#maybe that’s on me for having such a short post w no elaboration in the main tag

[demonicintegrity]

Heads up, “don’t like don’t watch/scroll by” also applies to valid critique of your show.

If you can’t handle any criticism about a show we both watch and enjoy, don’t get snotty on my post about it like you’re on a high horse.

Critique is a valid form of engagement. In good faith, it comes from wanting to see a piece of media succeed and get better! And I understand some people don’t know how to critique properly and that is frustrating, but that still doesn’t mean being snotty is a good way of dealing with it, especially if you can’t back yourself up when confronted.

[sweetrottenendings]

"Budding Flowers"

Yeah i made a blog just to post Lawrence Oleander fanfiction and what. How do i make my blog look nice btw please help

MDNI !!!! this game series is not for u i pinkie promise u aren't missing out

-

Lawrence Oleander x GN!Reader

SFW, not much happenin tbh. 653 words.

-

The sun’s gentle light gleams in streaks throughout the store, illuminating each plant's colour in striking detail. From the common red rose, to the odd-looking bat flower, not a single one was left in the dark.  It was in moments like these that you truly felt at peace- at home. The silence, the colours and the smells. It was where you belonged. 

A sharp ding interrupts your peace, daring to shatter your dreamland. A scowl flits across your face before it settles- you have a job to do after all. Turning to the store’s entrance, you accidentally lock eyes with a customer. Blue captures your vision, a blistering sort of shade- hurts to look at for too long. The owner of said eyes, a tall- recluse looking man, flinches at your gaze and hurriedly scuttles into the store isles. You huff, stepping from your solitary spot to seek him out. Hopefully, your assistance will make him leave quicker.

You’re almost directly behind him as you watch his movements. His slumped form is currently looking at the Medinilla Magnifica- the Rose Grape in layman’s terms, a difficult plant to care for. It’s high maintenance, requiring a humidity of 90%- and no less! Along with its general temperature requirements, as well as its pickiness for remaining still. Like a child, but worse. He doesn’t seem fussed however, gently running his scarred hands along one on display. Not many are kept in store due to their maintenance, but there are plenty of seeds available. He picks up a pack, turning it around and seemingly reading its details. Putting a fake pep in your step, you finally stand by his side.

“Welcome!” You speak, a gentle dulcet tone lacing your voice. He jumps, nearly dropping the packet. “I see you’re interested in our Rose Grape flowers! Hard to look after, is that what you’re looking for?” Tilting your head cutely, hands clasped in front of your front- hopefully he couldn’t sense the distaste lingering. He stares at you with disgustingly wide eyes, taking a good minute to compose himself. When he finally speaks, you’re pleasantly surprised. His voice isn’t extremely deep, but it has a nice rasp and almost husky tone. “Yes, uh- I enjoy difficult plants…” He doesn’t elaborate, so you do it for him, “Ah! You must have experience then! Do you have a lot of plants at home? Maybe a garden even?” Another pause lingers as he finds his voice once more, this time with a smile gracing his lips. Cute.

He looks wistfully towards the display, “No garden, I live in an apartment- but I have a lot of plants. I love them, they need me- it’s nice.” odd statement, but you lean into it. “Plants are pretty delicate, we’re their life force after all- dictating if they live or die.” His eyes gain a shimmer at your words, and he stands up slightly straighter- excitement filtering into his voice. “Y-yeah, that’s true!...” The poor man can’t seem to find anything else to say, so you wrap up the interaction.

“So, anything else you’re after?” You pointedly look into his eyes this time, and watch him gulp. 

“Just- um- just a few things… I’ll be a moment.” You nod, swivelling away just to look back at him, “I’ll be at the checkout when you’re ready!” He doesn’t respond.

A short time later he floats to your desk, gently laying out his purchases in front of you. He fidgets with his fingers as you scan the items, his eyes lingering on your face. You read out the price, and he reaches to hand you cash. Your fingertips graze and you only just notice the way he shivers, it’s almost endearing. “W-what’s your- uh- name?” He stammers, a sudden confidence bursting through his veins. You smile, give your name to him, and ask for his in return.

He smiles,

“Lawrence.”

Maybe you’ll see him again.

[lostacelonnie]

Hi, don't know if you remember me but you recently rbed my post about how Siegfried reuniting w his daughters was a rushed scene and I wanted to hear your opinions on the matter? Sorry if it's overstepping but im just curious haha.

Have a nice day!

AH HI!!! right yes i did thank you for reminding me!!!! i have very strong opinions on the matter so ill be happy to share.

(for people who haven't seen the og post, here it is)

THE SHORT VERSION: i agree with you completely and am Extremely Angry at mihoyo because EVERYONE is mischaracterized in that scene. or rather, in the entirety of moon arc, but that's something for another post.

