#dubious cultural practices

[guardian-of-da-gay]

Familial Curse

Read on Ao3

For Whumptober 2024 Prompt 3: Familial Curse

tw for arranged marriage, dubious cultural practices, war, violence, dismemberment, nuanced female character

Growing up, Lara-le knew she would marry Locke and have children with him just as surely as she knew the sun would rise and the war for the Master Emerald would rage on.

Their match was a combined effort between the high priestess, who read their compatibility through their moon signs, the head healer who mapped the bloodlines to find safe passages, and their parents, who made sure their children would join with an honorable family.  They were engaged as infants.  None of them knew then that he would be one of the few certainties in a life of uncertainties.

When she was very young the owl chief was slain in battle.  This had happened many times before, but they celebrated the victory nonetheless.  Then the new owl chief, Blackdown, rose to power and the tides of the war shifted.  Blackdown was a bloodthirsty leader.  This too, was familiar to her people, but not in many generations.

The first raid was a shock.  What Lara-le remembered most was her sister digging a tunnel so they could escape their burning home and flee into the forest.  In the days that followed she saw adults cry for the first time as they were forced to leave their home and forge a new settlement.

As soon as their temporary homes were up, training began for the little ones.  Her uncle would grab her tight and press her into the dirt until she could scarcely breathe, digging blunt hooks into her back.  Then, in the same gentle tone he used to teach her to scale fish or dig for truffles, he walked her through escaping an owl’s grip.  Cries that she could not breathe were ignored.  An owl would not let her go.  She had to learn this.  It could be the difference between life and death.

She hated it.  And what was worse?  It didn’t work.

The second raid, her sister tried to save her once again, wrapping her arms around her and shielding her as the owl pounced cat-like upon them.  It was nothing like her uncle’s training; she couldn’t even draw breath to cry out.  The owl’s talons weren’t blunt hooks, they were curved knives.  One speared her side, the other three went into her sister.  A warrior threw the owl from them and it was all Lara-le could do to drag her sister out from under their feet.

Only one healer survived the raid.  In the time it took him to come to their aid, Lara-le watched her sister’s violet eyes grow dull as her life blood drained out.  Lara-le survived her injury, but would forever struggle to hold herself straight, fighting against the tough scar that marred her side.  The impairment wasn’t severe, but between that and the scarcity of healers, it was enough to end her unstarted role as a warrior.  By the time the next raid hit, she was a healer’s apprentice.

As she grew into her role Lara-le found herself more and more wondering if things looked different from the battlefield.  If she could feel the thrill of victory herself perhaps she would see the war as worthwhile.  Instead all she saw was the losses: damaged bodies, dead people, and grieving families.  What was it all for?

“The Master Emerald,” Locke told her like she��d asked a silly question.

“Yes, but why?”  She asked.  “What will it do for us?  Restore our honor?  Is it worth so much suffering?”

Locke tried to hide his discomfort.  “There will be no more suffering once we have the Master Emerald back,” he said with surety.  “The owls will be cowed by its power and we can use it to raise Angel Island from the sea once more.  We will be safe there.”

Lara-le scowled.  She wasn’t sure she believed the old stories of a flying island.  And even if it were true–the owls had taken it from there once, surely they could again?  What would befall her people then?

Locke didn’t understand.  He listened, yes, but it was the same as when he brought her flowers or food or trinkets.  It was an effort to please her.  He wasn’t really hearing what she said.  When she complained to her mother, she just said that it was better to have a betrothed who wanted to please you than one who didn’t care at all.  Lara-le thought her mother didn’t hear her either.

The only one who could understand her was another apprentice.  His name was Wynnemacher.  Like her, he could not be a warrior.  His eyes did not work right and he could only see a few feet in front of himself.  But he could see enough to realize the devastation of their people alongside her and feel her dismay.

Lara-le might have snuck a look at the head healer’s bloodline maps just to see if there was a possibility… But she was disappointed.  Ever since the raids had started cutting down the number of women in the tribe, the head healer’s maps had become more important than any other determining factor.  It didn’t matter what her or Wyn’s moon signs were or what their families thought of each other.  Their lines were one step  too close for the head healer to ever approve.

Lara-le pushed it aside.  It had been a moment of fancy.  Like drinking salt-water.  It seemed appealing, but it simply wasn’t an option.

And Locke wasn’t so bad.  He worked to earn her affections.  He made sure that she and her mother had anything they needed.  While he might not have understood her mind, she could speak it freely.  Which was more than she could say for most of her tribe as her feelings slowly became known.  Some thought he would ‘calm her down’, but he never tried to tame her.  He said he admired her stubbornness and appreciated the courage it took to say what she wished even when no one else agreed.  Yes, even him.

These, she thought, were traits she could learn to love.

She married Locke during a long stretch of no raids.  This seemed a fair omen.  Still, she made Locke promise before the wedding that her children would be healers like her.  They needed more able-bodied healers, she argued.  What she really hoped was that she could have children safe from battle.

Locke promised her what she wished.  The next day, he promised his life to her.

They agreed having a child when things seemed peaceful was best and hurried to have their first one.  She laid her first egg with no issue, but had a long period of melancholy afterward.  She worried what sort of world she was bringing her child into.  What fate had she resolved them to simply by forcing them to exist?  What if the raids started just as this tiny life began?  Should she have just run away with Wyn and damned the consequences?!

As a healer, she had coached many women through the same gloom.  She felt like a fool now.  Saying it was normal and would pass eventually really didn’t help her feel better at all.  It was a wonder those women hadn’t struck her.  It did pass eventually though.

And then one day she felt a squirming against her belly and knew her little one had hatched in her pouch.

They were so fragile at first.  She’d hardly ever seen one at that age except when the healer insisted she needed to for learning purposes.  She’d been shocked to find her people started as  naked, little, wet rats.  When she gently opened her pouch and peered inside she found that her child was the dearest of all the naked, little, wet rats.  She told the high priestess and her husband, but no one else got to see her little one just yet.

Her mother had told her to treasure this time when he was this little secret thing.  To cherish every little squirm and bump, signs of his health and growth that only she could tell.  She found she did treasure it.  As much as her fate was dictated by the tribe, the war, the fate of the Master Emerald, this little corner of her life belonged only to her.

But all good things must end.  Eventually her child poked his head from her pouch.  He was ready to leave… And she was ready too, she supposed.  By then, she’d taken to using a cane to keep her side straight and support his extra weight.

Locke was beside himself.  He would hold up their child’s hands and tell anyone who’d listen to look–look at these mitts!  Aren’t these the biggest you’ve seen?  Watch, he’ll be taller than me some day!  And his spurs are already started!  Have you seen an infant with their spurs started?  No, not like this you haven’t!

Lara-le had always liked her husband well enough but watching him with their son made her fall a little in love with him.

On their son’s naming day Locke suggested the name ‘Knuckles’ after the clan that had first brought the Master Emerald to the echidna.  They were also a notorious warrior clan, which was not to Lara-le’s taste but… She remembered Locke fawning over the might of their baby’s tiny mitts.  She agreed to the name, but that fondness was what it meant to her.

They went to betrothal meetings and chose Knuckles’ bride.  Lara-le had no sisters by blood, but found one in Knuckles’ future mother-in-law, Mari-su.  She felt content.  She didn’t get along with everyone in her tribe, but that was normal.  She had a steady husband, a beloved son, and fast friends.  Life felt right.

Then everything shifted again.  Not from a raid, no.  But from a log.

Knuckles learned to crawl very late and then a few days later began to walk.  Locke boasted it was because he’d been practicing his steps in his mind all along.  Unfortunately, their precocious child abused the freedom his legs gave him to run from his mother and cause all sorts of mischief.  On one such occasion, Lara-le was elbow-deep in the dirt digging for fungus alongside some other mothers.  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Knuckles and his betrothed chasing something very small.

She lifted her head to make sure it wasn’t anything venomous or toothy.  The other keen-eyed mothers followed suit to varying degrees.

The little lizard crawled under a large fallen tree trunk and the puggles toddled after it.  Knuckles crouched down where the lizard had disappeared.  Lara-le thought he might start digging for it, but instead he reached out and flipped the log over like it weighed nothing, startling everyone, lizard included.

The lizard vanished as all the women stood up, some crying out in alarm.

The cry made Knuckles pause.  He became aware that he might be in trouble and rushed to Lara-le for reassurance.  One of the women tried to lift the log and couldn’t.  But of course, they could not entertain the thought that what they had seen was what really happened.  Lara-le wrote it off as a fluke.  They all did.

But it wasn’t.  As Knuckles became more and more sure of himself, lifting and grabbing things as troublesome puggles did, he showed an impossible strength.

They brought him to the head healer.  The head healer took him to the high priestess.  She took him before the council of elders.  It was then that Lara-le felt afraid.

Her child was special.  Gifted in chaos energy in a way their people hadn’t seen since the great and terrible Spectre.  With this energy came great physical strength.  The high priestess insisted he would need to be trained to control the chaos energy.  He should be trained as a priestess!  But no, the chief intervened, with his great strength, he must be trained as a warrior.  The two argued her son’s fate as though Lara-le weren’t there.

Lara-le’s heart sank the longer they spoke.  She was so filled with dread she could hardly find her voice.  She turned to Locke.  “I want him to be a healer,” she said quietly.

Locke looked pained.  “It… seems a shame,” he said.  “With a power like his, he could be a great warrior.  Maybe even the greatest warrior of our people.”

Her heart sank.  “You promised.”

He nodded, though he did not look pleased.  “I did…”  He turned to the council and spoke up.  “I have promised Lara-le that Knuckles would be a healer.”

Chief Pachacamac turned on him.  “What are you talking about?”

“The ancestors didn’t give us this blessing for us to squander it,” added the high priestess.

“What she said,” the Chief said.  He turned away from them.  “I think the priestesshood would squander it too, though.”

The high priestess frowned, but she was clearly considering.  “He must be trained to control his chaos,” she said.

“He can train in both.  With the warrior training taking precedent,” the Chief said.

The high priestess sighed, but relented.  This pleased Pachacamac and he turned to Locke and Lara-le.  “It is settled then!  He is to be a warrior!... With some priestess training.”  He smiled, but it was tense.  The unspoken order was clear.

Lara-le looked to Locke.  He looked back, apologetic.  But he wasn’t really sorry.  He’d wanted this afterall, and he’d gotten it without breaking his promise.

Everything changed after that day.  Gone were the sleepy mornings bringing her little one along to help with her chores and teaching him all the little things he would need to know to belong in their community.  No more playing in the mud with his fiance.  He would never again tail Wynnemacher around the healer’s hut.

Instead he went to the high priestess and stayed there his whole morning.  Then he was taken away to where the youngest were trained.  He was the youngest of all of them and was only returned to her for naps.  Once he was awake again he was swept off.  She wouldn’t see him again until the communal evening meal, when he would usually be bounced between his grandparents, aunts, and uncles.

She made the mistake of complaining only once.  She did not like that he was the sole toddler in a class of young children.  How could he possibly learn alongside them when he wasn’t even speaking yet?  She hoped that he would be returned to her.  Let him train when he was a little older.  But instead they withdrew him from the class and passed his training to Locke.  This might have seemed the better option except that it filled her with impotent rage.  Knuckles was meant to have trained with her .

The high priestess suggested she have another child.  She could raise the new one however she pleased.  The chief suggested she have another child.  It might be as powerful as the first.

The whole tribe grew hungry for a second Knuckles.  Locke was oblivious, but Lara-le could sense it.  It was her who fielded the polite inquiries about whether she and Locke would ever have more children.  She complained to Mari-su and some of the questions stopped, but they never went away.

Part of her ached for another child.  A child that could be hers.  But would she be allowed to keep one?  Knuckles had stayed in her pouch for months before coming out on his own–would the high priestess or chief or council of elders allow a second child to have that secret growing time?  Or would he be dragged out right away to have his strength tested?  Maybe a second child would not have Knuckles’ power.  Maybe she would get to keep them.  But she feared having her hopes dashed.

Locke didn’t seem to care either way.  He was content with one child to adore and mold after himself.  He continued Knuckles’ training.

One day he came to the healers’ tent carrying a tearful Knuckles in one arm and the other set in in a makeshift sling.  Knuckles had broken it by accident, he boasted.  He seemed surprised by her horror.  He hadn’t even scolded the boy!  Instead, he held up his bandaged arm and told anyone who’d listen to look–look at this!  Would you believe Knuckles did this?  Watch, he’ll be breaking cliffs apart soon enough!

It reminded her of how he used to fawn over Knuckles’ mitts.  She’d thought it so endearing then, now she felt repulsed.

Lara-le felt she was a passenger on a boat steered by madmen.  Perhaps she was mad too, for staying.

Something had shifted between her and her husband.  She no longer wished to confide in him.  She talked around her thoughts instead, pestering and nagging and poking that he should allow Knuckles less time training and more time on better endeavors–like spending time with her.  He would always counter that she should come along.  That his and Knuckles’ time could be shared.  It was like a shield he used against her anger.  Whenever she complained that the high priestess saw her son more, whenever she despaired about what she’d lost with him, whenever she demanded more time, Locke would always ask her to come along to their training.  To be a part of something she hated just so she could be near her son.

She acquiesced only once.  Knuckles was in his second year and still not speaking.  But at Locke’s direction he punched a boulder in half.  Then Locke held out his open palms and encouraged Knuckles to strike him.  Lara-le thought she might faint when her son hit Locke’s palm.  But Locke was unharmed.

“You see,” he said with a smile.  “It isn’t all war and danger.”  He carried Knuckles to her.  

“I want him to be gentle enough to hold his mother’s hand.”

Lara-le did not see the hand offered to her.  She could only stare at that broken boulder and feel a strange coldness creep into her heart.

She felt it again, months later.  She was meant to retrieve Knuckles from his training at the temple.  She saw Locke approaching from a distance.  No doubt he would thoughtlessly whisk Knuckles away as soon as he was available.  She hurried her pace and arrived there before him.

The high priestess met them at the temple entrance, looking smug.  Knuckles’ violet eyes were wide with glee.  It softened her mood to see him so happy.  He ran toward her, holding something tightly in his fist.  He still wasn’t speaking and could only make wordless sounds to express his excitement.

“What is it?”  She asked, caught up in his joy.  “Let me see.”

He opened his palm to reveal a seed.

She cooed obligingly and he hummed his displeasure.  Not the right reaction then.

He stared at the seed.  For a moment, she saw nothing, then his lovely violet eyes began to glow red.  Lara-le held her breath as red sparks, like lightning, coiled up his arm into the seed.  The tiny thing shivered in his palm, then snapped open.  A single coil of green curled out.  Then it all stopped.  The lightning vanished.  His eyes became violet again.

He looked up at her expectantly.

That cold feeling stole over her again.  Was this… truly from her?  Had she made something capable of this?  Or was this something the gods or ancestors had dropped in her pouch.  Raise this to kill our enemies.  Raise this to win the war and take the Master Emerald back.

Knuckles watched her, expectant.  But she could only stagger back, completely overwhelmed.  Surely no echidna was capable of this.  What had she given birth to?

Knuckles stepped toward her, making soft, sad noises.  He couldn’t speak.  He should have been speaking by now.  How could he do such unnatural things but not speak?  Their eyes met and he looked away at the seed in his hands.  Usually if he looked so distressed, she would comfort him, but she could only think of the way they had glowed.  She couldn’t bring herself to touch him.

Locke hurried past her.  “Show me, Knuckles,” he said.  “I want to see!”

The distress faded from Knuckles’ face in an instant and he held the seed up.  Locke cooed obligingly and again, Knuckles made his displeased sounds.

Lara-le turned away when the glowing started again.  She couldn’t bear to watch.

When had he ceased to be her child?  What had he been replaced by?  Or maybe he had always been this way and she’d just tricked herself into thinking that something that came from her belonged to her.

The next time Locke tried to invite her to join a training session, Lara-le snapped at him:  “I won’t come watch you hone your weapon. ”

Locke looked at her with open shock.  “He’s not a weapon,” he said at last, “he is our son.”

Lara-le could only turn away.  She had no words.  Maybe Knuckles’ inherited his silence from her.

The next time Knuckles’ had a fit of pique, his eyes glowed and the chaos in him lashed out.  Locke braced while Lara-le flinched away.  Locke was thrown across the room, but he wasn’t afraid.  He rushed back to their shocked son’s side and reassured him that his father was unharmed.  Lara-le stood at a distance and watched as he gathered their son in his arms.  When at last he looked at her, she could not describe the expression on his face.  Suspicion, disappointment, disgust.  Like she was the monster here.

A few days later Knuckles faced his first raid.  It was a cruel twist of fate that it happened when he was with her.

She and a group of other mothers with small children were gathering tubers from the little cultivated patch the tribe shared.  Mari-su was nearby, corralling her children into helping.

Lara-le was on her hands and knees using a spade to cut through the tough ground.  Knuckles didn’t need any tool.  His powerful fingers could go through the dirt and root tangles with ease.  She made him use one anyway.  The tool was much too large for him and she found herself distracted by the charming picture: him clumsily hitting the ground with the too-large spade.  Like this, he seemed like any other child.

Then the world exploded into light and noise.

Lara-le opened her eyes and found herself lying a little away from where she’d been a second earlier.  There was smoke everywhere.  An awful, roaring buzz filled the air, loud enough to be heard over the ringing in her ears.  Something flew past them, cutting through the smoke.  An owl flew behind it.

The village burst into clumsy motion.  They had rules for raids.  The warriors needed to go for their weapons.  The mothers were supposed to take their little ones and flee into the trees.  But everyone was half-blind, half-deaf, and choking on smoke.  Mothers grabbed the wrong children.  Warriors fell into each other.

