these birds can help us to tap into our inner wisdom and to live a long and prosperous life.

The cedar waxwing is also seen as a symbol of friendship in many cultures. This is because these birds are known to be very social creatures. They often travel in flocks and are always seen working together. This makes them the perfect symbol for those who value friendship and teamwork.

The cedar waxwing also has a special place in Greek mythology. In this culture, the cedar waxwing is seen as a symbol of love and affection. This is because these birds are known to mate for life and to care for their young diligently. Additionally, the cedar waxwing is also associated with the Greek god Dionysus, the god of wine. These birds are often seen drinking fermented fruit in mid-flight and seem to have a great appreciation for all things sweet and delicious! Overall, the cedar waxwing has a special significance in many different cultures. Whether you see this bird as a symbol of balance, patience, or self-reliance, there is no doubt that the cedar waxwing has much to teach us.

When you look at the Waxwing’s head, it appears as if masked, another allusion to confidentiality with some mystery and the art of disguise thrown in for good measure. For nesting, Waxwings prefer the Rowan (Mountain Ash). The Rowan Tree represents courage, wisdom, and protection. A hardy Apple tree is the Waxwing’s alternative settling spot, indicative of health, happiness, and love. When the trees are close to water, it’s even better. They need plenty of water for processing the sugars in their diet. Sometimes the Waxwings gather overripe berries, becoming intoxicated and unable to fly.

A central message from the Waxwing Spirit Animal focuses on generosity. Ask yourself if someone in your life is genuinely in need. Alternatively, consider a charitable cause you can get behind in the way of support. Remember, giving is not always a matter of money. Time helps, extra hands help, your skills can help. The rewards from such efforts don’t have a price tag; they are priceless. Speaking of gifting, Waxwing Spirit Animal instructs taking an inventory of items you have but no longer need or use. If it’s sat on a shelf for six months without a thought, find a new home graciously. An extra benefit here is removing clutter and opening your space to the flow of positive energies. Third, Waxwing Spirit Animal reminds you to give means receiving as well. Many people find it hard to accept help. Pride or embarrassment gets in the way. However, the Universe values YOU too. Be thankful no matter how small or large the gesture.

Finally, the Waxwing Spirit Animal challenges you to take time in introspection. What masks do you wear in your life, and why? In Shamanic traditions, costumes transform. In other settings, they can deceive or protect. You should remain aware of the masks you don, checking for good intentions.

Words by Kimberly McGrath

7 notes · View notes

pearlescentpearl · 2 years ago

Note

murder cat sword only likes its wielder's boyfriend , one of my favourite SVSS fics of all time! Either Binghe’s perspective on this unexpected Shidi with weird priorities, or a future time stamp a few months in the future?

or a thousand years is a long time to be idle future time stamp, LQG and flower!SY continuing to be disgustingly married/

oh gosh, I haven't poked at scum villain in so long. alright here we go.

When Luo Binghe opens his eyes to a wooden ceiling, the feel of sheets against bare skin, and Xin Mo nowhere near, he's prepared to have a bad day he fully intends to make someone else's bad day. He reeks like the silty end of a river, his hair feels like one big itchy clump on his scalp, and his throat is dry as hell; all in all, raking his claws on some handsy fool sounds like a perfect pick me up.

What looks like a humble bedroom is at least not the worst place he could wake up in. Luo Binghe will give it that.

Stumbling, yanking the sheets around him as he goes, Luo Binghe makes his way to the curtain separating off the bedroom and listens intently.

No one's in the house. Strange. Did a would be thief have the decency to dump his nude self under shelter before abandoning him?

No. Ridiculous. This house looks freshly occupied.

Ah, a window!

Well, Luo Binghe thinks, finding his clothes haphazardly strung up on a clothesline outside, one less thing to take out of someone's hide, he guesses. Not by much though, his nose wrinkles, even from here he can tell they've been improperly laundered.

But he sees also a water pump so he pops the wooden frame of the window out with a brief burst of qi and crawls out. Ah, blessed, clean smelling water on his scalp, sluicing away the filth, how he has missed you. When he razes the world to blood and ashes he'll be sure to spare this pump only.

Now clean and water flash dried to steam with a touch of demon fire, sheet wrapped back around him properly, Luo Binghe follows the faint sound of a voice coming from what seems to be a forge in the back. Strange... Why would a blacksmith live in such an isolated spot? It's not at all practical for their trade.

Suspicious, Luo Binghe creeps on silent feet and peeks in.

The smith's back is turned to him, and-- yes, that is the feel of a cultivator. Nowhere near as strong as himself, but Luo Binghe finds fewer and fewer of those these days.

More importantly, he has Xin Mo and appears to be doing something to it. Why the sword hasn't obliterated the flesh from his hands for touching it is a mystery.

No sense in letting this play out, he hasn't patience for that. Grabbing the sword from the nearby rack, Luo Binghe's slips it in under the man's chin, noting the cultivator-youthful features. Kind of an average pretty boy, but that kind of things gets run of the mill in the sects.

"Good morning?" the smith tries, voice pleasantly clear and low. He must have excellent recitation. "Are you... feeling better?"