One of the buzzing monsters flew by, shooting out a net.  Lara-le gasped.  In an instant, Mari-su was whisked away, vanished into the smoke.

Knuckles began to wail.  Lara-le dropped her shovel and grabbed her child.  She dodged the spade still in his hands and frantically hobbled for the healer’s hut.  They would take the sick and elderly to the hidden burrow there and ride out the attack while the others fled to their own secret hiding places.  That was what they were supposed to do.

She was thrown off her feet.  The world spun and she staggered upright, her arms empty.  A few yards away Knuckles was also getting up, shaking his head.  His spade lay between them.  An owl flew up behind him.

The world fell away.  All thoughts fled as Lara-le grabbed the spade.  All thoughts but one:  Owl talons were powerful, but their bones were hollow.  The owl fell upon her baby and she fell upon the owl.  She brought the blade down on its wing.  The owl screamed and she struck again.  She was thrown back by the other wing.  As soon as she hit the dirt she was up again, scrambling across the ground like an animal.  The owl staggered away from her crying baby, but Lara-le was possessed.  She went after the owl’s wing a third time.

The owl fell one way and its wing fell the other.

Lara-le snatched up her son and ran better than she had since she was a child.

It was only once she’d reached the healers hut and hunkered down in the burrow there that she realized what she’d done.  Wynnemacher frantically checked her for injuries, horrified by the blood.  Lara-le allowed it, staring down at her son’s tear-stained face.

Was this his future?

This raid was especially bad.  The owls had brought allies with weapons unlike anything her people had ever seen.  As many as the owls had killed, their allies had stolen.

There was a great debate among the elders–to track down the lost ones now or move the tribe to safety and then go hunting when the trail was cold?  In the end, there was no question.  The tribe had to leave.  Their home was no longer safe.

It would be months before the hunting packs left to find the lost ones.  Lara-le was haunted by the loss of her companion.  Mari-su was a warrior.  Surely she could have escaped on her own by now?  But if she had, how would she find their people again?  Her husband had gone to find her, but what if another raid forced them to move again?  Then the rescue parties wouldn’t be able to find them either!

What would that be like, to never see any of your people again?  To lose all you cared about?  What would she do if she had to start her life all over again?

Locke was a distraction, but not a helpful one.  He thought she was a hero.  If she were another person she would have been flattered.  Hah!  She would have been proud .  Instead she had nightmares of the owl screaming as its wing flew off without it.  She had saved her baby but she did not feel victorious.

Locke’s admiration disturbed her.  He was training Knuckles to do things like this.  That disturbed her more.

Without Mari-su, Lara-le turned to her oldest council: her mother.

She sat beside her mother by the fire.  The hut was newly built, but everything else was old and familiar.  Her mother wove as Lara-le spun yarn and unburdened her woes, just as she had since she was a child.  But she was not a child any longer.  Her mother already knew everything or at least thought she did.  Because Locke had told her.

“Why are you talking with him ?”  Lara-le looked up from her task, aghast.

Again, that look.  Like Lara-le was the problem.  Then her mother’s gaze fell back to weaving.  “Because I have known him since he was an infant?  Because he is the husband of my only daughter?  The father of my only grandchild?  Why should I not speak to a member of my own family?”

Lara-le had no reply to that.  Hadn’t she integrated with Knuckles’ future bride’s family?  And until the raids had claimed her, Locke’s mother had been a fixture of her life too.  Her mother had stepped in to fill the role of two grandmothers for Knuckles.  Lara-le felt foolish for assuming she wouldn’t look after Locke as well.

She was still disappointed though.

“When do you even see him?”  She asked, half-heartedly returning to her spinning, rolling the tool between her hands.

“I go along with Knuckles’ training sometimes,” Mother said.  “No–don’t look at me that way.  I know it wasn’t what you wanted but it is what is happening, tamahine .  I am proud to see what my grandson can do–and he and Locke are always happy to have me.”

Lara-le stared down at the fibers in her hands.

Her mother’s fingers danced across the loom a moment longer before she finally paused.  “Lara-le, if you are unhappy with your husband, you do not need to stay.  You have fulfilled your obligation to the ancestors and to our tribe’s future.  You have a place here if you need it.”

She turned to look at Lara-le and the sight of her looking over from her weaving made Lara-le feel like a child again, but not in a good way.  “I only doubt that the council will give Knuckles to you.  You have made no secret that you do not care for their decisions.  If you leave Locke, you will have less time with your son, not more.”

Lara-le wanted to say that staying with Locke wasn’t even the real problem.  Or at least, she didn’t think he was.  If things had been different, she thought she would have loved him and they would have had many children all raised to be healers that thought like her.  Even with things as they were, she didn’t know that she had the courage to leave Locke.  She didn’t always like him as well as she could, but he had always been a steady presence in her life.  Like her mother, Locke meant safety.  And leaving him would mean losing Knuckles.  But her mother had brought up a good point: she would lose her son no matter what she chose.

She returned home late.  Locke had already put Knuckles to bed.  They had argued over this before: she wanted to see him before he went to sleep, but tonight she did not have the fight in her.  Locke watched her as she sat beside their sleeping child and watched him breathe.

Curled in their bed, it was easy to forget everything else.  Here he was her little son, just the same as he’d been when she carried him in her pouch.  He’d traded his damp, pink skin for fine, red fur and small-but-sharp quills.  He had grown so much.  He had so much growing left still.  Was he truly no longer hers or had she just given up too soon?  The rest of the tribe wanted to shape him into something she wouldn’t recognize.  Could he be saved?  Could she save him?

Lara-le got the ghost of an idea.  She drove it back.  It was wild.  Mad.  But like a weed, the roots had taken hold.  It kept growing back.

The chief asked for a demonstration of her son’s strength.  Their families attended.  She felt the loss of Mari-su and her sister more keenly when she looked at the handful of her kin that remained.  Could she do this to her people?  Could she do this to her family?

She watched Knuckles tail his father everywhere.  Even when he was not training, it was Locke he wanted to be with.

Her thoughts shifted:  How could it be accomplished?  When could she do it?  Did she have all she needed?

On the night of a new moon, Lara-le lay awake until Locke’s breathing grew deep.  Knuckles made a sleepy, confused noise when she picked him up.  She froze as Locke shifted.  She stood still as stone for several moments, hardly daring to breathe.  Locke did not move again and Knuckles sagged into sleep in her arms.  She wrapped herself in her thickest shawl and picked up her cane from its place by the door.

Even before the raids, their village had never gone unguarded.  She knew slipping past the sentries would be the hardest part.  She also knew that some plants could cause wakefulness while some caused sleep.  It had been a simple matter then, to introduce a waking tea to the guards in the weeks leading up to her escape.  That night she’d simply laced it with a counteragent to make them sleep.

The second challenge was supplies.  But she’d prepared for that as well.  She made for the rocky outcrop where they harvest healing herbs.  No one but Wynn went out there, and his vision was too poor to see the gray rucksack tucked away in the rocks overhead.  As she pulled the bag down from its hiding place, she couldn’t help but feel guilty for that.

She tied the bag over one shoulder and produced a second blanket to tie Knuckles to her chest.  Lara-le began her journey feeling greatly weighed down.  And not just physically.

Her mind would not quiet.  She kept thinking of her mother and Wynemacher.  How hurt they would be.  Her mother would be shamed too.  And Locke?  He would be devastated.  She didn’t love him, but she didn’t hate him enough to not care how losing Knuckles would affect him.  Knuckles was his world.

Would he even… let Knuckles go?  Would he let her go?  Mari-su’s husband had gone looking.  Surely Locke would come after her and Knuckles too.  The whole tribe would.  The chief wouldn’t let Knuckles go.  Would they hunt her as ferociously as they hunted the Master Emerald?  Locke wouldn’t hurt her, but what about the rest of them?  What would be the punishment for stealing their best weapon?

Doubts crept in as she walked.  Was she even helping Knuckles?  Or was she just changing his struggles?  They would have no tribe to fall back on.  No shelter but what she could build, no food but what she could find.  If they were attacked, she would be their sole defender.  At least she had proven she could take action if her child were threatened.  But she was no skilled warrior or hunter.  She wouldn’t be able to teach him those skills either.

Knuckles felt heavier and heavier.  Her side ached every time she had to readjust the cloth tying them together.  His sleep became more fitful and he shifted, making it even harder for her.  Finally he woke.  He did not like that he did not recognize his surroundings.

He squirmed and it was all Lara-le could do to set him down rather than drop him.  She breathed a sigh of relief as she let go.

Knuckles looked around, making confused sounds.  Three years old and he still couldn’t speak.  Maybe she could change that.  They could practice talking instead of fighting.

Knuckles stopped his noises and cocked his head.

Lara-le paused.

She was suddenly reminded that the nighttime belonged to the owls.  She listened hard.

Suddenly there was motion all around her.  Figures dropped from the trees.  She lurched to grab Knuckles, but he darted forward.  Straight into Locke’s arms.  Lara-le looked around.  In the gloom, her people looked like strangers.  They were little more than dark shapes, the starlight shining off their weapons.

Had someone found the guards drugged?  Had Locke woken and found her gone?  Between carrying Knuckles and her limp, her only hope to escape had been a long head start.  They’d overtaken her so easily…

Lara-le said nothing.  Neither did the warriors.

One advanced.  Starlight gleamed off the chief’s war mask.  His steps started slow, then grew faster.  He raised a hand to her and Lara-le tensed for the blow.

“No!”  Locke shoved him aside.

The chief was surprised enough to stagger away.  The shapes around them shifted uneasily.  Even Locke seemed surprised, but he gathered himself and moved to stand between the chief and her.  He held Knuckles on one hip.  She noticed that he was not wearing a war mask.  He was not even fully dressed.

“You dare–”  The chief growled.

“ You dare?  This is my wife!  You will not strike her.”  Locke’s voice was tight.

“Your wife has been caught in a crime!”  The chief snarled.  “The most powerful warrior our tribe will ever see and she was trying to steal him away in the night!”

“ Our child,”  Locke said.  “She was stealing our child.  He belongs to us first.  This is a family matter and we will handle it ourselves.”

The chief’s eyes were black but for the odd gleam of starlight.  She saw the gleam shift as he narrowed his eyes.  Lara-le held her breath.  It had not occurred to her until that moment, but Knuckles could be taken from Locke too.  She wasn’t the only one vulnerable out here.  She looked around at the other warriors.  Would they step in if the chief decided to act?

“I have done all that you asked,” Locke implored.  Had he realized the same as her?  She was surprised to feel Locke’s hand, gentle on her arm.  “I have ignored my wife’s wishes for you and that has brought us here.  Let this matter be between her and I.”

Reminding the chief that Locke was always an obedient soldier seemed to soothe him.  He took half a step back and tipped his head to the side.  He gestured for Locke to carry on.

Locke winced.  When he turned to her, she did not need to see his face well to know there was shame there.  It seemed nothing about their family could truly be their own.  Even this would be a public matter.  At least some of the warriors had the decency to back up or look away.

“Lara-le,” he said quietly.  He paused a long moment, searching for what to say.  Lara-le did not help him.  She had nothing left to say.  She had thought she would never see him again.

“I’m sure this is my fault,” Locke said.  “I know you haven’t been happy.  I have been distracted.  I haven’t given you all you want.  I… I can’t give you everything you want.  But if you come back, I can try again.”

Lara-le looked around at their audience.

“Come back and all will be forgiven.”  He squeezed her arm.  “I will make sure they forgive you.”

They wouldn’t.  This was unforgivable.  She’d tried to steal a child from the tribe.  Even if he were a normal child, it would have been a serious offense.  Especially now, when the blood lines were cut short and there were so few children left.  She would not be forgiven.  And she would never be trusted with Knuckles again.  

She would barely see her child.  He would cease to be her child and become their weapon.  She would be married to a man she did not love.  She would keep losing the people she cared for.  The war would slowly chip away at her people’s numbers until none remained..

She would lose them all no matter what she chose.

Lara-le looked into Locke’s eyes.  She could just see them gleam in the starlight.  He didn’t understand her, but he knew her.  He knew her thoughts.  She could see the shine where his eyes welled.  “Please… please come home,” he said.

She shook her head.  She looked away and never met his eyes again.  She looked at Knuckles, watching her silently.  Always silently.  He didn’t meet her eyes either.  Her son.  Her people’s hope.  Her tribe’s weapon.  She wished she could see him in the light one more time.  But at the same time, she couldn’t bear to look at him a moment longer.

Lara-le walked away.  Locke gasped softly, but he let her go.  No one stopped her.

She refused to look back.  She walked and walked until she was sure she was out of sight.  Then she still didn’t look back.

A part of her was dying, her heart left behind in her former husband’s arms.  But… at the same time… She did not have to bear Locke’s short-comings and her people’s expectations.  No more raids and war.  No more Master Emerald.

It had cost her security.  Safety.  Her only child.  A stone of shame sat hard in her chest, heavier and heavier as she walked further and further from her tribe, her family, her child.  But even so… the weight was not enough to ground her rising spirit.

She was free.

[jewish-sideblog]

Honestly I dunno what I expect at this point. Jews try to tell goyim that “biblically accurate angels” are a dubious interpretation of a description of chariot wheels and we get flatly ignored. Jews try to tell goyim that “lilith worship” isn’t a girlboss feminist practice, at best it’s cultural appropriation, and at worst it’s worshiping an entity whose primary goal is murdering Jewish children. We get flatly ignored. Jews try to tell goyim that they shouldn’t learn Kabbalah, a closed and intentionally secret Jewish practice, and that they definitely shouldn’t be trying to practice the christian supersessionist bootlegs of our closed and intentionally secret religious practice. We get flatly ignored. We beg goyim not to mispronounce the True Name of HaShem, we plead with them not to write out the Tetragrammaton, and get flatly ignored.

Given all that? Honestly? The fuckin joke’s on me for expecting goyim on the internet to be able to discern the difference between reasonable and accurate criticism of Israel and antisemitic canards. They can’t see antisemitism when no Jew is at fault. Why did I expect them to avoid bigoted generalizations when some Jews are at fault?

[absurdthirst]

Vivid {Mando x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: SEX POLLEN, dubious consent, fuck or die, oral sex (male and female receiving), 69, face sitting, blindfolds, sex in the dark, vaginal sex, rough sex, overstimulation, cream pie, cum eating, masturbation

Comments: A chance encounter in the canyon just beyond Din's little house on Nevarro leads to a sticky situation. A vivid pink flower, a powerful aphrodisiac, and a need to fuck has Mando bringing you home.

Co-written with @pedropascalsx

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Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

The changes around Nevarro are….nice. The little house that was deeded to Din is far enough away from town that he doesn’t feel crowded, yet it’s close enough that he can walk Grogu to the little school that he had enrolled him in. His journeys needed to include more socialization than bounty hunters, killer droids and Mandalorians. He needed to be able to move throughout many different cultures respectfully and what better place to learn than school?

Din’s own education happened in the Fighting Corps. Effective, but he had a mind to raise his adoptive son and apprentice better than his own teacher had. Especially since Grogu had an advantage that he had never wielded, the force. 

“No Grogu,” Din shakes his head and sighs softly as the fifty year old baby tries once again to float his little school pack off the shelf to where he is sitting. Wanting to go to school, even though it’s the weekend. “There is no school today.” 

****

It had been a long day so far, you’d run your usual errands and finished a few tasks around your home. A few of the children in your class had been requesting some more painting time during the week, and never one to dim anyone’s excitement for the arts, you couldn’t say no.

You like to make sure that art class is just as educational as it is fun, so you grabbed your book of plants and flowers and got ready to make your way out of town to collect and pick some plants and flowers for the kids to paint and learn to identify. 

The cool breeze was welcomed as you began your trip, a wicker basket hanging comfortably from the crook of your elbow as you made your way through the town, greeting everyone politely and with a warm smile as you did so. 

You like Nevarro. Especially as of recent, the town was much friendlier and a new sense of community had fallen across the planet. 

After a brief chat with one of your overexcited students and his parents you continued your walk while nibbling on some fresh fruit from a stall you had passed.

The kid is passed out in the little bed that Din had bought for him, the Mandalorian steps out of the house, striding off towards the canyon. He needs to tune his blaster, having replaced the plasma cartridge earlier. The domesticity is unusual, but he likes it, a set schedule and a home to make meals in. It’s oddly appealing, even though he does often wonder how the covert is doing on Mandalore.

After a nice breezy walk, your basket is almost full, you’ve picked multiple flowers and plants for the children to paint and learn about. The canyon is quiet, peaceful, the only sound coming from the soft breeze shaking the trees and the occasional twitter from the out of sight creatures. 

You’re just about to leave and make your way back home, before it catches your eye and steals your attention. A vivid shade of pink and standing alone. The petals are perfectly uniform and it’s the most perfect looking flower that you’ve ever seen.

Din sighs, seeing someone in the canyon ahead of him. There wouldn’t be any practice unless the person was just leaving. Making him huff under his helmet and hope that it wasn’t someone who is looking for trouble.

You kneel down in front of the flower, appreciating its beauty before reaching into your basket and pulling out your holopad. Unable to resist taking a few snaps of the gorgeous flower. 

Zooming in on the photo you notice a figure in the background that you immediately recognise as the father of Grogu - the new and unbelievably adorable little green foundling in your class. 

You place your holopad back in your basket, figuring he’ll want some space. He’s polite, not much of a talker but there’s something about him that’s… intense. The kind of intenseness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand upright and makes that magic button downstairs pulse uncontrollably until it gets the attention it deserves. 