Am I feeling better? Luo Binghe mocks in his head. After your cursory hospitality how could I not be in peak condition?

"Who are you and what are you doing to Xin Mo?" He demands, keeping the sword rock steady.

"This one is Shen Yuan of Wan Jian Peak, of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect," Shen Yuan says, like it's not stabbing half a dozen of Luo Binghe's reverse scales concurrently. "I pulled you out of the river this morning. As for your sword; I'm cleaning it."

Likely story! Luo Binghe was born in the morning but it wasn't this morning! He'd only been to Wan Jian Peak the once to get long lost Zheng Yang, but he'd heard all the gossip from Ning Yingying how homebodied and insular the Third Peak was. They were the one of the least inclined to leave the sect before reaching a mastery level in their craft, and that took a minimum of twenty years. This guy hardly felt older than himself, so unless he started in the cradle the only thing he's mastered is bullshit!

"Wan Jian Peak," Luo Binghe repeats, unimpressed. Let's see the liar sweat with holes poked in his story. "I was under the impression none of you ever left the mountain."

"I am a senior disciple expanding my horizons," Shen Yuan says loftily, scowling. “Now are you going to stop being such an ungrateful guest any time soon? I’d like to get on with my day, please.”

No fear? Odd. Annoying. Who was this that being disarmed and held at sword point on his knees is treated as a mere inconvenience?

He finds his grip on the hilt relaxing despite himself. "Xin Mo doesn't need cleaning."

"That's where you're wrong," Shen Yuan calmly refutes, still in that lofty tone, brazenly pushing the sword away with a single finger. “This poor thing smells like enough old blood to put an abandoned butchery to shame. Did you find it in a mass grave or something?”

Luo Binghe twitches, feeling caught out. That's... too accurate, actually.

“It’s a demonic sword, it does that,” he growls, scrambling to keep control of the situation. And, shit, he said too much!

He can't quite... parse the look the other is giving him. Shen Yuan almost seems to double take, eyes wide and fascinated, like he's just now noticing Luo Binghe properly. But it's too perceptive, it's too knowing, Luo Binghe feels naked before whatever enlightenment is Shen Yuan is having. Really, who is this?

“Still no harm in letting me do my job,” Shen Yuan insists, implacable and unafraid, popping the cork off of whatever poison he thinks will stick to Xin Mo. “If nothing else I can cut down on the smell.”

Should Luo Binghe just kill him now and have done with it? Is he really as weak as he feels and just stupidly overconfident, or is he hiding his strength? A normal cultivator of his strength ought to be cowering before Luo Binghe's might by this point.

He hesitates. Xin Mo pulses hungrily in his senses, angry claws. "Fine." Whatever Shen Yuan uses won't affect Xin Mo anyway.

Or, at least, so he thought. That is... an impressive amount of rancid blood trying to flood the foor.

Shen Yuan arches a brow at him, and it feels extremely judgy.

"Ah," Luo Binghe says, unable to really... defend himself here.

"Ah," Shen Yuan parrots back with a too knowing nod.

#scum villain #shen yuan #luo binghe

32 notes · View notes

beyond-far-horizons · 7 months ago

Text

Ilyena - an analysis of The Wheel of Time’s Lost Lenore

Part One - Who was Ilyena and why does she matter?

I’ve loved Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time series for over twenty-five years for many reasons, and it’s famous for its vast range of characters. But increasingly I keep being drawn back to one minor character who many could dismiss as a cliché, even if she wasn’t the perfect example of a Lost Lenore. So I’ve decided to write a meta on Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar/ Ilyena Therin Moerelle to explore her often overlooked significance and why other major writing decisions in the books likely led to her ambiguous place in the narrative and in fans’ reception of her.

Spoilers for the whole series abound.

Ilyena was the beloved wife of Lews Therin Telamon - the primary hero/destroyer figure of the previous Age. She was murdered by him, along with all their family and friends, as a result of the madness inflicted on him after his infamous Sealing of the Dark One’s Prison. This event occurs in the series’ very first prologue, and not only heralds the terrible transformation the world of the books undergoes for the next three thousand years, but it also haunts Lews Therin’s reincarnation - the Dragon Reborn - for most of the current story in various ways.

Despite Ilyena being a very minor character, I think I love her partly because Lews Therin - our tragic hero - does, and her harrowing death at the hands of her beloved (along with her children and loved ones) is what starts off this incredible tale. This tragedy permeates through the series - not just in the horror that the Dragon and his reincarnation invoke in people because of this act, but because it sets the tone for the fate of all channelling men - if you channel saidin you will go mad, and likely kill all you love before you die rotting.