You gently snip the bottom of the stalk and gently scoop up the flower in your hands, inhaling its gorgeous and intoxicating scent and letting it flood your senses.

And then it hits you.

Walking closer, he recognizes that it’s Grogu’s teacher. You are a newcomer to Nevarro, at least, you hadn’t been here when it was a bounty hunter’s hive. One of the more gentle settlers, and it doesn’t hurt that besides him, you are Grogu’s favorite person. 

He smiles slightly under his helmet, wondering what you are doing out here in the canyon, although he spies the basket on your arm.

The effect is immediate, within seconds fire is coursing through your veins and pain meets a new type of pleasure in the most delicious way. 

Every nerve ending in your body is set alight, and the pleasure center in your brain is working overtime. Arousal floods your core, your nipples harden and your clit is pulsing with desperate need out of nowhere. 

You start to whimper as your legs threaten to fail beneath you, you’re still kneeling but you feel as though you’re about to collapse in a heap on the floor. The sounds that leave your mouth are nothing short of filthy, and you become more and more aware of your need for something to quench the flames that are burning stronger with every passing second.

Seeing you stumble, Din rushes forward. Hand on his blaster as he tilts his head up, searching for danger. Why else would a healthy woman nearly collapse? “Hey! Hey, get down!” 

“The flower,” you say with a breathy moan, “I think it’s the flower.”

He’s already reached your side, grabbing you and your basket and dragging you behind a craggy outcrop in the canyon, getting you to cover. Unaware of your moaned words,  they were too unintelligible. The pollen from the flower drifts under his helmet, not pressurized against contaminants and floods his nostrils in a heady rush.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you babble, as you start to pull on the collar of your dress. The material feels much too constricting and far too warm despite the cool breeze.

“Dank ferik.” Din hisses, his own armor suddenly feeling as if it weighs more than the great forge on Mandalore. “It’s- it’s the pollen.” He croaks out, slapping the basket out of your hand, but he knows it’s too late.

“What’s w-wrong with the pollen?” You gasp out, unsure why your clothes feel heavy and your body is trembling uncontrollably. Your need to be touched now is desperate.

“It’s an aphrodisiac.” He grunts, cock already hardening and tenting the fabric of his flight suit. “It- it lasts for hours and-“ His eyes under his helmet widen as he remembers one particular trait of this toxic flower.

“And?” You ask frantically, “And what?”

“Your heart explodes if you don’t- uh, have sex.” His hand slaps against the rock wall of the canyon and he groans, thinking about an activity that he has long denied himself. He’s been too busy with the kid to seek out any companionship, even for a night.

“What?” You say with a pained laugh, “How is that -fuuuuck- how is that even possible?” The lace from your bra rubs painfully against your hardened peaks and you have to physically fight the urge to free yourself of your dress and bra.

He doesn’t fucking know, but the digital display in his helmet is broadcasting that fact as he looks down at the flower. “What the fuck were you doing with it?” He demands, trying to think about something other than pushing you against the rocks and burying himself in your cunt.

“I was just.. I’m picking flowers for the kids to paint,” you say between labored breaths, “Please, do something. It fucking hurts.” You start to beg, unsure what can be done.

He hadn’t anticipated that response. Groaning, he shakes his head. Knowing that a quick fuck in the canyon isn’t going to do it. Plus it’s too exposed out here. “Hold on to me.” He orders, stumbling next to you and wrapping his arm around your back before he kicks on his Rising Phoenix.

You squeal with shock as you’re shot upwards into the deep blue sky, your arms wrapping so tightly around The Mandalorian that it hurts.

Din’s groans are covered by the sounds of the jetpack and the wind. His cock is throbbing and leaking into the flight suit and he knows you have to be feeling worse. Your exposure was vastly greater than his own.

He senses the moment that the pain becomes too much for you to bear, his arms wrapping even tighter around you as you start to lose your grip. Pain shoots throughout your body as you whimper in his arms.

“We-it’s- it’s close.” He groans, his own body used to pain although he’s never experienced an arousal that might override all his senses like this before. All he can think about is stripping you down, burying himself in your body over and over until relief is finally achieved.

“I can’t hold on much longer,” you gasp, as the aching between your thighs grows stronger and more uncomfortable.

The outline of his small cabin appears and it can’t be a second sooner. His entire body is tense and his jetpack is nearly sputtering as it sets down on the ground in front of the remote dwelling. His star-fighter is parked off to the side and he is grateful that the baby is still asleep in his own little room.

His grip on you stays firm as you reach the ground, and he gently pulls you into his cabin. Spinning you around he presses you up against the door and gently palms your tit with his gloved hands.

“Tell me-“ Din groans and bites his lip under his helmet. “Dank ferik, tell me I can fuck you, Mesh’la.” He begs.

“You can fuck me,” you say with a moan as you press yourself up against him, desperate to feel him inside of you.

His head turns towards the door where Grogu is sleeping, relieved to find it still closed and he steps back to drag you away from the wall. “My room.” He demands, knowing the kid didn’t need to wake up and see anything.

“Yes, sir,” you say as you follow him on shaky legs into the room. Your clothes feel heavy against your skin, but you wait for his command to remove them. Standby patiently but writhing in discomfort as he walks towards you. “I need to take my dress off,” you say, as the material irritates your skin.

“Take it off.” He knows he will rip your dress if it touches it and he needs to get out of his armor. It’s chafing his skin and he’s overheating.

You immediately unzip the dress and let it fall to the floor, before working on your bra and panties. “Need you so badly,” you whine and you climb down onto the bed, and spread your legs. Dipping your fingers into your entrance and spreading some of your arousing through your folds and circling your clit.

“Dank ferik.” The armor clanks to the floor carelessly. Unable to treat it as reverently as he normally does. Fingers fumbling as his cock throbs, visor trained on your cunt.

“Hurry,” you beg, as you circle your clit faster, you’re soaked enough for him to slide right in with little resistance. “Am I allowed to touch you?” You ask as you continue working your clit, you know a little about Mandalorian creed but you’ve never fucked one before and want to make sure you’re respectful and you don’t cross any boundaries.

“I-I’m going to turn out the lights.” He groans, wanting to see you, touch you. And have you touching him. “And I need to blindfold you.”

“Whatever you need,” you say, as you turn your head so he can blindfold you. “I won’t touch you unless you explicitly tell me where it’s okay, and I promise the blindfold will stay on until you take it off.”

“You can touch me.” He is panting as he ties the blindfold and quickly strips out of the flightsuit and his boots. Even though he is burning, he hesitates when reaching for his helmet.

You reach out and let your fingers run across his chest, “Fuck,” you say, as your pussy clenches around nothing, “Want you to fuck me so badly, but I really wanna suck your cock first, Mando. I want to rub my little pussy while you fuck my throat.”

“No.” He chokes out, knowing that your body is screaming for release worse than his own is. It makes the decision easy and the click of the locks is accompanied by a slight hiss as he lifts the helmet off his head and it clatters to the ground.

“Oh,” you say, clearly disappointed but still rubbing your clit as fast as you can and chasing your release. “How do you want me?”

Din knocks your hand away and climbs up on the bed to pull you up and spin you around. A lifetime of training makes picking you up easy and he flips you onto your stomach on his chest. “Suck my cock and I’ll lick you.” He rasps out, his voice unmodulated and clear. “Never done it, but I want to. You need it.”

The sound of his voice is even sexier when unmodulated. Raspy and rough. Each word going straight to your pussy. “Yes, sir,” you say as you feel around and finally get his cock in your hand. It’s thick, veiny and dripping in pre-cum, the room is dark enough and the blindfold is opaque enough that you can’t see it but it feels glorious in your hands. You give him a teasing lick, lapping up all the pre-cum before taking the tip of him in your mouth.

Din groans, his gloveless hands reaching for your hips and his entire body shudders when he realizes that it’s full skin to skin contact. Dragging you back and immediately plunging his tongue inside your quivering and leaking cunt.

“Oh, fuck,” you choke out as you pull off his cock, loving the dexterous heat of his tongue. You take him back into your mouth and hollow your cheeks, your moans vibrating against his cock as he eats your pussy. For someone who said he’d never done this before he’s unbelievably skilled, eating you with such vigor that after a few minutes you can feel your orgasm rapidly approaching.

There have been a lot of holo vids around oral sex in his past, learning and aching to try the things that he saw. Although he’s not got a forked tongue like some species, nor one as long, he still grunts in pleasure as you moan loudly around his cock. Rocking your hips back to taste you more, getting deeper into your cunt.

“Gonna cum,” you croak out around him, before swirling your tongue around the tip of him and pulling away before cumming with a loud whimper of the only name you know for him, “Fuck, Mando!’

Din nearly whimpers at the loss of your mouth but the sweetness of your cum makes up for it. Soaking his face like he’s never experienced before. His cock throbs and he pulls away. “Close.” He chokes out, knowing he’s going to cum from this alone.

You take him back into your mouth and double down on your efforts, sucking him harder and licking your tongue around him. You take him as deep as you can, working the bottom of his shaft with your hands, saliva dripping everywhere as you work him towards his high. Needing to feel his cock twitch and start to flood your mouth with his cum.

It doesn't take him but a few more seconds when your mouth wraps back around him for Din to start to cum. Groaning out your name harshly, it's the only warning you get when he shoots a hot rope of cum down your throat, immediately followed by another.

You swallow around him, humming at the rich yet salty taste of him. Not letting a single drop go to waste, eagerly awaiting each burst as your mouth milks him dry. He’s delicious, salty and musky and you want more. You keep sucking until he orders you to stop and you slowly pull off of him with a groan.

Even though he's cum, his body still aches, his cock is still hard and he knows you aren't satisfied either. "My tongue or my cock in your cunt this time?" He pants out, needing to know where to bury his cock again.

“Your cock, please,” you beg as you lift off of him, “Do you want me to ride you, Sir?”

"For now." He knows you might need him desperately and he wants to see how much you are willing to grind on him for his cock.

His harsh tone makes your chest clench, but you push away that feeling and position yourself over him, slowly sinking down on this thick cock and moaning loudly as he stretches you open. His cock fills you entirely, your walls flutter and hug his cock as you get used to the delicious stinging from how stretched out you are from him. You start rocking your hips slowly, before increasing your pace, grinding down on him over and over. Desperate moans slipping through your plush lips as a wave of euphoria floods through you.

The darkness is just enough that he can see you move. A shadow and he wishes that he could turn the lights back on but he can't risk your blindfold coming loose. It's barely a loophole and technicality of the creed, but you can't see him. Not unless you were going to bind yourself to him.

“You feel so good,” you choke out, as you rock your hips a little faster. “So big. So thick.” You murmur again and again as your pace quickens, chasing a high and feeling a desperate need to have him cum hard and paint your walls with his delicious cum.

"Fuck." Din chokes out, puffing up at the praise. It's better than the moans with his cock in your mouth and he palms your tits, plucking at them and pinching your nipples while you bounce on his length.

“Tell me what you need,” you moan, “Fast or slow? Need you to feel good, baby, want to feel this cock fill me up.”

Din curses again. "Fuck, fast." He hisses, squeezing your tits harshly. "Fucking ride me hard."

You do as he commands, increasing your pace and bouncing up and down on him as fast as you can, moaning in pleasure as he hits that spot inside of you. Your hands cover his as he squeezes your tits, holding on tightly as he starts to fuck up into you, matching your pace with his own.

The loud sounds of sex fill his room. His hips snapping up as you bounce down on his cock. Both of you moaning and cursing greedily as the fire of the pollen rages in your systems. He knows you’re craven for his cum, the only thing that can soothe the effects of the flower.

You reach down and start to circle your clit, as you keep the same pace, wanting to clamp down around him and hear those delicious groans from him. “You’re incredible,” you pant as you near your high, circling your clit with perfect precision as he fucks up against nirvana inside of you. “Gonna cum,” you warn, before pleasure washes over you and squeeze his cock like a vice. Yelling his name as you cum, hard.

Letting go of your tits, he grabs your hips again and starts the hammer up into you. His hold on your body is the only thing keeping you from being thrown up into the air. Harsh punches of his cock that hit deep and wrench a cry out of you every time he hits your cervix, he can’t even care if it hurts you because you gush another wave of heat around him.

“Fuck,” you choke out, as he pushes the air from your lungs with every thrust. You’ve never been fucked like this before, but it’s addicting, you crave more and more from him with each harsh thrust of his hips. “Fill me up,” you beg, each word more strained as his pace quickly overwhelms you.

His arms wrap around you and he’s thrusting up into you like you are his personal fuck toy. “Fuck, fuck, gonna, fuck- fill you up.” He promises, grunting out a word every time he buries his cock into your spasming cunt. One harsh thrust later and a harsh bark of your name, he delivers on that promise. Cumming just as hard and as much as when he came down your throat only minutes before.

Falling forward onto him your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, he’s still hard and twitching inside of you but a wave of exhaustion starts to make an appearance. You pant into his warm skin, arms tightly wrapped around him and you can’t ignore how tense he is. You’re unsure if you’ve crossed a line, but you need to catch your breath again before you’re able to move off of him and ask how he wants you next.

Din is tense from how close you are to his face. It’s been so long but you don’t reach up to touch it. Your arms around his shoulders and your face tucked into his neck. He rolls you onto your back and starts to rock into you again. Knowing that the night isn’t over by a long shot.

You moan as he rocks into you, his stamina clearly better than your own as you attempt to gather up some strength. But he seems content to pick up the slack as your pussy flutters around him and your walls hug him tight. “Are you allowed to kiss me?” You ask, barely above a whisper as his hips snap forward.

Din groans and he nods even though you can’t see him. “Can I?” He breathes above your lips. He’s never kissed before and right now as he fucking you both through a dangerous exposure to sex pollen seem to be a good time to experience it.

“Yes, please.” You plead softly, wanting to taste his lips despite not knowing what they look like. Not caring at all that you have no idea what he looks like.

Permission granted, he crushes his lips to your in a messy kiss. Much less coordinated than when he licked into you, he had avoided kissing holo vids because he had felt jealous.

You giggle a little at the way he smashes his lips against yours, before lightly touching his chin and taking the lead. Licking his bottom lip gently until he parts his lips enough for you to slip your tongue inside and press it against his own. It doesn’t take long until he’s mastering the art and taking control, his lips now refusing to part from yours as he rocks his hips into you. Kissing you just as hard as he fucks you, changing up the pace every now and then and swallowing your moans of delight.

Groaning into your mouth is like ambrosia. You are the best thing he’s ever tasted and he can’t get enough. His cock steadily fills you with strokes and his tongue mimics the motion into your mouth as he pants his pleasure loudly.

With a few more strokes of his cock, he has you clamping down around him and crying out the name you know him by in pleasure. The stuttering of his hips as your pussy acts like a vice around him makes him grunt your name before pulling you in for another breathtaking kiss. The effects of the pollen start to lessen but the effects of him growing stronger. Everything about him is consuming, his scent, the power he commands and with every snap of his hips and grunt of your name; you want more and more.

Din can barely rock his hips but the clenching and squeezing of your cunt pushes him over the edge. This time he is moaning your name into your mouth while pushing more cum into your pussy. Sliding down your cheeks and soaking his bed underneath you in growing puddle.

“Fuck, Mando,” you say against his lips, with a bright smile. “Picking that flower was the best decision I've made in months.” You love the way he twitches inside of you, your walls still hugging him tightly as he groans against your mouth. You gently run your hand up and down his back as he works on catching his breath.

“Din.” There are plenty of people who know his name now and he doesn’t see why you shouldn’t. Given that he had just fucked the life out of you and still had a few more rounds in him before the pollen is completely gone. “My name. It’s Din.”

“Din,” you repeat softly, “I like that. Din.” You press a light kiss to his lips before repeating his name a few more times. “Do you think I can jerk you off next? My pussy isn’t used to being fucked this good. Give her a little break before you fill her up again?”

“Do you want my mouth again?” He asks, knowing you might still need something. “I can just suck on your clit.”

“Are you sure?” You ask, “I know you said that was the first time you did it, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to do it again if you don’t want.”

“I liked it.” Din twitches inside you as he admits that and kisses you again. “Unless you didn’t like it?”

“I loved it,” you giggle, “Can’t believe that was the first time you’ve done it. Best oral I’ve ever had.” 

“Good.” He grunts happily. “Then I’ll do it again.” He pulls out of you and rolls onto his back.

“You want me to sit on your face and I can jerk you off as you eat my pussy, baby?”

“Fuck yes.” Din groans. “Want to taste your cunt filled with my cum.”

“Fuck,” you moan at his filth, “Yes, sir.” He helps you position over his face, and you hover a few inches above his mouth before reaching down and gripping his cock. Giving it a few languid strokes before finding a pace that has him groaning. “I bet you’ve got a gorgeous cock, Din, I can feel how good it is. But fuck. It’s so thick and long and those veins… I.. fuck. It’s so perfect.” You tell him before he pulls you down and starts to eat your pussy like a man starved. You work his cock like it’s the most important job in the work, each flick of your wrist designed to make him groan and grunt with pure pleasure. “Do you like that? Do you like me stroking your cock while it’s still dripping with my cum, Din?”

He huffs, nodding his head as he continues to lick and taste both of you combined. He’d love it if you sucked his cock again but your hand is good too. Tilting your hips up, he finds your clit and sucks it into his mouth.

“Fuck, Din,” you yell out as he sucks on your clit, “Maker- I could get used to this.” You squeeze his cock a little harder, changing the pace from fast to slow. Wiping your thumb across the tip and gathering up the pre-cum to taste on your fingers. He groans as you let him, bringing your fingers up to mouth and licking them clean before gripping his cock again. “Going to suck your cock again after this, you taste so good, baby.”

Din groans and sucks on your clit harder, pushing his tongue against it and releasing it to lick it and suck it back into his mouth to start the entire process over again. He could get used to this too. Eating your pussy every night and having you on his cock.

“Diiiiiiinnnnnn,” you moan, over and over as he works magic on your clit. You stroke his cock over and over as his hips stutter, “Gonna c-cum.”

He pulls away just to gasp out, “me too.” Before he’s reattaching his lips to your clit like a hungry sucker fish.

“Din, Din, Din,” you chant his name over and over like a sacred prayer, pumping his cock until he’s spurting out thick ropes of cum, cum that you’ve desperate to scoop up and lick from your fingers. You feel your pussy clench down around nothing as your orgasm pulses through you, soaking his face with your arousal as he continues his delicious assault on your bundle of nerves.

You stopped stroking his cock, too focused on your own pleasure but you squeeze him. Making him pulse as his balls draw up against his body again.

“Din,” you pant one last time, as he grunts beneath you. You feel his cock twitching in your hands, clearly desperate for more release, and you resume your strokes. Milking him free of his pleasure and loving the way it pants your skin. Your fingers, wrists and arms are covered in his cum. All of it begging to be licked clean.

Letting go of your clit, Din groans your name as you stroke his cock and milk it of every drop of his release.

The second he stops cumming, you gently let it go and start cleaning it from your skin. Moaning at the taste and humming in content as you swallow it all down. “You taste delicious, Din.”

His cock is still hard but he’s not desperate to be inside you. The fire in his veins nearly burned away and it will only take once more before it’s all done. “You taste good, Mesh’la.” He praises roughly. “Could taste you everyday and be a happy man.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you say with a giggle. “It’s wearing off, I think, it doesn’t burn as badly but I think I can go again. You wanna fuck my mouth or my pussy this time, baby?”

“Is your pussy too sore?” He asks, knowing he’s been rough with it.

“I can take you again, I’m definitely going to be feeling you for a while, but I'm not complaining.”

“Why don’t you ride me then?” He asks, stroking your hip. “You can kiss me this time.”

“Perfect,” you say, wasting no time and getting into position and sinking down on him again. You press your lips against his and start to rock your hips, the ache between your legs getting drowned out with pleasure as he matches your pace.

"Shit, shit, fuck,  you are so tight?" Din groans in surprise. "How are you still so tight? We've been fucking for hours." He doesn't stop touching you, anywhere and everywhere he can while you ride him, stroking your back, your hips, sweeping his hands up to your breasts. Greedy for that skin to skin contact now that he's not quite as focused on cumming. "Kiss me, mesh'la." He begs.

You immediately press your lips to his, and moan into his mouth. His hands feel perfect on you, they explore your body with ease as you rock up and down, chasing relief once more around his cock.

This time is less frantic. It’s slower and almost more intimate. It’s almost like you are making love.

“Need you to cum,” you murmur against his lips, exhaustion taking its toll on your fucked out body, as you rock your hips slowly. His thumb pressed up against your clit as you chase some friction

“I will.” He promises. “After you, Mesh’la.”

You move your hips just a little faster, still keeping the pace slow and intimate. His thumb circles your clit perfectly as you grind down on him, cunning with a soft moan of his name, clamping down around him and relishing the groans of pleasure he fills your ear with. “Cum for me, Din,” you plead, as you can come back down.

Now that he feels your entire body melt, he knows the pollen has worked completely out of your system. “Good girl.” He grunts, rocking his hips as he wraps his arms around you. “I’m gonna fill you up again.”

“Please,” you beg, needing to feel his release. “Please, Din.”

He doesn't rush, knowing that you have to be exhausted at this point. Only his ability to go beyond his limits allows him to keep rocking his hips up. As soon as he cums, he knows he will pass out to sleep for a good while. You are almost asleep as he fucks you.

You sink your face into the crook of his neck, unsure how you’re going to find the strength to pull yourself out of bed and make your way home. Rocking your hips more and more, his release clearly moments away, you ride him harder, determined to give him every bit of his pleasure.

"Fuck." He groans and thrusts up one more time to bury himself deep. Throbbing again and feeling your walls grip him tight when he starts to spill inside of you again. Groaning your name quietly as he fills you. Feeling the heat and need of the pollen falling away with the last pulse of his orgasm. 

“Din,” you murmured into his skin, “Tha-thank you.” Exhaustion rumbles in your joints, everything aches, but everything feels worth it when you’re wrapped up in his arms.

"Sleep, mesh'la." He hums, his hand sliding up and down your back gently. He's still inside you and doesn't want to pull out right now. He wants to sleep inside you. "I know you are exhausted."

You hum happily into the crook of his neck, letting him move you slightly and wrapping his arms around you. “Goodnight, Din.” 

Sleep comes easier than it has in months, safely pulling you into slumber as he gently rubs your back and holds you tight to him.

Sometime during the night, Din wakes up. opening his eyes and letting his vision adapt to the darkness. He's softened and is barely inside you but it was probably the most relaxed and the best sleep that he's ever had. Possibly in his entire life. Reaching up, Din gently unties the blindfold that is still firmly over your eyes. He's decided that he wants you to see him. Or have the choice if you wanted him to turn on the lights. Now he just holds you, waiting for you to wake up.

Waking up, you hum contentedly in his arms, nuzzling your nose into his warm skin. The fact he’d removed your blindfold not fully registered yet as you wish him a ‘good morning.’ It’s only as you pull back and the light hits your eyelids that you realize the blindfold is off. “Din,” you say quietly, “Is it ok to open my eyes?”

"Opening your eyes comes with consequences, mesh'la." He admits quietly. "I am not allowed to let anyone see my face. Or I become darmanda." He explains. "I would no longer be Mandalorian."

“What do you want me to do?” You ask, before pressing your lips against his, “Tell me.”

"There is a way that you can see me and I am still Mandalorian." He tells you, slightly nervous about what you would think. It's crazy, but he couldn't stop thinking about it when he woke up. 

“Tell me,” you repeat, “If you want to.”

"If you are my riduur....you can see my face without any consequences."

“Riduur?” You repeat slowly, “What is that?”

“Spouse.” He whispers the Basic word and waits for your reaction.

“Oh,” you say quietly, before bringing your hands up to his chin and gripping it gently. “Riduur,” you repeat, loving the way it sounds, “You could see me as yours one day?”

“You would be mine then.” He tells you. “If you want.”

“I want to be yours,” you say against his lips.

“Then open your eyes, Mesh’la.” He murmurs softly. “You can look at me before we say our vows.”

You kiss him first, pressing your lips firmly against his before pulling back and slowly opening your eyes. Staring deeply into his brown eyes and feeling a smile spread across your face as you take in his features. “Gorgeous,” you say quietly, before letting your fingertips gently run across his face.

His eyes softly and his lips part when your fingers drag across them. He’s been touched by Grogu but this is different. “Pleasant enough? Or should I put my helmet back on?” He jokes self-consciously.

“You’re perfect,” you say honestly, “I can’t believe you’d want me. You’re gorgeous.”

“You are mesh’la, it is Mando’a for beautiful.” He hums, smiling up at you.

“Mesh’la,” you repeat, “You are mesh’la, Din.”

Biting his lip, he says, “repeat after me. Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.”

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde,” you say as clearly as you can, eyes still focused on his as you do so.

Din grins. “It is our vows.” He explains. “It means - We are one when together, we are one when parted, we share all, we will raise warriors."

“We are one.” Taking his hand you bring it to your lips and place a small kiss on it. “Yesterday took an unexpected turn… But I’m so glad I picked that flower.”

He snorts and shakes his head. “Good thing I wasn’t secretly a Gungan under my helmet.” He teases.

You giggle back at him before pulling him in for another kiss, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to walk normally for the next few days, you realize that right?”

“That’s to be expected.” Din flashes you a dirty grin. “Make sure you tell them that when we go to Mandalore.”

“So every time you fuck me, I’m going to be feeling it for days?” You ask with a raised eyebrow.

“Not every time, but when you’re fucking to stay alive, I’ll make sure you feel it.” He chuckles, wrapping his arms around you and grinning up at you. “You can pick those flowers anytime you want….riduur.”

“I might just have to do that,” you giggle, “Thank you for saving my life, Din.”

“I think I’ve gotten a pretty good reward.” Din hums. He had settled here for Grogu and it was a nice little place, maybe a little lonely since he’s not so busy, but now he has a feeling he will never be lonely again. Not with you by his side.

[asharaks]

the vision for rivain: instead of an organised faction of good-guy treasure hunters, the lords of fortune are a much looser organisation; not so much a tight-knit group of friends as a network of fences, buyers and suppliers, informally referred to as the “lords of fortune” for their reputation as led by the principles of profit above anything. the lines each “lord” is willing to cross varies as they don’t have a unifying ethos, but it’s a market with a reputation for graverobbing, theft of valuable artefacts and other ethically dubious procurement of goods, and its atmosphere and structure are heavily influenced by the blending of cultures — rivain is a coastal country with a history of occupation iirc, and they have better relations with the qun than other countries in thedas; things are more fluid, cultures are less defined and tend to bleed together. they’re also a country with a long history of mage tolerance and reverence for magic, so less chantry presence, more free trade and more open trading in goods that are frowned upon elsewhere, such as spell reagents and body parts for use in necromancy and blood magic. taash's mother fled to rivain and is a contact for the lords but taash herself isn't one; notably, the lords are neither the only trading network in rivain nor the largest, and more reputable traders abound along the coastal towns available to explore. 

rivain itself is not represented solely by an uninhabited beach and a gladiatorial arena. instead, while you find taash on a dragon hunt along the coast, rivain is first represented as a thriving coastal city with a significant population of free mages, seers, qunari and tal-vashoth, with whom dialogue can be initiated about their varied opinions on the state of the city and surrounding area. the dragon hunt with taash is characterised by discussion of dragon hunting as a sacred practice to qunari (more on this later!), with taash emphasising the spiritual and cultural importance of dragons to qunari; they are insulted by the implications of killing a dragon for profit, and take a defensive stance about it, but will later admit they were planning to profit off killing it: having grown up isolated from qunari culture, while they are aware of dragon hunting as a sacred practice, they’re unfamiliar with the practical rituals surrounding use of the downed dragon’s body.

after successfully baiting the dragon, you fight it for a while, before it overwhelms the party and you’re forced to retreat; taash is frustrated, but admits she’s never actually successfully killed a high dragon. you head back to the city, where the lords of fortune contact is unimpressed by the failure to bring back loot, and taash takes offense: before things can get violent, isabela steps in, introduces herself, and offers more useful contacts in exchange for rook and taash’s help dealing with a group of slavers moving qunari slaves to tevinter off the rivain coast. as a known pirate, she can’t get legitimate crew and since she won’t participate in slavery, the lords of fortune won’t help her without a solid promise of reward. lord of fortune rooks here get some unique dialogue regarding frustration about certain practices within the lords. you and taash help her free the slaves, and open up a new faction merchant and base area.

rivaini culture is depicted here as a blend of mercenary and spiritual, with a lot of npcs expressing a range of religious beliefs, including unconventional approaches to andrastianism, followers of the qun, rivaini seers, and dalish elves. the city carries a very different atmosphere to both treviso and minrathous, with a more mixed class and caste system, fewer templars and guards, and a strong sense of movement, as merchants and traders move in and out of the city. quests can be given by a range of npcs, including tal-vashoth, qunari, dalish elves, seers, and human citizens.

the primary quest, given by bela, is to retrieve a cursed artifact stolen by another subfaction of the lords of fortune: when you bring it back and have it appraised by taash’s mother, you find it’s an elven artifact that’s been damaged. isabela recommends taking it back to merrill at the veil jumpers, and gives you a note to pass on on her behalf too. taash will volunteer to come with you of her own free will, having heard about the blighted dragons at minrathous and treviso: taash’s mother tries to discourage this, but they insist.

also, bela gets clothes.

(previous - arlathan and the veil jumpers)

(next - the wetlands & the wardens)

[heretherebedork]

Mirror mirror on the wall,who are the top 5 greenest flags of them all? (Thai edition)

Okay. So, Thai green flags? Top Five? Let me give this a moment's thought... I'm not sure this will fully be my top top five because, frankly, I have watched too many BLs.

God from Monster Next Door is still gonna top this list. He is working hard to maintain his spot despite some struggles this last week with communication. But he has not hesitated to be good this entire time and I believe in the power of communication.

Fueang from City of Stars never wavered in his green flag nature and he feels very underappreciated for how well he did with communicating, staying honest and even coming out to the press to keep his relationship and to be able to be himself even at the detriment of his career.

Tan from We Are is the greenest green flag to ever exist. Look at this adorable man! He was always there for his boyfriend, always ready to love, always ready to support and listen and reassure. Just the best boy.

Yak from Wandee Goodday just has to be here because he put up with so much from so many people and still never strayed or wavered from his goal of just being the biggest sweetheart in the entire world and so in love it hurt.

Mork from My Ride can never be forgotten, frankly. The sweetest boy who did his best and never wavered and supported his doctor through everything and simply kept on loving him thanks to good advice from his gay uncles.

Honorable Mention (because I always think of him)

King turned out to just be a green flag despite everything going on in that show and all the fears and every chance he had to do something wrong turned into another chance at communication and another moment to support Uea to the best of his ability. Didn't always go perfectly but he did his honest best.

I really liked @absolutebl's Rules of Green Flag

respectful: no dubious consent, takes no for an answer and stops, alcohol is not an excuse,

honest: depicted demonstrating good communication - verbal, emotional, physical

safe: practices safe sex

decent: no violations (emotional, ethical, moral, sexual, cultural, or ya know legal) like breaking into his fucking hotel room

dependable: I'd be fine if my nibbling were trapped in an elevator with him

kind: forthright and not inclined to be manipulative

All very important!

Also, yes, I picked five that were from my top favorite shows that were also green flag material, so sue me.

[mywitchyblog]

Shiftblr Supposed Toxicity and the Hypocrisy of Shiftok

Masterlist :

Disclaimer: It seems the "Shiftok exodus" wwhere shiftokers in fear of tiktok getting banned in the US has flocked to other platforms, tumblr included has begun, with people who haven’t been properly informed arriving from the cult-like environment of Shiftok.

Now, these individuals are attempting to declare that certain topics, like age and race changing, are fundamentally bad and are "calling us out" for discussing them. So, enjoy this essay I quickly put together in response.

If you wish to engage in discussion or debate, feel free to do so in the comments. However, if I see you resorting to insults, threats, or failing to argue without a trifecta of straw man, hasty generalization, and ad hominem fallacies, kindly get the hell off my page. I want nothing to do with that nonsense.

With that said, enjoy the essay—because I am definitely not done dealing with the mess that is Shiftok. And I would rather die than let Shiftblr turn into a Shiftok 2.0, driven by people who don’t know anything about shifting or who are trying to impose rigid, uninformed rules.

I never experienced any toxicity from shiftblr its a breath of fresh air compared to other thing.

Introduction: Understanding the Dynamics of Shifting Communities

In the world of reality shifting, there are vibrant communities across various platforms where shifters gather to share their experiences, discuss methods, and offer support.

Two of the most prominent spaces are Shiftblr on Tumblr and Shiftok on TikTok. However, these communities often clash over their views on certain shifting practices, particularly those involving age and race changing.

While Shiftok frequently accuses Shiftblr of normalizing unethical practices, a deeper look reveals a complex web of misunderstandings, double standards, and even hypocrisy within Shiftok itself.

Part 1: Shiftok’s Criticism of Shiftblr

Subpart A: Accusations of Normalizing Controversial Practices

Shiftok has repeatedly criticized Shiftblr for allegedly "normalizing" practices like age and race changing, which some in the TikTok community see as inherently problematic. They argue that by discussing and engaging in these practices, Shiftblr is promoting behavior that crosses ethical boundaries. Critics claim that age changing, especially when it involves shifting to a younger age, is morally dubious, while race changing is often labeled as cultural appropriation or fetishization.

However, these accusations are grounded in a shallow understanding of shifting and a refusal to engage with the nuanced realities of these practices. For instance, critics often fail to recognize that age changing in shifting is not about retaining adult consciousness in a younger body but fully immersing oneself in the mindset, maturity, and emotional framework of the desired age in the new reality (Desired Reality or DR). As said in my essay about age changing, maturity is linked to the brain’s development, and when you shift, your consciousness aligns with the age-appropriate cognitive functions of your DR self. This immersion means you are not simply an adult pretending to be a child; you truly embody the age and life stage of your DR self.

Similarly, race changing in shifting is not about superficial role-playing or exploiting another culture. Instead, it’s a profound experience where shifters fully immerse themselves in the cultural, emotional, and even historical aspects of the new identity. As explained in my essay about race changing, shifters experience the world through the lens of their new racial identity, gaining insights and understanding that are impossible to achieve from a distance. This isn’t about "trying on" a race; it’s about fully inhabiting and understanding a different cultural perspective, often leading to increased empathy and a deeper commitment to social justice in the Original Reality (OR).

Subpart B: The Reality of Shiftblr’s Approach

Shiftblr is not about promoting controversial practices recklessly; instead, it’s a space where shifters are encouraged to explore their identities responsibly and thoughtfully. Reality shifting is deeply personal, and Shiftblr recognizes the importance of allowing individuals to explore different ages, races, and life experiences as part of their self-discovery and healing process.