And the Shadow fell upon the Land, and the World was riven stone from stone. The oceans fled, and the mountains were swallowed up, and the nations were scattered to the eight corners of the World. The moon was as blood, and the sun was as ashes. The seas boiled, and the living envied the dead. All was shattered, and all but memory lost, and one memory above all others, of him who brought the Shadow and the Breaking of the World. And him they named Dragon. (from Aleth nin Taerin alta Camora, The Breaking of the World. Author unknown, the Fourth Age)

The Hook

I know it sounds crazy (pardon the pun), but it’s this grim fate that is such a continuing hook for me - a hero is needed to save the world, but is destined to repeat this terrible, unjust price as a consequence. It’s the juxtaposition of power and glory mixed with madness and death that’s always fascinated me with The Wheel of Time over all other series, especially as Jordan is able to convey the horror without gratuitousness and with a sense of potential hope. The fact that, as someone said on a forum years ago, the Dragon Reborn and his Asha’man must face this fate to do their duty, makes their resolve to so truly heroic. As a plot device and a magic system consequence, it gives instant high emotional stakes, especially combined with the seductive, addictive power of saidin thatmakes madness inevitable. What sacrifices did these unfortunate men and their families make over three thousand years because they couldn’t stop channelling? How is our protagonist Rand going to overcome this? What will happen now that channelling men trained as weapons are once again being unleashed on the world? And so on…

But also what’s compelling is the nature of reincarnation in these books - the very nature of reality means you might have a destiny, your fate could be bound together with your loved ones and, critically, that there may be second chances to put things right. Ironically, this last part is central to Ilyena and the theme of the whole series, but how it’s executed is a whole other matter. But more on that later…

Restorative Justice

And partly I’m fascinated with Ilyena because we know so little about her. I always want to give female characters their due and in a lot of ways The Wheel of Time does this, but not so much with Ilyena. She’s critical to our hero and the story - both as a dire warning and as an agonising guilt - but we never even hear her speak. This is despite the fact her husband (and murderer) becomes a constant voice in Rand’s head, literally driving him insane with memories and whimperings about her. We don’t know what Ilyena did for a living or even in text if she was Aes Sedai. She’s a classic example of both the ‘Stuffed in the Fridge’ trope and the ‘Lost Lenore’ trope, and it infuriates me that she means so much to a saga that has huge numbers of developed female characters with agency, achievements and backstory, yet we never get to hear hers. Everything we know about Ilyena is used to reinforce Lews Therin’s (and therefore Rand’s) pain in the narrative. She is a tragic figure, a mere cipher for suffering, yet she has so much potential.

So far, so very much like many older fantasy series with male authors, yet as previously stated, this isn’t usual for Jordan, which is one of the reasons I fell in love with the books to begin with.

Yet in a series that is founded on reincarnation, destiny and foreshadowing, Ilyena is never explicitly reincarnated and reunited with her love Lews Therin nor is her vaguely alluded to past with major villains Mierin/Lanfear and Barid Bel Medar/Demandred ever elaborated upon. Her children too are never really discussed; the series is instead diluted by an ever-widening array of characters and their petty politics (in my view). It’s widely considered that from Books 7/8 onwards the series’ loses its focus, with fans divided on whether it regains this in Book 11, in the Sanderson co-written final three, or at all. Author Robert Jordan was suffering with illness and pressure and also wanted to explore themes like miscommunication and myriad POVs on the end-times. It’s his series and I have to respect that, but I can’t help feeling that the books I fell in love with - a series with Ilyena and her tragedy at its heart - would have been better served by a tighter focus and a better resolution for her and the event that sparked everything. I also think Jordan’s insistence on Rand’s three lovers derailed Ilyena’s significance in the story in ways I’ll discuss later.

What We Know

So what do we actually know about Ilyena? Below I’ll bullet-point everything I’ve been able to tease about her from the main series, adjacent books like The Wheel of Time Companion, The World of Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time and The Origins of the Wheel of Time, Robert Jordan’s notes, and his answers recorded on the Theoryland site.

Name. Her full maiden name was Ilyena Moerelle Dalisar. There isn’t an Old Tongue meaning given, although someone once suggested ‘Dalisar’ could mean ‘woman of clocks’ (aka something to do with time) from ‘dali’ - clock and ‘sar’ - she/woman.

Married Name. Her name was changed upon marriage to Ilyena Therin Moerelle, which seems like a weird anachronism for the egalitarian Age of Legends, especially as her husband’s surname seems to replace her prized Third Name. Some fans have reasoned that ‘Moerelle’ is therefore her Third Name, but that would go against the naming format Jordan used since he confirmed that ‘Telamon’ is Lews Therin’s Third Name. Therefore, it stands to reason ‘Dalisar’ is Ilyena’s. I personally think this is a slip-up from Jordan’s unconscious, old fashioned views, so I always call her by her maiden name.

Career/Social Status. She was brilliant and devoted enough to have gained the vaunted Third Name - the Second Age’s highest honour. Third Names were bestowed as a recognition for an individual’s exemplary service to wider society and, although very difficult to achieve, could be gained in many fields.

Appearance. Her description varies a little as she is often described as ‘golden-haired’ or, more derogatorily, as a ‘pale-haired milksop’ or ‘yellow-haired trollop’ by her rival Lanfear. But Rand via Lews Therin’s memories recalls she had ‘…a pretty face, skin like cream, golden hair exactly the shade of Elayne’s’, meaning she had red-gold hair (whatever that means!).

‘Sunhair’. Ilyena’s hair is considered so beautiful it earns her a common epithet ‘Sunhair’, which even arch-villain Ishamael uses.