Encouraging Ethical Exploration: Shiftblr emphasizes the importance of approaching age and race changing with respect and a deep understanding of the implications involved. The community provides nuanced guidance, encouraging shifters to engage in these practices not out of curiosity or fetishization but as a means of personal growth, healing, and empathy development. For example, age changing can help individuals relive experiences they missed or heal from past traumas by allowing them to experience life from a different perspective. Similarly, race changing can offer profound insights into the lived experiences of different racial groups, challenging biases and fostering a deeper understanding of cultural dynamics.

Criticism Stemming from Misunderstandings: The criticisms from Shiftok often stem from a failure to understand these deeper motivations. By shutting down conversations about age and race changing, Shiftok not only stifles personal growth but also misses the opportunity to engage in meaningful discussions about the ethical implications of these practices. Instead of fostering an environment of open dialogue, Shiftok’s approach often results in gatekeeping and the suppression of diverse perspectives, leading to a less inclusive and supportive community.

Part 2: The Hypocrisy of Shiftok

Subpart A: Cult-Like Behavior and Double Standards

While Shiftok is quick to condemn Shiftblr for allegedly normalizing controversial practices, the TikTok shifting community often engages in behaviors that are equally, if not more, problematic. Shiftok operates much like a cult, where popular shifters dictate what is considered acceptable, and anyone who challenges these norms is ostracized or harassed.

The Cult of Popularity: On Shiftok, certain figures have amassed large followings and set the tone for what is deemed "correct" within the community. This creates a toxic environment where conformity is enforced, and dissenting voices are silenced. The double standards in how Shiftok approaches different types of shifts are particularly glaring. For instance, shifts into fictional characters or races, even those involving ethically questionable scenarios (such as becoming a vampire who preys on humans), are widely accepted and even celebrated. Yet, shifts involving real-world races or age changes are harshly criticized and labeled as unethical.

Romanticizing Fictional Oppression: Shiftok’s hypocrisy is further highlighted by its acceptance of shifts into fictional races that face oppression or discrimination, such as the Na’vi from "Avatar" or mutants from "The X-Men." These shifts involve experiencing fictional forms of racism or societal prejudice, yet they do not receive the same scrutiny as shifts involving real-world racial experiences. This romanticization of fictional oppression trivializes real-world struggles and reveals a lack of critical thinking about the ethical implications of different types of identity shifts.

Double Standards in Age Changing: A particularly stark example of Shiftok’s double standards can be seen in their attitudes towards age changing. As discussed in my essay about age changing, there is a significant double standard when teenage shifters criticize adults for aging down while they themselves often age up in their Desired Realities (DRs) to experience adult situations. Teenage shifters frequently shift into realities where they are married adults with children and engage in mature content, yet they are quick to condemn adults who wish to revisit their youth. This inconsistency not only highlights the hypocrisy in their arguments but also exposes a lack of understanding about the nature of shifting and the fluidity of identity across different realities.

Subpart B: Judgmental Attitudes and Lack of Empathy

The judgmental attitudes prevalent in Shiftok are often rooted in ignorance and a superficial understanding of shifting practices. Many in the TikTok community are quick to condemn those who engage in age or race changing without taking the time to understand the motivations behind these practices or the depth of the shifters' experiences.

Misunderstanding the Immersive Nature of Shifting: Critics often fail to recognize that reality shifting involves complete immersion in the new reality. When a shifter changes their age or race, they do not merely adopt the appearance of a different identity—they fully embody the mindset, emotions, and cultural context of that identity. For example, shifters who engage in race changing experience life from the perspective of their new racial identity, including the societal challenges and cultural nuances that come with it. This is not a superficial act but a profound, empathetic engagement with another way of being.

Hostility Towards Different Perspectives: The hostile environment on Shiftok discourages open discussions about controversial practices, leading to a community that is less supportive and more divisive. Shifters who explore different identities or challenge the status quo are often met with harsh criticism and even harassment. This attitude stifles personal growth and limits the potential for meaningful, transformative experiences within the community.

Part III-Further Delving into Age and Race Changing: A Complex and Misunderstood Practice

Subpart A-Age Changing: The Healing Power of Revisiting the Past

Age changing in shifting is often misunderstood and unfairly criticized. Critics argue that shifting to a younger age is inherently inappropriate, especially when it involves romantic or sexual relationships. However, this criticism ignores the reality that when shifters age down, they fully adopt the cognitive and emotional framework of their younger self in the DR. As said in my essay about age changing, this process involves a complete alignment with the DR self's maturity, making the experience age-appropriate within the context of that reality.

Healing and Exploration: Aging down allows shifters to relive experiences they missed or to heal from past traumas. It offers a second chance at life stages that may have been marred by anxiety, trauma, or missed opportunities. For many, this practice is not about escapism but about gaining a deeper understanding of themselves and finding healing through immersive experiences in different life stages.

Subpart B-Race Changing: Fostering Empathy and Understanding

Race changing is another practice that is frequently misunderstood and criticized. Detractors often accuse shifters of cultural appropriation or fetishization, but this perspective overlooks the profound potential for personal growth and empathy development that race changing offers.

Immersive Cultural Engagement: When shifters change their race, they do not merely adopt the physical characteristics of another race—they immerse themselves fully in the cultural, emotional, and historical aspects of that identity. This experience allows shifters to gain insights into racial dynamics, challenge their own biases, and develop a deeper understanding of different cultural perspectives.

Addressing Concerns About Appropriation: Critics often argue that race changing constitutes cultural appropriation, but this argument fails to account for the deeply immersive and empathetic nature of the practice. Unlike superficial acts of cultural appropriation, race changing in shifting involves a comprehensive engagement with the new identity, including the challenges and discrimination that may come with it. This immersive experience fosters genuine understanding and empathy, rather than reinforcing stereotypes or trivializing cultural experiences.

IV-How Shiftok Has Harmed the Reality Shifting Community

Shiftok’s approach to shifting has had a detrimental impact on the broader shifting community. By prioritizing trend-driven, superficial practices over deep, meaningful exploration, Shiftok has contributed to the erosion of community knowledge and the spread of misinformation. As said in my essay about how Shiftok destroyed shifting, the TikTok community’s focus on popularity and aesthetics has led to a decline in the quality of information shared, with many shifters abandoning the platform in search of more supportive and knowledgeable communities.

Surface-Level Engagement: Shiftok’s emphasis on aesthetics and trend-following has reduced reality shifting to a series of shallow practices that lack depth and substance. Instead of encouraging shifters to engage with their experiences on a meaningful level, Shiftok promotes a surface-level engagement that prioritizes what’s popular over what’s personally meaningful. This shift in focus has led to a homogenization of shifting practices, where only certain types of shifts are considered "acceptable," stifling creativity and personal growth.

Toxic Environment: The cult-like behavior on Shiftok has created a toxic environment where dissenting voices are silenced, and critical thinking is discouraged. Shifters who challenge the mainstream views or explore controversial topics like age and race changing are often harassed or ostracized. This stifles open dialogue, limits the potential for collective learning, and alienates individuals seeking support and understanding within the community.

Conclusion: Embrace the Full Experience of Shifting

In conclusion, Shiftblr is not about "normalizing" controversial practices for the sake of it; it’s about fostering a community where shifters can explore the full spectrum of human experience in a meaningful, ethical, and transformative way. The accusations from Shiftok are rooted in misunderstandings, fallacies, and a hypocritical approach to shifting that fails to recognize the depth and complexity of these practices.

While Shiftok operates like a cult, enforcing conformity and punishing those who deviate from the norm, Shiftblr provides a space for thoughtful, nuanced discussions about the ethics and implications of shifting. Whether it’s exploring different ages, races, or entirely new realities, Shiftblr emphasizes the importance of respect, understanding, and a willingness to learn.

Shifting is a personal journey, one that should not be limited by narrow-minded judgments or superficial ethics. By embracing the full experience of shifting, including the challenging and controversial aspects, shifters can engage in a journey of self-discovery and growth that is truly transformative. It’s time for Shiftok to take a step back, recognize their own hypocrisy, and allow for the open, thoughtful exploration that Shiftblr encourages.

[yamayuandadu]

Consulting the convoluted history of supernatural foxes, or why is Tsukasa like that

I know I said you should only expect one long Touhou-themed research article per month, and that the next one will be focused on Ten Desires, but due to unforeseen circumstances a bonus one jumped into the queue. For this reason, you will unexpectedly have the opportunity to learn more about the historical and religious context of the belief in kuda-gitsune, or “tube foxes”, as well as their various forerunners. Tsukasa is clearly topical thanks to Unfinished Dream of All Living Ghost, and I basically skipped covering Unconnected Marketeers in 2021 save for pointing out some banal tidbits, so I hope this is a welcome surprise. The post contains spoilers for the new game, obviously.

Obviously, in order to properly cover the kuda-gitsune, it is necessary to start with a short history of foxes in Japanese culture through history, especially in esoteric Buddhism. Early history: the Chinese background Early Japanese sources pertaining to foxes show strong Chinese influence. There was an extensive preexisting system of fox beliefs to draw from in continental literature, dating back at least to the Han dynasty (note that while the well known story of Daji is set much earlier, its modern form only really goes back to the Song dynasty). This is way too complex of a topic to discuss here in full, sadly, so I will limit myself to the particularly interesting tidbits.

A multi-tailed fox in the classic Chinese encyclopedia Gujin Tushu Jicheng (wikimedia commons)

It will suffice to say that historically the fox was perceived in China as a liminal being, and could be associated with pursuits regarded as ethically dubious, ranging from theft and banditry to instigating rebellions and promoting divisive religious views (so, for example during the reigns of firmly pro-Taoist emperors, Buddhist monks could be associated with foxes). Literary texts focused on supernatural foxes emphasized their shapeshifting abilities. In contrast with some of the other well attested supernatural beings in Chinese tradition, they could take a range of human forms, appearing as men and women of virtually any age. Often they favored mimicking people who lived on the margins of society, like bandits, courtesans or migrant laborers. It was also emphasized that they displayed a considerable degree of disregard for authority. The fact these animals lived essentially alongside humans without being domesticated definitely played a role in the formation of this image.

A contemporary statue of Bixia, a deity in the past associated with fox beliefs (wikimedia commons)

At the same time, foxes enjoyed a degree of popularity as objects of semi-official cult, still practiced here and there in China in modern times, for example in Boluo in Shaanxi. The religious role of foxes was reflected in, among other things, the development of terms like hushen (狐神) “fox deity”, or huxian (狐仙), “fox immortal”. The belief in such “celestial foxes” (tianhu, 天狐) was relatively common, and there is even a legend according to which there was a formalized way for the animals to transcend to higher states of existence, with the goddess Bixia making them undergo the supernatural fox version of the well known imperial examinations. If they failed they were condemned to live as “wild foxes” (yehu, 野狐) with no hope of transcendence. There are also accounts of foxes pursuing the status of a xian through illicit means, through a combination of praying to the Big Dipper and draining people’s energy, as documented by He Xiu in the 1700s. Note foxes were already portrayed as worshiping the Big Dipper during the reign of the Tang dynasty, but back then it was only believed this let them transform into humans.

The ambiguity of foxes is evident in the Japanese perception of these animals too. Supernatural foxes are probably among the best known youkai, and especially considering this is a post about Touhou I do not think the basics need to be discussed in much detail. They were believed to shapeshift and to steal vital energy, much like in China. Their positive role as messengers of Inari, a kami associated with agriculture, is generally well known too. The earliest sources documenting encounters with supernatural foxes are obviously, as expected, the earliest chronicles like the Nihon Shoki, where they mostly appear as omens. By the Heian period these animals are well established in the written record. For instance, Nakatomi Harae Kunge includes “evil magic due to heavenly and earthly foxes” among phenomena which require ritual purification. In addition to the tales imported from China being in circulation, some setsuwa written in Japan involved shape shifting foxes. However, supernatural foxes only gained greater prominence in the Japanese middle ages due to the growth of relevance of two deities they were associated with, Inari and Dakiniten. The latter is more relevant to the topic of this article.

Foxes, Dakiniten and tengu

Part of a hanging scroll depicting Dakiniten riding on a fox (wikimedia commons, via MET; cropped for the ease of viewing)

The connection between foxes and Dakiniten reflected their associations with the dakinis, a class of demons in Buddhism. Originally the dakinis were associated with jackals instead, but Chinese Buddhist authors presumed that the animal mentioned in this context is basically identicial with more familiar foxes, and that belief reached Japan as well. It was strong enough for Dakinite, the dakini par excellence, to be regularly depicted riding on the back of a fox. Dakiniten was originally a regular dakini, according to Bernard Faure specifically one who appears in Heian period Enmaten mandalas (Enmaten is related to but not quite the same as the better known king Enma, for the development of two distinct reflections of Yama in Buddhism see here). However, she eventually developed into a full blown deva in her own right, and her prominence was so great that it basically resulted in the decline of references to the generic dakinis in Buddhist literature in Japan. She was particularly popular in the Shingon school of Buddhism, and at the peak of her relevance played a role in royal ascension rituals, developing a connection with Amaterasu in the process (Amaterasu acquired many peculiar connections through the Japanese middle ages, it was par the course). A Tendai treatise equates her with Matarajin instead, though. An interesting phenomenon related to Dakiniten is the occasional fusion of beliefs pertaining to foxes and tengu, which might have originated in the similarity of the terms tengu and the Japanese term for the already mentioned “heavenly foxes”, tenko. Its best attested examples include the inclusion of tengu in mandalas focused on Dakiniten as her acolytes. However, a different deity ultimately exemplifies this even better. Iizuna Gongen and "iizuna magic"

Iizuna Gongen riding on the back of a fox (Museum of Fine Arts Boston; link to the source is temporarily dead, the image is reproduced here for educational purposes only)

The indisputable center of the network of connections between foxes and tengu is Iizuna Gongen (飯綱権現), depicted as a tengu riding on a fox. As you can probably guess, he was a (vague) basis for Megumu, as evidenced by the similarity of the names. While many other aspects of his character aren’t really touched upon in the game, I’d hazard a guess he’s also the reason why ZUN decided to include a kuda-gitsune in the same game as Megumu - the evidence lines up exceptionally well, as you’ll see.

Originally Iizuna Gongen was simply the deity of Mount Iizuna (飯綱山), located in the modern Nagano prefecture. Near the end of the Japanese middle ages he spread to other areas, likely thanks to traveling shugenja (also known as yamabushi), mountain ascetics belonging to a religious tradition known as Shugendō. Two aspects of his character are particularly pronounced, his role as a martial deity and his association with foxes.

I was unable to determine when Iizuna Gongen’s connection to foxes originally developed, but it was strong enough to lead to the use of the alternate name Chira Tenko (智羅天狐; “Chira the heavenly fox”) to refer to him. Foxes also appear in a legend describing his origin. It states that he was one of the eighteen children of an Indian king, and arrived in Japan alongside nine of his siblings on the back of a white fox during the reign of emperor Kinmei (the remaining eight went to China and became monks on Mount Tiantai). His connection to foxes is also reaffirmed in an Edo period treatise, Reflections on Inari Shrine (稲荷神社考, Inari jinja kō), which declares that names such as Iizuna Gongen and Matarajin (sic!) are used in the worship of wild foxes to hide the true nature of the invoked entities. The author further states that the true form of “these matarajin (plural) and wild foxes” is that of a three-faced and six-armed deity, which curiously has more to do with early Matarajin tradition than with Iizuna Gongen as far as I can tell. The two were not really closely associated otherwise, but it’s worth noting that apparently shugenja perceived them both as similar tengu-like deities. 