Milksop? Lanfear’s insult of ‘milksop’, although it can’t be taken as accurate due to her bias, could also indicate an emotional softness or compassion. ‘Milksop’ is an old fashioned insult that implies weakness or frailness

Beauty. She is often described as pretty or beautiful and occasionally linked to Elayne in those terms.

Romantic Muse. Ilyena’s charms were enough to make two of the most acclaimed men of the Second Age fall for her. Lews Therin is so deeply in love with her that he utters phrases like ‘I will never forget Ilyena, not if all the world burns!’ and ‘Not even for Ilyena? I would burn the world and use my soul for tinder to hear her laugh again.’ He also angrily asserts that Demandred (formerly Barid Bel Medar) wanted Ilyena.

Love Triangle. Unfortunately (like everything to do with Ilyena) we learn next to nothing about this love triangle. It could just be a literary device to underline poor Barid Bel losing out to his rival yet again. We don’t know if Ilyena felt anything for the man who was ‘almost’ her husband’s equal in every way, and one of his foremost generals before defecting. Demandred’s only thought on the matter comes from Brandon Sanderson’s interpretation, so we don’t know how accurate that is to Jordan’s original vision. However, Demandred reflects that ‘Lews Therin had taken Ilyena’ as the final point in Lews Therin’s list of accomplishments over him. This implies that both men had been in competition over her affections, and possibly that Barid Bel had known Ilyena before Lews Therin and had even been romantically involved with her. Or possibly that is just how the entitled Forsaken viewed it, thinking of her as a possession worthy of him that his rival ‘stole’, similar to Lanfear with Ilyena’s husband. In Sanderson’s more tragic depiction, this event is partially implied to have damaged Barid Bel’s capacity for romantic love, despite finding himself drawn to the beautiful Shendla. But this new affection doesn’t stop him from threatening to enslave and assault Rand’s lovers for revenge - a promise he tells Leane to deliver to Rand in the final book A Memory of Light. We can imagine he might have longed to subject Ilyena to this fate had he ever captured her in the War of Power, especially given his history of horrifically over-reacting to imagined slights.

Aes Sedai? We don’t know what occupation Ilyena had either during the Age of Legends or the War of Power, or in text that she could channel. But we can infer that she was Aes Sedai because, as per The World of the Wheel of Time book, Lews Therin and she had a relationship for at least sixty years before her death and she isn’t described as showing any signs of age at her death. Even with the longer life spans of ordinary citizens during that time, that would still mean she would have met him when she was very young and he into his third century, which seems creepy and inappropriate. I wasn’t sure if she was Aes Sedai, but it seems very likely and would make her a better match as a life partner for Lews Therin. There is also a possible confirmation from RJ at a North Virginia signing that she was, which is also noted on Theoryland - https://groups.google.com/g/rec.arts.sf.written.robert-jordan/c/DrJxMGi4LF8/m/Ww1QBLHn8F4J.

Meeting her soulmate. Lews Therin met her long after his break-up with the ambitious Mierin/Lanfear, counter to Lanfear’s claim that Ilyena ‘stole’ him. Lanfear continues to blame Ilyena for her ‘loss’, and transfers her jealousy on to any woman that appears to be a love rival. Her possessiveness reaches murderous levels as she kills innocent bystanders, as well as trying to kill Rand and Aviendha in the current timeline. It’s unclear what Ilyena herself made of all of this in her own time.

Marriage and Rivalry. Lews Therin and Ilyena married about fifty years into the Collapse and approximately fifty years before the true War of Power. Lanfear made several blatant public approaches, and likely a number of secret ones, to regain Lews Therin’s affections during this time. She also tried to disrupt their wedding ceremony.

Temper. Lews Therin said that ‘Ilyena never flashed her temper at me when she was angry with herself. When she gave me the rough side of her tongue, it was because she…’ implying that, while Ilyena could become angry or feisty, she wasn’t unjust or childish about it like Egwene was being when this memory surfaced. In the first prologue, he also mentioned to Ishamael that she will give him [Lews Therin] ‘the rough side of her tongue’ if she thinks he is keeping a guest from her.

Woman Trouble? The Heroes of the Horn in Book 2 imply that Lews Therin (the Dragon Soul) always chooses women who cause him trouble in some way. Given that they call him Lews Therin and Ilyena was Lews Therin’s true love in that lifetime, we might wonder what trouble she caused him. Was their courtship difficult? Was she captured like Egwene was at one point? Was she actually as feisty as someone like Aviendha or Nynaeve? Perhaps someone as arrogant as Lews Therin was known to be needed a woman that brought him down to earth?

Motherhood. She had at least four children (boys and girls) with her husband before her death and some were young enough to still be playing with toys at the time of their unfortunate demise. It seems a little strange that this couple would have young children given they were fighting an apocalyptic war with ultimate evil, but this could be one of those writing conflicts one has when world-building concepts hit plot logic. Either that or it could indicate Ilyena and Lews Therin wanted to be parents and continued to have hope in their world enough to do so.

Social Savy. Lews Therin remarks even in his madness to Ishamael that Ilyena loves conversation and often asks people many questions about themselves. He also says that she will get angry with him if she thinks he is hiding a guest from her. This indicates a warm, gregarious personality that enjoys company and entertaining, and also someone that is curious about people and the world in general.

The Voice? Lews Therin asks Ishamael if he has the Voice (i.e the Songs of Growing), that it will soon be time for the Singing and that in his and Ilyena’s home everyone is invited to take part. This could just be ‘first book syndrome’, but we get subtle hints through the series (and discussed further on The Thirteen Depository blog) that the Singing might be more more sacred that just Tree Singing ( i.e food production) and it’s tied up with the Dragon’s role as Champion of the Light and being ‘One with the Land’. I surmise that the Singing is about affirming the Pattern and the Light as well as growing food and Ilyena is implied to have the Voice, although that is just conjecture on my part. The mention of it does link with her and Lews Therin running a welcoming, life-affirming home, however.

Palatial Living. She and Lews Therin live in a sumptuous palace filled with masterworks of art and furniture inlaid with ivory and gold. It’s described both in the prologue to The Eye of the World and in a brief comparison to Caemlyn’s palace in Book 5.

True and Enduring Love. She and her husband had a loving marriage shown both by tragic quotes like: ’And time after time he [Rand/Lews Therin] faced a beautiful golden-haired woman, watched love turn to terror on her face. Part of him knew her. Part of him wanted to save her, from the Dark One, from any harm, from what he himself was about to do…’ Their love is also demonstrated by the depths of mourning, suicidal yearnings and apocalyptic tendencies the Lews Therin aspect of Rand expresses in his head at her loss. Even under a life threatening attack from Lanfear in The Fires of Heaven ‘Lews Therin’ affirms to Lanfear ‘“I was never yours, Mierin. I will always belong to Ilyena”’ and moments later on the point of near death ‘Ilyena, ever and always my heart.’

Never Forgotten/Source of Agony. Ilyena’s name appears on Rand’s ‘List of Women’ who have died for him, and her murder is very likely the reason for its existence, along with his Two Rivers upbringing. This list is moral ‘red line’ Rand cleaves to for his humanity, but also serves as a terrible tool he uses to harrow and harden himself emotionally as his burdens increase.

History Repeats Itself. Rand being forced to strangle his lover Min by the Forsaken Semirhage is a direct echo of Ilyena’s murder, worsened this time by their Warder bond and he being (mostly) sane, but enslaved.

Reborn again? The major turning point in Rand’s later character arc, when he is at his lowest point and contemplating destroying the world with the male Choedan Kal, comes when he realises that Ilyena (like himself) might also be reborn. His sin of killing her and all his other mistakes might be made right by the repeated opportunities offered by the turnings of the Wheel. The chapter in The Gathering Storm is called ‘Veins of Gold’ which refers both to the bonds of love he feels for his three lovers and the realisation that love and the opportunity to do better is the reason the world and the Wheel exist. With this, he is able to integrate Lews Therin’s memories/alter personality at last, and come to terms with Ilyena’s death and with his role as saviour/destroyer.

First Love. According to Sanderson’s version, Lews Therin ‘“…did not know what love was. Centuries of life, and I never discovered it until I met her [Ilyena].”’

Cherished Memory. After his epiphany, Rand/Lews Therin now sees his love for Ilyena ‘like a glowing crystal, set upon a shelf and admired.’

Mythical Roots. The excellent fan scholar Linda Taglieri in the Thirteen Depository blog says: ‘Ilyena is similar to the Greek personal name Iliana, a variant of Helen, meaning ‘bright’ or ‘shining light’. Ilyena was known as Sunhair. Golden-haired Elayne’s name is also a variant of Helen, and is a hint that she may be Ilyena reborn. Morelle is a surname and Dalisar is in Afghanistan.’

The Face that Launched a Thousand Ships. I’d add that the ‘shining light’ could refer to Ilyena’s famous hair or her sunny personality. The name Helen also links to the Illiad’s famous Helen of Troy - ‘the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ilium’, and who was a part of notable love battles such as between her husband King Menelaus and Prince Paris of Troy. Ilyena, of course, was caught between the bitter rivalry of Lews Therin and Barid Bel Medar whose armies ripped apart vast areas of the world. Jordan also used the city/country of Ilian as a reference to Troy (along with Cairhien’s topless towers) whose name is Greek is Ilion and in Latin ‘Ilium’), both of which sound like Ilyena.

Manner of Death. Ilyena and her family’s deaths are inspired by the ancient Greek myth of Heracles (Roman name ‘Hercules’) who was driven mad by his jealous step-mother Hera - Queen of the Gods. In his madness, Heracles kills his wife and children and in some versions of the story must accomplish his famous Labours to atone for the crime.

Links with a Goddess. In the new book The Origins of the Wheel of Time, author and academic Michael Livingston says Ilyena’s name comes from the Mesopotamian goddess of fertility and power Inanna, who was also associated with the planet Venus, the morning star (linking to Lews Therin whose mythological references include Lucifer as the Morning star and Lightbringer.) I’m not sure whether Livingston, who has access to Jordan’s notes, gleaned this information from them or from his own surmises about Jordan’s mythological inspirations. Inanna is famous for her descent into the Underworld in a way like Ilyena is (in)famous for her own descent into death.