The key feature of conventional iconography of Iizuna Gongen, the fox mount, has nothing to do with Matarajin strictly speaking, and likely reflects the influence of Dakiniten. However, the animal in this context developed its own unique identity thanks to the presence of foxes in a type of ritual focused on Iizuna Gongen, which could itself be referred to as iizuna. The shugenja community centered on the worship of Iizuna Gongen was not very formalized, which led to poor understanding of their practice among outsiders, with the term iizuna basically acquiring the vague meaning along the lines of “magic”. and rather poor reputation. These rites are where the kuda-gitsune comes into play. Kuda-gitsune in iizuna magic and beyond

The kuda-gitsune, as depicted in Shōzan Chomon Kishū by Miyoshi Shōzan (Waseda University History Museum; reproduced here for educational purposes only)

At first glance, kuda-gitsune is just one of many local variants of the standard supernatural fox, similarly to the likes of ninko, osaki-gitsune or nogitsune. The etymology of its name is straightforward. I’m sure you can guess what the second half means, while kuda (管) in this context refers to a bamboo tube. You’d think the name would basically guarantee it was universally accepted that’s how one could carry such a critter undetected, but apparently there was an alternate explanation, namely that it was invisible. I have not seen any further discussion of this in literature, but I assume this might be connected to shikigami beliefs, as these quite often are described as invisible. Do not quote me on that, though. Even more bizarrely, there is no consensus that the animal meant was always a fox. According to Bernard Faure it is distinctly possible the term referred to a weasel. Kuda-gitsune could be described as a type of shikigami, but note that this term had a much broader meaning in real life than in Touhou, and referred to basically any supernatural being which acted as an extension of the powers attributed to “ritual specialists” (祈祷師) such as onmyōji, shugenja or Buddhist monks. In Buddhist context, the analogous term could be gohō dōji (護法童子; “Dharma-protecting lads”), though there are also cases where gohō and shikigami are contrasted with each other. The shikigami category didn’t just consist of animated papercraft and animal spirits typically designated as such in popculture. Even the twelve heavenly generals defending the “medicine Buddha” Yakushi could be labeled as shikigami. Obviously, kuda-gitsune is closer to the familiar meaning of this term than to Buddhist deities, though. People relying on kuda-gitsune were referred to as kitsune-tsukai (狐使い), which can be loosely translated as “fox tamer”, and it is said they were often shugenja. Given the popularity of the associated deity among them this shouldn’t really be a surprise. Various supernatural abilities were ascribed to the kuda-gitsune. The ability to possess people attributed to other supernatural foxes was the domain of kuda-gitsune too. Apparently people afflicted by it were compelled to eat nothing but raw miso. Purportedly they were bringers of wealth - but said wealth did not necessarily come from legitimate sources. That, in turn, could lead to distrust or outright ostracism of people allegedly relying on foxes to acquire wealth. They also provided aid in divination, and could supposedly reveal past, present and future alike this way. However, they could look into the soul of anyone using them this way and learn their secrets. Bernard Faure notes that occasionally it was said that they even could even be utilized to kill enemies who attempted casting spells on their owner.  Shigeru Mizuki's kuda-gitsune

Kuda-gitsune, as depicted by Shigeru Mizuki (reproduced here for educational purposes only)

While there isn’t much information about kuda-gitsune in scholarship, especially scholarship available online in English, they received extensive coverage in various books about youkai written by Shigeru Mizuki, famous for arguably canonizing the modern concept of youkai. Note that while I am a fan of Mizuki's works, his encyclopedias are best understood as something closer to Borges’ Book of Imaginary Beings, complete with some dubious sourcing and possible fabrications. However, ultimately modern media about youkai, including Touhou, owes much to him, and arguably he continued the tradition of night parade scrolls which often invented new creatures wholesale, so it strikes me as entirely fair game to summarize what he has to say too. Shigeru Mizuki cited the Edo period writer Matsura Seizan as an authority on kuda-gitsune. He states ccording to the latter, certain ascetics (yamabushi) were provided with these critters upon finishing their training on Mount Kinpu and Mount Ōmine. In his account cited by Mizuki there are a lot of details I haven’t seen elsewhere. The storage tubes after which kuda-gitsune are named apparently had to be inscribed with a certain sanskrit phrase (left unspecified, tragically) so that the animals didn’t have to be fed. However, releasing them and giving it food was necessary to gain their help in divination. There was a downside to this - kuda-gitsune were apparently hard to place back in containment once released without the help of a seasoned specialist. Also, they refused to provide anything of value unless fed well, and they had quite the appetite. Mizuki cites the particularly disastrous case of an ascetic who kept multiple kuda-gitsune in a single tube, and eventually couldn’t pay for enough food for his collection since the animals kept multiplying inside. According to Mizuki  it was believed that a kuda-gitsune could be gifted by its owner to another person, but the creature would come back if it was not satisfied with the food provided by the latter. If the original “fox tamer” dies before passing their kuda-gitsune to someone else, it will instead go to the Ōji Inari shrine located in what is now the the Kita ward of Tokyo.

Conclusion: Tsukasa and her forerunners

In theory I could’ve kept pointing out “see, it’s just like Tsukasa!” in virtually every single paragraph of this article. To answer the question from the title, evidently she is like that because that's how foxes have been in folklore both Japan and China for centuries. It is not really hard to see that ZUN is genuinely great at research when he wants to be, and Tsukasa's character is remarkably accurate to her real life forerunners, both as an adaptation of kuda-gitsune specifically and as a representation of the broader tradition which lead to the portrayal of foxes as supernatural creatures of questionable moral character. She engages in morally dubious “get rich quick schemes”, she definitely provides advice (of variable quality), and her self-declared ability from her omake bio pretty clearly reflects skills actually ascribed to the kuda-gitsune in folklore. In the newest game the ability to provide information is clearly in the spotlight - Tsukasa seems to be reasonably knowledgeable (she brings up Kojiki in a line aimed at Hisami, among other things), and other characters generally agree she’d be more useful doing something else than fighting. I do not think there’s any real reason to doubt this is what is meant. I think it can even be safely assumed that Zanmu’s decision to pressure Tsukasa to partake in her assassination bluff is rooted in genuine tradition. I’m obviously not going to say that Tsukasa reaches the platonic ideal of Okina, the quintessential character aimed at fans who like research, who largely seems to exist to get people to dig deeper for sources explaining the dozens of religious allusions in her dialogue, spell cards and design, but I do think it’s worth appreciating that the series reached a stage where even the minor animal youkai can be enjoyed as multilayered representation of centuries worth of genuine folklore and mythology. Bibliography -Bernard Faure, Gods of Medieval Japan vol. 1-3 -Michael Daniel Foster, The Book of Yokai. Mysterious Creatures of Japanese Folklore  -Berthe Jansen and Nobumi Iyanaga, Dākini (Brill’s Encyclopedia of Buddhism) -Xiaofei Kang, The Cult of the Fox: Power, Gender, and Popular Religion in Late Imperial and Modern China -Shigeru Mizuki’s assorted writings on kuda-gitsune (collected online here)

[robotshellyeah]

some thoughts about Deathwalker:

my favorite thing about babylon 5 has always been the conversations between the ambassadors and their aides. the show is not always a story from the perspective of the human characters - sometimes you get a window into how the aliens interact with each other when humans aren't around. I really liked the scene between Na'Toth and G'Kar about why she attacked Jha'dur. if it had been her explaining herself to a human like Sinclair or Garibaldi, the cultural practice underlying her desire for revenge would have been portrayed as "alien" and less legitimate. but instead she tells it to G'Kar, who understands her completely and tells her that her behavior was right (he says that she wouldn't be narn if she felt differently, and that he's proud of her!) and therefore we the audience are reassured that her motivations are not to be dismissed. it was refreshing to see G'Kar take her side and only tell her to wait because it was necessary for political maneuvering

the plotline with Talia was kind of upsetting - I don't think I appreciated when I watched the show for the first time in college how violating that experience would be, and Sinclair and Garibaldi were so nonchalant about it at the end. Talia was like "Kosh hired me under dubious circumstances, exposed me to terrifying stimuli, and recorded my thoughts without consent presumably with the intention of using them later to hurt me" and Sinclair and Garibaldi were like "lol yeah he's a wild one". I guess there's nothing they can do about it but still yikes

why was Garibaldi allowed to go through Jha'dur's stuff when she was unconscious, seems ethically questionable

my opinion of G'Kar is so heavily influenced by how he is in the later seasons, I forgot how slimy he is in season 1. I think he experiences the most character growth of any of the cast.

Lennier is the guy we all know who's way too into military history

[the-devils-library]

At Satan's Altar: A Collection of Prayers, Chants, Affirmations, Hymns, and Rituals by Marie RavenSoul

Title: At Satan's Altar: A Collection of Prayers, Chants, Affirmations, Hymns, and Rituals

Author: Marie RavenSoul

Publisher: ‎ In Satan's Honour Press

Publishing Date: February 28, 2018

ISBN-10‏: ‎ 1775262405

ISBN-13: ‎ 978-1775262404

Last post was a popular atheist text, so I suppose it's appropriate that now we move on to a popular theist text.

Marie RavenSoul is a modern Satanic author and youtuber, her channel can be found here. Her website, In Satan's Honour, can be found here. To my knowledge she is not affiliated with any group but her dedication in this book gives thanks to a "Brother Nero," who I believe may be the same Brother Nero who authored Satanism: A Beginner's Guide to the Religious Worship of Satan and Demons.

At Satan's Altar's subtitle is an apt summary of its content. RavenSoul is not here to provide moral counsel or wax poetic about philosophy, but to provide the tools of a theistic Satanic practice, including hymns, prayers, and rituals. The cover and interior also feature several illustrations, by artists Amanda MacNeil and Letitia Pfinder.

The book is divided into two sections, the first half being dedicated to devotional writings such as chants and prayers, and the second half being more instructional, revolving around rituals and practices the theistic Satanist might partake in. The instructional portion may prove useful to newcomers who have basic questions, such as how to pray, or how to structure a ritual. The Nine Days of Solitude Devotional may be difficult for anyone who is young or in a controlling environment, but could prove beneficial for more experienced Satanists who wish to do something more intensive than daily prayer or a one-off rite.

It is worth noting that RavenSoul calls Satan by other names, such as Lucifer and Baphomet, which some theistic Satanists may consider to be separate demons, rather than other names for Satan himself. She also refers to Satan as "father," a dynamic which may or may not ring true for other Satanists. At Satan's Altar is available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble. [DISCLAIMER: The Devil's Library is not affiliated with any of the previously mentioned groups or authors. It is an independent project by a single Satanist. Do not mistake my mentioning of an author or group as endorsement for their beliefs and practices.]

Click below for my personal thoughts on the book.

RavenSoul is a talented writer and her dedication to Satan is admirable. While her rather fatherly interpretation of Satan isn't for me personally, I'm sure those Satanists who do see our lord as a father figure would take great comfort in certain pieces of her writing.

However there is an aspect of the book which rubs me the wrong way personally, and that is the matter of cultural misappropriation. RavenSoul conflates Satan with religious figures from a couple of other faiths, namely Iblis and Tawûsî Melek (spelled Melek Ta'us in the book). While I can see why someone would compare these figures to Satan at first glance, my research tells me it is inaccurate and perhaps unwise to do so. Iblis comes from Islam, and while he is a fallen angel and the leader of devils, equating him with the Christian Satan is ignorant and potentially appropriation. More seriously, equating Tawûsî Melek, the peacock angel of the Yazidi religion, to Satan is directly racist and harmful. Yazidis have a history of persecution, and being wrongfully accused of being devil-worshipers is part of that history. Furthermore, Yazidism is very much closed to outsiders (one cannot even marry into the religion, but must be born into it), so making use of their religious figure for Satanic writings is rude and inconsiderate, at the very least. RavenSoul doesn't just make use of Tawûsî Melek's name and image, but references the Al Jilwah, a book which claims to hold authentic Yazidi scripture, but is of dubious origins.

In addition to these comparisons, RavenSoul also conflates Satan with gods like Pan and Set, and while those gods come from open religions, some may not enjoy such comparisons.

I know RavenSoul's work is popular amongst my fellow theists, and I never aim to tell my readers what to do in these review sections. These are my thoughts and only my thoughts, not instructions on where you should draw the line on which books you will or won't make use of.

[ivestas]

hot head

Summary: You threaten a renowned colossi of a sniper and challenge him to fight.

Tags: sniper!könig x sniper!fem!reader, canon divergence, power imbalance(?), mentions of medicinal drug usage, unedited, reader implied to be on the younger side

Word count: 1.2k

Notes: I've decided to experiment more with characterization; I believe many character headcanons and depictions I make are often influenced by my own experiences, which is obvious, but it's hard to grasp when the character your writing is not only the opposite of you in many ways, but likely has a mindset much unlike yours (male, strong, a soldier, of a culture I know little of, etc) I feel like due to my own experiences, I unintentionally feminize and soften these hardened (male) characters... all this to say that if I keep jumping between versions of these characters, its due to this LMAO—also, the major parallels this has to one of my previous konig oneshots was intentional! and, as usual, sorry for the dubious quality, i just wanted to get the idea down!

You were nervous.

It was hard not to bounce your leg, glance left and right, fiddle with anything beside or on you (dog tag, straps of your gear, a random coin), just trying to shake away the underlying anxiety that ate away at you.

But this is your first 'high-stake' mission, and not only that, but you've been handed to by veterans way beyond your league. You felt clumsy among them, severely inadequate.

Especially since you've been paired with the master class sniper, König.

The mission, according to Aksel, is 'simple enough' for the two of you: you guys will be planted in opposite areas of the enemy base and shoot down and provide back up if stragglers come out or reinforcements come.

But, again—first fucking mission ever that's something as intense as this, and not only that, again, you were paired with König.

You hadn't said anything though, merely nodding to the instruction with a swift 'understood, sir!'

Though you couldn't deny it: it was eating at you, and with your mind clouded with so much thought, it was difficult determining if your hands were gonna be steady enough to shoot (even though it didn't matter because the mission was taking place next week).

While you were busy mulling and agonizing over the hundreds and thousands of ways you could fuck up, you hadn't noticed a certain man making his way to you.

It was only when he spoke that you realized there was someone near. Head shooting up, you spoke quickly, not quite processing right away who it was.

"Yes?"

And then it hit you:

It's König.

It shouldn't have been much of a surprise—it's only natural for pairs in mission to discuss the details and set some sort of plan beforehand; it's practically protocol, actually.

But still, it surprised you. Still, you were able to shake off the surprise quick enough for his words to properly register when he spoke.

"You're nervous."

König said the words with no ire, no disgust, no nothing. It was an observation, plain and simple.

"I... suppose I am, sir."

A puff of laughter—or was it just a scoff? Snort? "No need to address me as 'sir', I'm not your superior."

"Sorry. It's hard to when, you know," shut up. "you're kind of... legendary? I mean, master sniper and all," please just shut the fuck up. "You're kind of like a superior in a skill sense? You know in those rpgs when like—"

"I get it."

You laughed awkwardly, refusing to look at him directly.

"May I give you a piece of advice?"

You looked at him then. "Yes?"

"Cut the rambling short. Although I don't mind it, many others could and will use it against you—it's better to be blunt and honest rather than shy and all over the place." He lifted a finger. "One presumes and sets dominance," he lifted a second finger. "The other presumes and sets weakness."

You were a little offended by that. "Okay but what if I just stabbed them? Can't call me weak after that, even if I start stuttering like Porky Pig."

"..."

"...sorry."

König laughed, and this time, you could properly identify it as one; it was throaty, almost raspy. "I see now—you're a loose-lipped girl. Either a mumbling mess or a sharp-tongued harpy."

"That a bad thing or a good thing?"

"It depends; say I use it against you, will you commit to your word and stab me?"

"I... won't?"

"Then no longer are your words a threat to me, because I now know you're just bark and no bite—"

"I won't because we're comrades right now, but I'd stab you the moment my contract ends!"

Fuck. Fuck.

You did not just threaten a man nearly twice your height and thrice your muscle mass—

"You'll stab me when your contract ends?" He echoed. Amused.

Amused.

"Yeah, dull knife and all—cut you like butter." You rose from your seat, almost chest-to-chest, staring up at König with a glare.

He met your glare with crinkled eyes.

He was looking at you as though you were nothing but a petulant, whiny kid.

"Foolish girl," his voice was light, chiding. "You're barking at the wrong man. Surely you can see that?"

"You're awfully cocky, aren't you? Why not challenge this 'foolish girl' to a spar and prove your worth?!"

"Hmm... okay. I see why not. Perhaps a good hit or two will set you straight, no?"

It took you everything not to (try to) body-slam that fucker.

World renowned sniper or not, you're gonna kick his ass to the goddamn dirt till he's nothing but a pulp of fabric and blood.

---

The two of you were quick to make your way outside, somewhere far enough where no one would see the unregulated fight, but close enough for the safe-house to be in your line of sight.

Sand whipped and pushed at you, the sun was scorching and degrading, but you held still; you were determined to kick König's ass—even if he's huge, you know how to fight big opponents, you trained rigorously to.

König stood two meters from you. He cast a long shadow, light kissing the top of his metal helmet. "The rules are simple enough; whoever keeps the other pinned down for five seconds win and we only use the military-issued knife. Is this fair?"

"Fair."

"Good," he nodded. "Start."

The sand made your footwork unsteady, but not enough to throw you off; light on your feet, you moved close to König, knife unsheathed.

He didn't pull out his knife—in fact, he hardly moved, merely pivoting from time to time from your swings.

You swung your blade forward, aiming for his vest; again, he easily dodged, and with your outstretched arm he pulled you forward.

You could hardly register the movement; one second you were on your feet, and the next you were flat on your stomach, sand in your mouth, and blade far from your hand.

You couldn't move: your wrists were tight in König's grip, his knee digging into your lower back. You tried wriggling your legs, but his knee dug deeper until you let out a pained wheeze.

Then, a moment later, he continued pushing his knee deeper. The sand burned your skin.

1...

2...

3...

"Okay—fuck, okay, stop—you win! Happy now?!"

4...

5...

He finally moved his knee. The shadow that cast over your body was gone.

"You should be happy, maus." He sighed somewhat dramatically. "Had it been any other man, I'm sure he would've been thrilled to harm a pretty girl. Many have twisted minds."

"I'll jus—eugh..." you spat out sand, flipping over and sitting on your ass, propping yourself up with your hands. "I'll just stab those ones, then—and wait! Why'd you say that? That's super creepy, and what does 'maus' mean—?"

"Enough of the blabbing." König said. "And 'maus' means mouse."

"Mouse?"

"Yes, because you chatter away like a little mouse. I like mice."

"You're..."

"Weird?"

"Weird would be underselling it," you muttered, getting on your feet.

"Hm. At least my severe 'weirdness' cured you of your anxiety."

You were ready to snap out an insult, but... he was right.

Your hands weren't shaking anymore. They were steady. You could trust them.

But you couldn't give him that. "Weird assumption, weirdo. I just had a lot of coffee."

"...it seems I've failed to cured you of your tongue, though.”

Childishly, you stuck out your tongue. "Loser."

He merely huffed a laugh at that. It didn't anger you as much as before.

Actually... it didn't piss you off at all.

He really was a weirdo. Nothing like the image you had conjured of him before. (You liked this version of König better.)

AO3

Masterlist

Requests are open

[hellenhighwater]

If, after you shuffle off this mortal coil, you wish for some noggin monologin', donate your skull to the Royal Shakespeare Company or some other theatrical group, to be used as Yorick in performances of "Hamlet." The RSC has used a real skull at least once for that purpose that I remember hearing about, that was donated to them. (I kinda wanna say it was David Tennant in the title role, but I'm not 100% on that.)