And this is about all (as far as my obsessed fan gleanings can divine) that we get! If anyone can add more, please let me know in the comments/notes.

So here we have a picture of a what is essentially a traditionally ‘perfect’ woman - she’s beautiful, talented, loving, sociable and a good homemaker. She also seems innocent and pure, especially compared to the dangerously seductive Lanfear (invoking the Betty vs Veronica trope), but Lews Therin mentions ‘the rough side of her tongue’ twice and Jordan rarely wrote heroines that weren’t feisty and independent. Whether we see Ilyena as the ‘perfect’ woman or not doesn’t really matter, especially as that is subjective; what interests me most (aside from her mystery) is the love between her and her husband that is at the core of their bond. That, and the horror and trauma that resounds throughout the story as a result of that love’s betrayal and loss.

But for me and others, this central theme is not satisfactorily resolved. The main question about Ilyena on fan sites like Reddit and Dragonmount is whether she was reincarnated, and, if so, who is she? There’s a common theory her soul was ‘split’ by the trauma of her demise, essentially so she could be Rand’s three lovers. This has confirmed not to be true, although interestingly in Jordan’s early notes Rand would have to undergo trials in another realm to reconstitute his lover’s mind, body and soul after an assault/torment at the hands of one of the Forsaken. There is also a common consensus that Elayne is Ilyena reborn given their superficial similarities: lovers of the Dragon soul with golden/red-gold hair, pale skin and blue eyes and a similar name. But this is never confirmed either in story or by the writing/editorial team. Aviendha and Elmindreda (Min) also sound similar (ish) to Ilyena, and Rand himself is noted by Lanfear to look nothing like his previous incarnation except his height. This indicates that a similar body gives little true indication to the soul within.

To me, these repeated fan questions highlight a latent dissatisfaction with what we are given. Fans shouldn’t be asking who Ilyena is reborn as, after fourteen doorstopper books on a series whose main theme is reincarnation and second chances. It also saddens me that this leads to some fans being resigned to Ilyena’s irrelevance in this turning of the Wheel, saying that she was ‘just’ the Dragon’s love in the previous life. The kind of true love someone like Lews Therin/the Dragon has, the kind we and Rand have to hear about across nine books, strikes me as a love of many lifetimes, not just one. Writing about it this way certainly sets up a narrative promise that that is the case. I might be a complete romantic, but the subject of the line ‘I will never forget Ilyena, not if all the world burns!’ deserves a little better resolution than ‘If I live again, then she might as well!’

So instead of true lovers torn apart by fate and reunited once more, who did Jordan replace Ilyena with and how might this have affected how we view her and the story in retrospect? Find out in Part Two!

______________________________________________________________

Image Credits: 1st Image is my art of Ilyena, 2nd, 3rd and final images comes from the Eye of the World graphic novel adapted by Chuck Nixon and illustrated by Chase Conley (and well worth checking out, especially for an adorable Rand and a handsome yet unhinged Ishamael, even if he is lacking in thigh-high boots), the Demandred painting is by Ariel Burgess, the photos of red-gold hair from a Wella blog, the Horn of Valere icon comes from RJ's books and the painting of Helen of Troy is by Pre-Raphaelite artist Everlyn De Morgan.

#ilyena #ilyena moerelle dalisar #ilyena therin moerelle #wot #wheel of time #my writing #my meta #female characters #robert jordan #lews therin telamon #demandred #barid bel medar #helen of troy #I've had most of this written since the start of last year #I literally cannot get this woman out of my head like LTT #ILYENAAAAAAAAAA!#she is like Mito from Naruto or Lyanna from ASOIAF #prequel ladies who get kinda fridged and who deserved better #also wanted to write this cos I've come across cr@p about her and those clown can just stfu

6 notes · View notes

tomtenadia · 2 years ago

Text

Thicker than blood - 34

Sorry for th long break since posting last time but here’s ch 34.

A week had elapsed and election day had finally arrived. Rowan and Aelin had moved back to their house. Somehow that had helped Aelin and her episodes had become less and less every day and Rowan was glad to see that she was slowly healing. Aelin hadn’t wanted to meet anyone yet. They had spent time with her parents and talked to Rhoe about his campaign.

Father and daughter also had a very lengthy chat about all that happened. Evalin and Rowan both waiting in another room in apprehension. Rowan was worried that talking about what happened would ruin all the good work, but it seemed that instead had pushed Aelin in the right direction. As if a weight had been lifted from her.

She had told him that had opened to Rhoe and confessed all the pain that he had caused her, even if in the end it was not meant. For a great part of her life Aelin thought her parents did not approve of anything in her life and considered her a failure. Rhoe had apologised and added that he would spend his existence paying penance for all that happened. Then Aelin threw him an olive branch and admitted that she wanted them both in her life and asked her father to approve of Rowan.

Rhoe, who had spent enough time with his son in law, and had grown to respect the man deeply, had blessed the union.

That night Aelin had told him she wanted to go back home. She loved the cottage in the mountains but craved their home.