He did use one (willed by its original user for specifically that purpose) for a run of performances! Unfortunately the real tricky part comes when you want to get down to just the skull--the laws regarding desecration of corpses mean that if a private person wants their skull flensed it's hard to figure out how to actually accomplish that. Not totally impossible, but not easy.

I'm still using mine, and various groups are currently working on shifting some of the laws related to how we, as a culture, handle corpses, and what is and isn't legal and practical to do with a body. (Horrifically, it's a lot easier to get your hands on a really really shady set of human bones of very dubious origin than it is to actually get them from a loved one who wanted you to have them.) Hopefully by the time my head is ready for its solo stage debut, the practicalities of getting it there will be a little easier.

Though I don't necessarily have a theater career in mind, I just think there's not enough ethically sourced human skulls floating around being talked at by weirdoes and spooking the populace. Sure, I want to scare people, but not because of horrible corpse-sourcing moral issues. I wanna scare them because of my bones curses or something.

[nohoperadio]

Here's a little breakdown of my personal relationship/non-relationship with various types of aesthetic self-modification (?, I feel like there might be a word or at least a more elegant phrase to denote this category). The point is not to offer my "take" on each thing but to express the different feelings/desires/inhibitions my psyche manifests around them. Some of these will approach awkwardly personal territory, fair warning! You may notice that basically none of them are especially positive; I'm going to leave off from analyzing that pattern for this post.

Tattoos -- I think tattoos as a concept are extremely cool, frequently they're cool in practice also and I like seeing other people's, but I don't think I've ever had even the smallest urge to get one for myself. I'm not totally sure why. The lack of an obvious thing to get is one factor, I feel like "band tattoo" would be the most likely thing for me to have but I don't like the idea of directly lifting a band logo or album art and I really don't like the idea of a lyric tattoo (I offer no justification for these prejudices), so I'd have to get clever with it if I'm doing that and I'm not very clever. More broadly, I predict that my enthusiasm for any artwork I put on my body would fade through overexposure in a matter of weeks if not days--other people describe "barely knowing it's there" after a short time--which on top of making the value of the project seem dubious, I feel like having a permanent image on my skin that I don't actively love would be something I'd feel bad about rather than neutral. Like "man, that thing's on my arm and I don't care about it at all, that sucks" rather than just not noticing it. Maybe I'm wrong about that.

(Tattoos are the one that got me thinking about this whole subject I think, it feels like they're reaching a ubiquity in the culture where it's almost like you're expected to have a reason not to have one rather than a reason to? Maybe that's just a people-I-know thing, anyway it got me thinking about why I don't want one.)

Piercings -- An interesting thing about me and piercings is that it's virtually impossible for me to notice when somebody has them unless I'm like, actively consciously scrutinizing their face (or whatever it is). When I was about ten months into my current job I asked my co-worker who I worked closely with almost every day "hey when did you get that septum ring" and she was like "well way before I met you". That is simply how it is with me and piercings and I make no apology.

If my inability to perceive piercings (perceirvings...) makes me indifferent to the idea of getting one, what makes me actively hostile is the total certainty that I would fiddle with it constantly if I did. I know these hands and their ways and there would simply be no dissuading them, it would be so bad you guys, oh my god. This is probably the hardest no on the list I think, although I haven't finished the post yet so idk maybe I'll think of a worse one.

Makeup -- There's undeniably a lot that's very beautiful in the universe of makeup and there's also the weird dark side, I have dabbled a little in this area and in my heart I feel more positively than not about it, but it's just never going to be a sustainable part of my life because (not unrelated to previous para) I am a perennial and unrepentant face-toucher. I will be itching and rubbing my face-skin and also inflicting other hard-to-characterize punishments upon it (is this "stimming"?) until the day I die and anything that wants to be on my face has just gotta deal. It would probably be better if this was not the case but I don't make the rules, sorry.

Haircuts -- When I was a child I haaaaaated getting my hair cut, like the physical sensation of it? Was so horrible and would usually make me cry and always ruin my day (is this "sensory overload"?), I didn't understand why I was being made to go through this ordeal and basically as soon as I reached an age when I realized my mom couldn't literally force me to do it if I just stubbornly refused hard enough--that age was 13 I think--I stopped. I haven't had a professional haircut since that time although I'm sure I could cope with the sensory aspect at this point, it's just not a habit I ever picked up again (I've had a couple of non-professional ones from my ex who just kind of wanted to try it, in a not particularly ambitious or dramatic fashion). Sometimes I feel like I should, but idk. My hair as it stands is not optimized for making me look hot but I don't think it looks especially horrible either, it's just kind of whatever I think.

Complicating factor here: I've had trichotillomania since I was 15/16, and it's hard to imagine it going away at this point but it's a lot more under control than it used to be, to the point where you can't really tell just from my appearance that something's up now. I say "under control", I have very little conscious control over it and usually no conscious awareness that I'm doing it, but over the years the compulsion seems to have unconsciously settled into a routine where it's just kind of... sculpting my hair into a more-or-less normal silhouette? Like I sort of have a fringe and stuff despite no haircuts. Oh I guess this doesn't make sense unless I clarify that I mostly break rather than pluck the hair nowadays, that's a big part of the gradual unconscious shift that's occurred.

A fun thing about trichotillomania is that it often makes people really uncomfortable when you talk about having it, which sucks for me because it makes me feel lonely, but I guess it sucks for the person feeling uncomfortable too in a smaller way. If you're one of the people who feel uncomfortable around this topic, sorry! Quite genuinely.

Gender transition in general -- I feel like I'm just, just on the boring side of cis-by-default. I think about transitioning shockingly often for someone who's never gonna do it, like it's not searing a hole in my heart or anything like it is for a lot of people but it occupies that "it would be cool to learn an instrument" kind of niche in my thoughts, if that makes sense? (Probably a bit stronger than that analogy makes it sound, it's on my mind frequently but not with a massive sense of urgency attached I guess is what I'm getting at.) I can see myself taking the plunge if the medical technology was like 10% better, or the social technology was like 20% better, or with some medium-sized changes in how my personality was configured, but this life being this life there's no way in heck the juice would be worth the squeeze. If I had one fifth of the executive function required to do all of that lying to doctors and learning how to clothes shop and having awkward conversations with people in my life and all the rest of it, well I can list like ten things I'd rather spend it on first. And I don't!

Glasses -- Love wearing glasses, 10/10 no notes. I knew since I was like 11 that my face should have a pair of glasses on it and I was very smug when the optician agreed (I did not cheat on the eye test in any way for what it's worth). The only times I'm not wearing glasses are sleeping and showering. I don't even carry a case because there's no point because I simply don't ever take them off. This is probably overkill, I think as a kid I was instructed to only put them on when I need to see something in the distance, ignoring that and just wearing them permanently has probably led to my vision weakening to the point where they're now pretty much mandatory in every situation, but I don't give a shit about that because just let me wear my goddamned glasses okay, fuck off. It's actually crazy how much I like wearing glasses, this is the only true thumbs up on the list.

I remembering trying to explain how I like my glasses to a then-close friend of mine many years ago when the subject of laser eye surgery came up in conversation, he said I should get the surgery and then just wear glasses with non-prescription lenses. When I tried to explain why that wouldn't be the same at all he was adamant that I was just being stubborn. That guy was a wonderful person in many ways and I loved him very deeply, but man what a dumbass thing to say.

Facial hair -- There are so many great beards and moustaches in this world, there are few more cheering sights than someone bearing some swish whiskers who's pleased about it, but personally I don't wish to be involved in that business at all.

I never learned how to ride a bike -- Obviously this one doesn't belong on the list, it doesn't fit with any of the other categories, and yet I feel compelled to include it here. And why should I resist that which compels me? This is my post. Yeah, I'm the oldest of four siblings, we were all given bikes at the appropriate kid-on-bike age, the others picked it up but not me. I liked it when I had stabilizers on my bike, then they took them off and I started falling off the bike, and after a very short amount of time I gave up. Like I didn't get mad injuries or anything, it just felt like I wasn't improving at it quickly enough and I didn't feel like keeping it up so I didn't. Early indication of my bad personality.

Fashion in general -- Clothes shopping has always been extremely aversive to me for whatever reason, it's gotten a little better in recent years, I have been able to exist inside clothes shops for long enough to purchase a small thing or two, but eh. Most of my tops are band t-shirts I bought at gigs, most of my bottoms are exactly identical pairs of jeans, there's just not much going on you know? But unlike with most of the items on this list I would really like to be doing this properly. I would like to wear cuter things with prettier colours and designs. This one's an actual goal. But so far I haven't really made progress. The aforementioned shopping sucks thing, plus a fear of being so aesthetically clueless that I just make myself look like a big idiot if I try anything risky, plus the fact that doing things that are not my established routine is tricky in general--these are barriers for me. I guess another barrier is that the things that would be most interesting to try out and therefore most potentially motivating fall into the wrong-gender-clothes category and therefore bring into play some of the barriers from that other category a few ones up. I did actually somehow get myself to dabble in that area some years ago to a modest but positive degree of satisfaction. It'll probably happen again. The patterns and causes that determine whether I can or cannot find motivation to engage in a thing--they are mysterious indeed.

Like horn implants or whatever other crazy miscellany -- I don't want anything in this category and don't have any non-trivial thoughts about it either. Including this section for completeness only.

---

Well, there you have it, that's the post. Now you know a bit more about some of my little weirdsies. If you actually made it through the whole thing, a) how interesting and b) why not tell me a little weirdsy of yours in return, whether it pertains to the above list or not? Why not get all antiphonal on my post, that way I'd get to know a thing about you as well, it might be a whole fun kind of deal. You don't have to though, I didn't make this post to try to snare people into letting themselves be known, I just kind of made it to be a post mostly. I make all sorts of kinds of posts you know? And so I thought I'd try one that's like this.

[youcalledmebabe]

some of the most thought provoking bits I read in Looking For The Good War + a few thoughts

“Fish stories, tall tales, exaggerations—war has always had an uneasy relationship with the truth.”

“But once soldiers become symbols, abstractions available for political ends, we deny them the very humanity we claim to celebrate.”

“It is much easier to tell a sentimental war story with a happy ending, in which valor eclipses causes and reconciliation triumphs over everything—a comedy, in other words—than it is to tell another, unsentimental kind of story.” <- this is like the tldr of Points. so much easier to ride off into the sunset playing baseball and leave the Germans as worthy foes than to check out what comes after or reckon with the inhumanity in people that are a lot like us.

“Sometimes the veteran’s problem is that he remembers all too well.”

Quoting from The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit: “It is as necessary to forget it now as it was to learn it in the first place. They ought to begin wars with a course in basic training and end them with a course in basic forgetting.”

“[McNamara’s] story illustrates many things: the slipperiness of beginnings and ends, the refusal of war to stand still long enough to be shaped into a coherent story, the ambient fog that obscures causes and consequences as well as ends and means. It also testifies to the dubious efficacy of the quest for resolution or absolution.” <- thought a lot about parachute infantry and how it resists narrative in so many ways, and how that makes it a more honest portrayal of war than band of brothers.

“Only gradually did the worship of the veterans of World War II begin to reflect the antidemocratic impulse Emerson insisted lay behind hero worship, by allowing us to celebrate an archetype of stoic humility rather than a readily identifiable individual. The practice of making soldiers larger than life dominates our culture today and effectively prevents true empathy. World War II veterans gradually became objects of generation who no longer needed the reality, the complexity, the ambivalence—in short, the humanity—that Pyle and others bestowed on them during the war. This is the real erasure of the fiftieth anniversary mythology…” <- to me this is what happened to dick winters. the show dick and the dick you learn about seeking outside material are a symbol and a human being respectively. but also I do think BoB did a great job in granting humanity to many of the characters (Joe and Web especially). so I’m of two minds about it.

overall this was an incredibly interesting read. honestly a must for the consumer of World War Two mythology. Ambrose gets wacked a bunch (yay) and Sledge’s memoir is brought up as an example of the unsentimental war story. I would LOVE to hear the author’s thoughts on parachute infantry. the book really added a lot of nuance to my understanding of the immediate post war culture in America and how much the mythology has obscured the reality. there’s also a section of recommended reading at the end that I’m very excited to dive into. and this bonus excerpt has planted the seed of my next project, the joedyssey:

“The warrior’s solitude becomes the chief subject of the Odyssey, which traces the circuitous homeward path of Odysseus cast adrift in a postwar world of isolation.”

[tremendouskoalachild]

i like Barriss Offee well enough but don't enjoy anything she's in and haven't watched or read any of it in like 12 years so. i'd appreciate an update or correction if anyone knowledgeable sees this. but here's my likely very skewed understanding of the situation:

2002's attack of the clones arena scene has many jedi, though most show up for a single shot or so, and they have many different alien designs to make it visually interesting. a lot of them don't do anything (not to distract from the main characters' action and because of the limitations of a greenscreen set, as well as some of the costumes and prosthetics not being well suited to action).

two of these background jedi are green-ish ladies with facial markings and head coverings (is this originally for a practical reason because face paint is more complicated when the character's hairline is visible? i don't know enough about film make-up to guess)

Lucas isn't interested in or simply doesn't have the time to establish lore for random background characters, and movie tie-in material is pumped out quickly to drive hype for the films and make the most out of the films' relevance. the early reference books and pre-aotc novels are not very consistent (remember when Tholothians were canonically just humans wearing funny hats for a while? i remember). Luminara and Barriss are officially humans and Jedi Knights for a bit. Barriss' face markings are connected to Depa Billaba's culture.

Barriss doesn't have an official age for a while but is assumed to be around Anakin's age or a bit older.

the Mirialan species is established in the lore, Barriss and Luminara being members. their tattoos are now a part of Mirialan culture. it is established that Mirialans have a deep cultural respect for the Force and Mirialan Jedi often take other Mirialans on as students.

authors are allowed to play around with the side characters because that won't impact the films. Barriss is established as a talented compassionate healer and is the main character of the MedStar duology (2004).

Barriss is at first planned to be one of the Jedi shown executed during Order 66 but the scene is cancelled, much like Shaak Ti and Luminara.

The Clone Wars 3D animated show (2008) begins development a while after the prequels end and slowly starts overwriting the Clone Wars multimedia project, because it is made with Lucas. an effort is made to keep the two projects consistent but it becomes more and more difficult the longer the show goes on. the show does incorporate some lore or events from prior media, but regularly changes them to fit its plot and characterization.

Ahsoka is the child audience pov character and needs a peer for some storylines. there are no young teen girl Jedi in the films but Barriss is close enough and her design fits well with the tcw aesthetic, which often prefers hairless characters for its animation style, especially in the early seasons. she is changed to be around Ahsoka's age and a Padawan.

Ahsoka and Barriss are established to be close, paralleled from time to time, and the writer of their main arc together later claims he intended a romance between them. (i only got this second hand and haven't fact checked this.). the barrissoka fandom forms.

Barriss disappears from the show, which focuses on different arcs for a few seasons.

Filoni is writing an important arc for Ahsoka, which needs to challenge her emotionally and philosophically as well as physically, and must culminate with her leaving the Jedi in order to be absent during Revenge of the Sith. he decides to bring back Barriss as an adversary, for the emotional drama of being betrayed by a friend.

Barriss is intended to die during this 2012 arc but Filoni ends up sparing her for undisclosed future plans. she gets arrested and imprisoned instead.

her character's previous ending, shown in the original novels as dying in service of the Jedi on Felucia, doesn't seem to work at all anymore. the MedStar duology is extremely dubiously canon at this point. the canon reset is imminent and lucasfilm has more or less stopped pretending all these events are part of the same continuity. wookieepedia editors are in shambles.

the multimedia project is officially declared Legends in 2014, and Barriss doesn't appear in tcw's new canon tie-ins. her characterization now comes only from the show. she doesn't show up in any of the prequel-era projects for years, until the novel Queen's Hope (2022).

Filoni's new canon show Rebels (2014) introduces new adversaries in the form of inquisitors, former Jedi who are now hunting survivors. one of the more prominent villains is a female Mirialan inquisitor. there is rampant fan speculation that this is Barriss. it isn't.

Ahsoka becomes a main part of the show. the fandom keeps hoping for Barriss to reappear with her. she doesn't.

Filoni creates a tcw spin-off focusing on Ahsoka (and Dooku) in 2022. Barriss doesn't appear.

Ahsoka gets her own post-original trilogy show by Filoni in 2023. there is some speculation Barriss could appear, possibly as a mysterious new inquisitor character. she doesn't.

in 2024 there is a new season of the animated tcw spinoff, prominently featuring inquisitors. Barriss is now a main character, picking up a while after the Wrong Jedi arc. it has been something like 12 years since we last saw her.

[bijoumikhawal]

Nose rings in Egypt

Wearing nose rings in the Eastern Mediterranean actually goes back to the time that the Torah was being written. Referred to as nezemim, Rebecca is noted as wearing one. The practice continues to this day, though they are less common and have grown to be more strongly associated with South Asia and Alt sub cultures. Today it is thought that the wearing of nose rings in India may have been imported from West Asia (the assertion that they were brought over by the Mughals seems inaccurate, however, as the first mention of them is from around 1000 AD)- the discussion is somewhat contentious and unfortunately often feeds into political violence and bias against Muslims when mentioned.

The earliest modern depuction of a nose ring being worn in Egypt comes from the 1830s, thanks to our old enemy and research dog, Edward William Lane. He describes then as being made of brass or occasionally gold with glass beads attached to them, an inch to an inch and a half in diameter, says they are worn on the right side of the nose. His account associates them with poor women. He records the name as "khizám" or "khuzám".