Rowan had made a deal with her. He had confessed that he had found a piece of land in the next valley and they could have their cottage in the mountains if she wanted. He also confessed that he had bought an helicopter and Rhoe had allowed him to store it in their private hangar. Aelin had been shocked at the idea that her husband could fly so he had told her all about him, his passion for flying and his time in the airforce. She had also adored the idea of their own cottage tucked away from the world.

That last week had been perfect and it gave them time to get closer. He had missed her so much. Even physically, but in that sense he was not pushing, not until Aelin told him she was ready again for more.

It was now election day and they were getting ready to go out and vote. Aelin had worn her red wig and her brown contacts. Without her disguise she was too easy to recognise and she could not deal with reporters.

Rowan walked to her and placed a baseball cap on her head “all complete.”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him gently.

“Ae, are you sure?”

Aelin nodded “yes, plus I need to vote.”

“Fancy going for a hike after?”

The smile she gave him made him forget all of the weeks of pain they had just gone through.

“We can take Devil’s path, I hear at the end there is a stunning waterfall that come straight down from the Forsaken Peak.”

Her hand fisted in his hair “I’d love to, agent.”

Rowan had eventually gone back to work and had sort of mended things with Lorcan. Apparently Rhoe had a lengthy talk with the chief and the man in the end apologised. Patrols were less crazy and it was more of a way to make sure that nothing illicit was going on. They were expecting some vampires not being happy about the ban on drinking from humans, but so far his nights had been quiet.

Fenrys held a small memorial for his brother and then scattered his ashes in the woods he had loved. That had been his closure and had gone back to work but he also decided to help Ansel with her project.

“Then let’s go and do our civic duty and then we can have fun.”

She leaned against him, her finger trailing against his naked chest. He was in the middle of getting changed “perhaps some adult fun.”

Rowan stiffened and Aelin noticed it “You don’t want me anymore.”

He moved back and cupped her face “I do, madly, I was just…” a pause to gather his thoughts “I was just giving you space and time.”

Her lips met his in a hungry kiss “I told you already, I am not made of porcelain and I miss my husband.”

He smiled wickedly and lifted her in his arms and ran for the bedroom. Screw it. Voting could wait.

Joining with her after over a month apart had been all Rowan could hope for. Their bond unleashed once more and brought them together after their separation.

In bed, she was now sprawled on top of him while with one arms he held her close and the other traced lazy circles on her back.

“Now I am at home again,” a soft kiss on his pec near his heart where her canine marks were.

“Was the sex satisfactory, m’lady?”

Aelin chuckled “meh, you know what to do.”

A second later she was squealing while strong hands tickled savagely “Stop, Ro, you know I am ticklish.”

Her husband did not stop though. With a powerful movement she flipped him over and straddled him “now I need to punish you, hubby.”

A wicked grin grew on his face and he pillowed his hand behind his head “Go on, wife, show me how naughty you can be.”

And when her mouth enveloped his length, Rowan started crying her name to the gods.

The polling station was back in town and they had decided to leave the car at his work and walk from there. It was a nice crispy wintery day and Aelin had confessed she wanted to be outside and he had obliged. They were later than he had planned. Their adventure in bed had taken much longer than they had planned. Aelin had been truly wicked to him and when they eventually joined in blood too their peaks had crashed on them as hard as a train wreck. They had laid exhausted in bed for a while. In silence or whispering sweet nothings to each other.

The town was expecting a very huge turnout so they had ended up using the imposing concert hall. The queues had started at 7 am as soon as the polling station had opened and according to the volunteers manning the stations, it had been a non stop flow of people.

Rhoe and Darrow had visited the ballots in the morning, press followed them and took the ritual picture of them placing their ballot paper in the box. Reporters had waited for them outside for interviews and both men had walked amongst voters, shook hands and took photos.

Aelin passed her ID to the man at the table. She was still Aelin Galathynius on it and he looked at her. That was the reason why she had used her ID instead of saying her name out loud.

“Yes, now my ballot paper please?”

The man nodded quickly and gave her the paper and a pencil “box twenty.”

She walked to the station that had been indicated to her and placed the card on the little shelf. It had four names, the two candidates for the vampires and the ones for the humans.

She looked at her father’s name and smiled. She was proud of what he was doing and she had made sure to tell him. Even once she and Rowan had moved back to their place, she had kept in touch with her family. Aelin had also accepted to help from time to time as a consultant with his project, but most of all, she was looking forward to join her mother in her foundation. She was still an ME and would go back as soon as she could face the world again. One step at a time Rowan kept telling her. But her mother’s project was dear to her and knew that Rowan had expressed interest in it too. They had both been junkies, albeit for different reasons.

She shook her head and put a cross on her dad’s name and one on Darrow’s symbol and folded the paper and proudly placed it in the box.

Rowan was waiting for her outside the room and she was not ready for the two people at his side: Aedion and Lysandra.

Rowan’s arm went around her waist in protection.

She looked up at him and nodded. Rowan had become very protective and she had let him. She owed him so much. He had looked after her and helped her regain her sanity. He had been her anchor. She had been so wrong, yes, maybe being mates had played a part, but she had realised that what she felt for him was real. That grumpy man had slowly made his way in her heart in a way she only thought possible in the fairytales her mother used to tell when she was little.

In silence she leaned against his body.