A difficulty comes in recognizing nose ring examples held in museums; I have found a few items resembling this style, but they are described as earrings. The V&A is responsible for two cases, and given they have gotten information wrong on both Ancient and Modern Egyptian jewelry, my suspicion is these examples may be misidentified. The two examples will be shown promptly.

Another example of dubious identification comes from a design that may be multipurpose; silver rings with an openwork barrel at one end. The TRC Leiden institute has an example from Saudi Arabia and claims its a nose ring, but it bears close resemblance to some Egyptian examples identified as earrings, and those resemble some Coptic bronze examples also identified as earrings. To my mind this style also resembles Amazigh earrings/head ornaments (these were sometimes attached to the headdress, not the ears themselves). It is also possible that TRC Leiden has misidentified the item.

While Lane says nose rings were worn all over Egypt, the modern discussion I've found strongly associates them with Bahariya, where they are called gatar or qatrah. There, they are made of gold (usually 12 carat), with filigree and granulation filling the lower half, worn on the right side by married women. They also typically have a large flat circle of gold covering the gap where the wire goes through the nose. This is either soldered on or apart of the central wire the nose ring is built around. Occasionally a coral or glass bead is threaded into the wire that passes through the nose. They are never made of silver, as local women say silver would damage the blood vessels in the nose. They also feel that the nose ring prevents pain and headaches while worn, and when a piece has to be sent off to repair, they urge the person transporting it to hurry back.

I've found some discussion of nose rings as worn by Nubians, Sinai Bedouins, and Bisharin (Beja), Ababda (who have closely intermarried with the Bisharin), and Rashayda. The name recorded as used by Nubians and Beja is zimam. I haven't seen enough examples of Nubian or Beja Egyptian nose rings to draw conclusions about common manufacture, but I do have a few examples. One piece, attributed to Egypt by the Philadelphia museum, is a sliver ring with part of the wire flattened and cut halfway through. Azza Fahmy also provides a photo, putting it under a collection of earrings from the Red Sea area. Similar nose rings can be seen in these two photos from Sudan. I have also seen a photo allegedly of an Egyptian Nubian girl with a gold nose ring that has a similar partially flattened design.

Other Sudanese nose rings I've seen are gold, with a chain leading from the ring to the hair, in a similar fashion to the nath in India. However, these are not necessarily synonymous with Nubian nose rings, as Sudan has an Arab/Arabized cultural majority. At some point I'd like to ask someone who knows more about the subject if there is a distinction between the two styles, but as of now I do not know anyone who is knowledgeable on the matter, nor do I know of any academic texts that discuss the issue.

Beja jewelry has a strong influence from Nubian and Sudanese styles, owing to the fact that they live in proximity, and that more Beja live in Sudan than Egypt. Like Nubians, the Beja are an Indigenous group. They're believed to be related to the Blemmyes and the original group referred to as Medjay in Ancient Egypt, and some ostracon exist of their languages written in the Coptic alphabet (The Nubian alphabet is related to the Coptic alphabet as well, with unique letters for certain sounds). I have little information on the Rashayda, but they call their nose ring zimam. They claim to be descended from an Arab tribe, and some information I've seen implies they've intermarried with the Beja. Two nose piercings are in use by the Beja and Rashayda; a diamond shaped one worn in the center bulb of the nose, worn by Beja women, and gold nose rings with engraved designs or strung with beads, worn by both. 21k is the preference in Nubian goldwork, and this seems to be true of these groups as well.

In Sinai, the nose ring is called a shenaf. It has a great deal of similarity to Palestinian nose rings, and has a similar construction to Bahariya nose rings with the lower half full of filigree and granulation. It also sometimes has beads and hanging pieces. It is most commonly made of gold.

Other miscellaneous pictures of Egyptian nose rings:

Further reading:

https://newvoices.org/2021/05/14/most-decorated-women/ https://newvoices.org/2021/05/24/i-put-a-ring-in-your-nose/ | Regarding Jewish piercings and body art

https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.dharmadispatch.in/amp/story/history/the-nose-ring-or-nath-is-an-import-from-muslim-invaders https://www.naturaldiamonds.com/style/natural-diamonds-nose-pin-history-legacy/ | regarding Indian nose rings. The first one is unfortunately incredibly biased against Muslims, and I wouldn't link it if I could find a better write up of the argument regarding nose rings being an import to India. I debated including it at all, but figured I should stick to my rule for citing biased sources in Egyptian fashion research; include it, but note the problem.

The Traditional Jewelry of Egypt by Azza Fahmy

The Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians by Edward William Lane

https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79718/earring-unknown/

https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79793/earring-unknown/

https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79718/earring-unknown/

http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79342/earring/earring-unknown/

https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79454/earring-unknown/

https://trc-leiden.nl/collection/?trc=&zoek=saudi&cat=Accessories&subcat=&g=&s=24&f=0&id=2435

https://www.philamuseum.org/collection/object/41469

[sinisterexaggerator]

Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 15

Explicit: Semi-slow burn, gratuitous smut /pwp, canon-typical violence, mildly dubious consent, angst, Tatooine Slave Culture.

This chapter: No warnings but for a disgruntled Duros.

Word count: 2.7k+

Notes: This is kind of a short chapter, but it feels right to set it apart on its own from what comes next. In fact, writing shorter chapters may make it so that I update more often, as it's easier to manage, and I still have a LOT of story to tell. <3

[ Ao3 ] - [ Masterpost ]

《 Previous chapter || Next chapter 》

Zulara tried her best to not let fear overtake her, for her spiraling thoughts to get the best of her, even as she sat there all alone. Not truly, but it felt as if she had been abandoned, Todo having powered down with Bane still sleeping soundly in the bacta.

Everything was happening much too quickly, though it had been hours since she’d come here; her head was spinning. She hadn’t eaten, having let her meal fall to the ground at Cad Bane’s entrance to her tiny home back on Slave Quarter’s Row the night before.

Zulara realized she didn’t even know the time, not having a chrono of her own. She supposed it did not matter, although Kayson might come looking for her. She wondered if Hondo was able to curb his anger, or to make up some excuse for her, but in her heart she knew nothing would deter her master once he had a mind to do something—find her secret hiding spot.

It was only secret because she was sure he did not know where Bane was docked, or even what his ship looked like. It was the only thing that gave her hope as she gazed longingly at the Duros, wishing he’d wake up.

She regretted leaving Todo just standing there, his form bent forward in a supine slope, but she had been too concerned, too riddled with worry for the hunter, not to go directly back to his side.

She had lost track of how long she had been there, seated on the floor with her legs folded beneath her; her fingers and forehead flat against the glass, Zulara engrossed by Cad Bane’s every breath—she could not help it.

She had almost panicked, having thought to call the youth named Boba Fett, but after the story she had heard, she steeled herself, refusing to bring him back aboard the ship if she could manage it.

Now, it was not Bane who settled into dreams, but the girl beside him. She dreamt of silly things. Things that were nary possible in this life, things that might have made her smile, but she was not so dotty as to put any stock into them.

Imagine her, flying amongst the stars, free from Kayson and from his business, only having to answer to herself. But maybe Bane would be there, maybe he would take care of her, and she would him. Maybe she could join him in his quest across the galaxy, providing him with some relief once he had finished a hard day’s work—how asinine she was to think that. It would never happen.

In reality, space was dark, cold, and unforgiving, she often floundered when she was made to practice piloting. Never before had Zulara felt so claustrophobic, not until she had experienced breaking atmo on Kayson’s orders the first time she left Lothal, no matter that the stars were beautiful.

When she was positive that nothing could go wrong; when she was absolutely sure that Bane was resting comfortably, the girl would climb unsteadily onto her tingling legs and her own two feet—they had nearly been asleep—finally ambling down the corridor to where the little droid resided.

Zulara did her best to move him to his rightful place: the recharge station. No arguments were given, no sassy backtalk had to be endured, yet she found she missed him. The silence of the ship was more than deafening, besides the warbled sound the pod made as it recycled and replenished bacta, as was its purpose, just like he had one—she presumed something, though she had no proof: It was possible in deep space Bane felt too alone, therefore Todo kept his mind sharp, kept him on his game, in addition to keeping the Duros company.

What friends did he have otherwise? Did he have partners that stood by his side? From what Pampy had said to her, he seemed to work all by his lonesome, with a reputation that preceded him.

Perhaps he liked it that way; perhaps she was intruding, yet he had seemed intrigued by her. She worried every second of every minute of every hour what Bane might do should he find her here once he awoke; she prayed to the Goddess of the Twi’lek people that he might find solace with her and not try to kick her out, or worse.

She felt the click, heard the sound that denoted Todo was plugged in. It echoed loudly in the quiet, bouncing from wall to wall. She glanced about her. There were so many things for her eyes to see and study.

There was a lengthy worktable. It was littered with motors, servos, gears, and wires of all sizes. Some parts looked salvaged, while others might be newly purchased, not to mention microchips of unknown origin and lenses, sensors, other various tools and instruments.

She saw a pair of RW-80 welding goggles, along with a protective visor. There were advanced repair kits of all kinds, including those for blasters. Most curious of all was what she thought were trinkets, things that he might collect. There were different kinds of helmets, and what appeared to be weapons of some sort that were unfamiliar. Cabinets lined the walls; she wondered what they might hold. She dare not snoop too much for fear of repercussion.

Still, that would not stop her. She gathered all the bits and pieces of Bane’s wrist gauntlet from off the ground, double-checking to make sure the hunter was still dozing.

Once seated, Zulara would pick up a nearby broken-screw remover, also known as an extractor. This one had a spiral flute structure, which she used to carefully unwind one that was being difficult. Her hands were delicate, though exacting. They had to be for one thing, yet without a measured touch it was possible to add too much torque to the brittle metal, thus making your job that much harder for you.

She removed its outer shell; it was cracked and badly damaged. There was extra paneling meant for droids nearby that could be welded and reshaped, but first thing’s first—she would need to replace the ruined circuits and find a pair of hypersheers for precision cutting and resizing.

---

Lavender eyelids batted open; Zulara found herself in slight repose, her own palm cupping her soft cheek as she had tried to keep her focus. It was at that moment she remembered—she had been cooking rycrit stew! With no sense of time inside Bane’s ship, she hoped it had not become inedible.

She spared a glance, Todo had still not activated. She could not have been asleep for too long, as it only took droids an hour to recharge, or so she’d heard—much less time than her.

Zulara suddenly felt like she could sleep forever, or at least for several hours, but she would not let herself succumb to such a notion. At least not until poor Todo could take over, then maybe she might get some rest before finishing the final touches on Bane’s vambrace.

It had been complicated, finding what wires led to what. She had a scare or two, and nearly burnt her fingers. It was fascinating just how it all operated—she wondered if Bane had built it all himself.

The girl was tempted to check on Bane again, but she did not want to accidentally cause a mess in his little galley, sparsely stocked though nearly spotless, and housed somewhere near the ion engines or another source of power; there was a low humming sound that seemed to burr the whole time she was in there.

Her feet found the rungs to the ladder she would use to climb down into the belly of his ship. His living area, the medbay, his workspace, and the cockpit—they all resided at the top, though separated by double-doors and one almost star-shaped hallway. It led off into four other separate, shallow paths—dead-ending at different doorways, whereas the kitchen and dining area, what looked like holding cells, and ample storage space were down below—so was the boarding ramp and holoterminal with access to the HoloNet.  

She was sure that medbay used to be someone else’s living sleeping place, the way furniture was covered and piled up in the corner as if those items had been an afterthought. There was a spare refresher there, besides the one she was sure existed in Bane’s bedroom.

In addition to all the other nooks and crannies, there was the lift they’d use to carry him. It was industrial, flat, and open on all sides, like the ship’s sole was simply rising. It had been designed to act as both roof and floor between two levels; if you were on the lower deck, you had to wait for it to join you.

Zulara imagined it was useful for heavy items, like the pod Bane was currently occupying. She set her thoughts aside, focusing now on the smell that was emanating from down the hall—it was good, thank goodness, and did not smell like anything but vegetables and rycrit stew, like it was supposed to.

The girl would take a breath as she ran her fingers along the counter—it was made from stainless durasteel. She gathered the lid from off her home-cooked meal, inhaling deeply of the aroma that had been building up within. She ladled a bit of broth in the convex shape of the spoon she’d used to cook, then took a taste to make sure it was perfect.

---

Two wide, yellow eyes—like sparkling jaspers—whirred and vibrated with a light buzzing sound. Servos and joints were manipulated, little arms stretched out for a brief inspection, Todo 360 making sure that his intermotors were all functional and accounted for.

He shook his head, as if clearing unwanted thoughts or a fog that lingered, the faithful droid not quite able to remember what had happened to him. He blinked, his metal body tensing—Mister Bane—he was still inside the tank!

Todo would swivel his large cranium to the left and right; that girl Zulara was nowhere to be found. He wondered if she had gone. Had he made it to his recharge station? Perhaps she had it in her heart to help him, as the last thing he could recall was himself stalling, and only a few meters away from his destination—he was sure he had heard her call his name—if his memory still served him, she had sounded beside herself.

The service-droid stepped away from the mechanism holding him upright—he was now fully operational and at full power. He actuated his rocket thrusters and propelled himself into the center of the hall; he took to its right side, branching off, then opened up the steel-plated door to peek inside.

“Mister Bane!” the droid cried happily.

Todo realized he had nearly scared the Duros, his sharp eyes widening in breadth. He had halted with one leg in and one leg out, leaving his imprisonment, whether he should or shouldn’t. Todo knew Bane detested bacta—its texture, temperature, and consistency were all things that displeased him. He had argued with him more than once, the droid sometimes wondering just what he would do without him should he not be there to convince him otherwise.

“Your health is not a game!” is what the droid had told him, sounding as if he truly cared, though he was composed of nothing more than ones and zeros. In reality, Bane was thankful for him; he was like the nagging mother he never had, sure that without that droid, he would already be dead.

Still, that did not mean he was ready to entertain his fraught concern. His tone was lacquered with it, and the hunter would not have it.

“Bane! You are awake! I was—”

The Duros shot his droid companion with a look that dared him to keep yapping, Todo at once halting his chipper dialogue. What Bane was truly feeling was easy to decipher, as it was always written on his face, and rarely pleasant.

“Sir, I can tell your mood is poor, however there is—”

“Quiet!” was the only thing his master demanded of him, Bane’s voice gruff and raspy as he was thirsty on top of feeling completely useless. It felt as if he had been hit with an errant hovercar, or an entire starship, his body aching in places he did not know could ache.

Todo made a sound equivalent to indignation, yet he held his tongue, even though he did not have one. Bane’s other foot joined its partner on the ground, the Duros idling, lingering, just standing there for what felt like minutes, trying to regain his equilibrium.

Once capable of movement, Bane would begin his lethargic trudge toward his refresher in his private quarters, thinking the only thing he cared about was a warm, inviting shower; the feeling of the sticky bacta on his microscales was anathema and suffocating.

The hunter would hardly notice the wet, viscid trail he left behind in his ship’s short corridor, or that the droid had followed him, desperate to talk to him about something he imagined would be unimportant. His head ached, and his mind was numb, no thoughts present except those about the pain he was experiencing. He would take something—drink something—deadening those things he felt both from without and from within, not knowing that the girl being aboard his ship was anything but another dream.

---

“Oh, what am I going to do with him? He never listens! And now I suppose I am going to have to be the one to clean up this mess. I am a techno-service droid, not a maid-droid! Not even a thank you for—”

Todo paused in his lonely rant, tilting his head off to one side. His focus remained trained on the little sound he thought he heard—the clank of boots, or footsteps on the nearby ladder’s metal rungs. It was positioned just left of the cockpit’s doors, Todo surprised when he saw a head emerge, covered in dark locks.

“Zulara!” he called to her, coming forward as she pulled herself up, and out, “I thought you had wisely decided to go home,” he started in. “You will be happy to know that Mister Bane is alive and well, and is currently taking a much-needed shower.”

Zulara’s eyes widened with every word; she tiptoed forward, deciding to check on things herself as Todo kept the conversation going, though she nearly slipped in a residue that happened to be foot-shaped. “I am not sure that I can explain your presence here, therefore it may be in your best interest to leave—now—before either one of us gets into serious trouble.”

It was not that she didn’t trust poor Todo, but she had to see with her own two dichromatic eyes; she peered toward the bacta pod. It was open, and Bane was not inside.

The girl would turn, gazing at the floor and at the tacky substance that had left a path to the door across from her; it was obvious that Bane had made his way just as the droid had said. She began to follow it, Todo placing his hands upon his hips as his spheroid eyes broadened and expanded.

“—And just where do you think you are going?” he asked, perplexed.

“To check on Bane,” the girl would offer as a whisper, her footsteps timid; she moved closer to what was sure to be his bedroom. Her heart was pounding, and her internal temperature was rising, all from simply knowing he was somewhere, awake, on the other side.

“That is the worst idea I have ever heard! Do not be foolish!” Zulara would ignore Todo and his warnings, only pausing to hearten her small amount of courage. She could feel him tug her, his little hands having found the backside of her pants, “he will surely kill you!”

“I’ll be all right,” Zulara stated, shooing him away. Like a moth to a flame, she bade herself to go inside.

Todo would balk and scoff, pace back and forth, and wring his hands, but to no avail; none of this would help him. He tried again, “I do not know who you think you are, or what you are doing, but rest assured Bane will—”

The door closed in his face.

“Organics!” Todo would lament, exasperated.