“We were here just to vote, we’ll go now.” Hurt in Aedion’s voice stunned her.

“No,” she looked up at Rowan and he nodded “Rowan and I are going home, come both with us.”

“Ae, it’s fine.”

“Aedion, please,” she slowly grabbed his hand “I missed you.”

An ear splitting grin appeared on his face “Let us vote and we’ll join you.”

The couple disappeared and she buried her face in Rowan’s chest “I thought you wanted to go out walking.”

“It’s too late anyway and I think I owe him.”

He kissed her head “We’ll do the Forsaken peak another time.”

The couple came back after a few minutes “Come on, Lys, you still remember how to get to our place?”

Aedion looked at his fiancee with curiosity “Long story. Let’s go.”

They arrived at the house twenty minutes later. The snow much deeper that far out of town.

“Nice digs, Whitethorn.”

Rowan smiled and directed them all inside.

Once in the house Lysandra gasped at the renovations. It was gorgeous. All in fine woods with a beautiful staircase in the middle.

“Aelin will give you the tour later.” He motioned them towards the living room on the ground floor.

The couple sat down and Rowan offered drinks and once everyone apart from Aelin had drink she stood.

“I am sorry,” her voice low “I thought that pushing you both away was the safest thing to do. I thought that it was the best thing to do not to drag you down with me,” she explained staring at them, while Rowan grabbed her hand gently “I was wrong. I tried to push everyone away.”

“Even me.”

She then explained all that happened with Maeve during her three weeks captivity and how she was slowly learning to function again.

“I love you both, and I missed you madly. I am sorry. I am so, damn sorry for everything.” Hot tears streaked down her face and Lysandra stood and wrapped her friend in a hug “We missed you too. I was so worried about you,” she was now crying as well “and you kept pushing me away and all I wanted to do was help you.”

Aedion joined in the hug “I missed you too,” then his gaze landed on Rowan “now you two explain this married thing.

Aelin sat back down at Rowan’s side and grabbed his hand.

“I was the one who offered. She’d be able to feed from me and it would be legal. Also, blood from a mate is far more powerful,” Rowan had preceded her and started explaining “It was just a marriage of convenience to begin with. Until it wasn’t anymore.”

“Rowan asked me to move in with him, thinking that it would offer me some stability. Then it became more,” she turned and looked him in his eyes. Those green eyes that could read her soul like no one had ever done “We are married and truly and deeply mated.”

Lysandra elbowed Aedion “Tell them.”

Aelin turned her gaze on him “Tell us what?”

Aedion sighed “Remember when we tried to figure out why Rowan’s blood was good for you even if it was mostly synthetic blood?”

Aelin nodded.

“Well, I tried to find a scientific answer but there is not one.”

“It’s magic,” Lysandra clapped her hands happily “While he was reading all his big scary books I read your dad’s book about legends and myths.”

Rowan chuckled but Aelin looked at her friend with a strange expression.

“You are carranam.”

Rowan’s arms tightened around her waist “Apparently it’s even stronger than the regular bond and that explains why my blood heals you that quickly and not just physically, it actually stopped all the wild attacks.”

“It’s just a myth.”

Lys shook her head “You realised Rowan was your mate the first time you bit him, right?”

A timid yes was Aelin’s reply.

“That’s how you know you are carranam mates. To Aeds and I took a while to figure out that we were just regular mates.”

“You two truly were meant to be together.”

Aelin turned to Rowan and he placed a lock of hair behind her ear and she did not miss the deep love in his eyes “You are stuck with me, fireheart.”

She leaned against him and let his arms hold her.

Aedion cleared his voice “I have a surprise too.” From his backpack he extracted a compact cool bag from which removed a bag of blood.

“Do you always carry that with you?”

He shook his head “I was at the lab and went to collect it.”

“What it is it?”

Blue eyes met blue “It’s synthetic blood made specifically for you. It took me ages but this will not make you sick.”

Rowan felt her body stiffen against his and her hand shook in his.

“Aedion…” warning in Rowan’s voice.

“I know. Place it in the fridge and try it when you feel ready. There’s no rush.”

Aelin stood and walked upstairs.

“I am sorry, Rowan. I was just trying to help.”

Rowan knew, but Aelin was not ready yet.

Aedion and Lys stood “We are going, tell her I love her and that she doesn’t have to drink it if she can’t. I just want her safe.”

Rowan nodded “She knows. Leave it to me, okay?”

“I’ll text her,” added Lys.

“Please.”

TAGS:

@rowaelinismyotp @swankii-art-teacher @whimsicallyreading @elentiyawhitethorn @aelin-bitch-queen @bruiseonthefaceofhumanity @mis-lil-red @thegreyj @sailorsassley @leiawritesstories @clairec79 @morganofthewildfire @sv0430 @heartless--aromantic @autumnbabylon @rowanaelinn @backtobl4ck @susumaus98 @gracie-rosee @mybloodrunsblue @tanvee1231 @avenrebekah @whoever-you-choose-to-love @theywillnotsingforme @universallytreepost @black-daisy-water @goddess-aelin @whispers-in-the-darkest-heart @lovely-dove-zee @athena127

19 notes · View notes