THE LONG VERSION:

I Am So Fucking Mad.

so first of all, im probs gonna focus on bianka a lot in this because im unbelievably obsessed with her. and goddamn was that scene so bad. and also repeat a lot of things you Already Said.

to begin. it's very rushed!!!!!! this scene in its Base Format is inherently flawed simply because... bianka would not reveal her origin that early. like obviously at that point she was already being written very ooc [LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IN THE ARC. SERIOUSLY. IM SO ANGRY ABOUT THAT] but arrrghgh. at least before this scene they at least pretended to preserve bianka's. how do i call it. General Cautiousness?

this is something that clearly means a lot to her and is shown before trying to figure out how to break the news in a gentle way. she is simply not a person who would say [in a very strangely spoken way] "oh im your daughter by the way". She Would Not. this is a woman who would awkwardly try to hang out with these two for a solid 2 months as she feels out how to Tell Them. while obviously, during moon arc she had already spent enough time with the rest of the main cast to Chill Out a bit, she's still just!! kind of emotionally and socially awkward!!! but in a completely different way than showcased in moon arc. does that make sense

also bianka does not speak like that istg if mhy doesn't learn the difference between a character that is Kind Of Serious and a character that sounds like they use a thesaurus for most their sentences-

but kiana and siegfried aren't safe from this either!!!!!! as you said. they departed on Not Great terms and have been separated for years. while they act as if its been maybe a couple of days. its very disappointing for me personally to see the complete lack of regard for the fact that yes, they do care about each other and this reunion is a very happy one, but still!! their bond was. a rocky one.

plus, there's a giant difference between a preteen and, at that point, an adult woman so. siegfried is not meeting the same person he lost. kiana has changed, and due to her experiences- probably even abnormally so, so they NEED to rebuild their relationship simply because even IF before their separation there was no conflict, it would change the fact its been far too long to treat each other as if they have never been apart.

AND the fact that kiana especially was so... unbothered? by the fact that DURANDAL IS HER SISTER. like. do i even have to elaborate. kiana kaslana, world's #1 identity crisis haver, someone who idolized, hated, and respected bianka [in that order], was just like. okay 💗 yay 💗? sighs so deeply. look at how they massacred my girls

theres much more i could say but i dont quite know how to put most of my dislike of this scene into words so like. arrggh. it was personally very very frustrating to me because, as i said, i am a big fan of both kiana's and bianka's. identity, and especially family heritage, is an extremely important part of both of their characters and it was physically painful for me to see a scene i looked forward to A Lot be dismissed like this.

which, unfortunately, is true for most of the moon arc, since it was the worst offender for characterization [or rather, lack thereof] in the entire game, with basically everyone being reduced to a mildly philosophical much so devoid of personality i probably couldn't tell their lines apart if presented with a couple. but alas.

at least salt snow holy city arc was amazing

[t-hornapple]

Have you ever talked about your art process with a focus on composition and how you block out shape+values? I really admire how you do that in your work, and it’s something I find particularly difficult to do myself, so if you’ve ever posted about it (incl. on your patreon?) I’d love to read it. Thank you!

I haven’t, no one’s ever asked before!

Short answer is that tones can be a lot of trial and error (I don’t always know what will be black vs white vs filled in with stripes to knock it back a bit), and composition is just second nature these days. But I can illustrate my thought process and show you how compositions work with a few examples:

The Knight of the Tapestry has a really busy cloak pattern and, arguably, the details of the armor read quite busy as well. And since the knight and these patterns are the focus, it needs to be surrounded by things that will 1) balance it out and let the eye rest; 2) provide form contrast so we can see the subject clearly.

The cloak is balanced out a lot by the black shadow and the black lining. The white window panes to the left also help give some balance to it all. You could also use the word “contrast” instead of balance—I am contrasting Highly Patterned with no pattern, just black or white. This is what b&w art really makes you good at—instead of balancing color, you really balance the heaviness of an area, and focus on balancing out levels of detail to help guide the eye to the subject.

Compositionally, all the lines around the subject guide to the subject. This is one reason why I like putting so many windows in my work, they’re a really really easy way to get the background to do a lot of heavy lifting for you.

The rule of thirds is… sort of at work here with the window / knight / screen filling up (roughly) thirds of the piece. This breaks below his feet, though, where the composition is split into two, and the horizontal line of the floor is also at the half-way point (though the knight’s feet are slightly closer to a 1/3rd mark horizontally.) Just goes to show, rule of thirds has some wiggle room. If you do struggle with compositions, though, try the rule of thirds. Or try my favorite guy, the Van de Graaff layout. (I will talk about this later if anyone’s interested, though I don’t use it TOO much in my illustration work, but only for book layouts, etc)

This one I struggled a lot with figuring out what should be black or white, and how many tiles to give a pattern. Medieval tiles could be very elaborate, and a lot of extant medieval floors show a multitude of different patterned tiles being used all together in a mad sort of mashup. I tried that—and it was overwhelming. I had to really pick and choose 1) what pattern I was going to use; 2) how many tiles were going to have a pattern. I ended up with this triangle one because the geometric pattern balances out the organic patterns of the cloak. It lets them breathe and be, really, the only very organic pattern in the piece (the quatrefoil cut outs of the screen are arguably organic, but also geometric…). So this was a lot of trail and error. For me, still, tones and black fill are very much a “fuck around and find out” sort of exercise. There’s one I did more recently that was a HUGE trial to figure, and I’d talk about that one, but despite everyone being clothed in it, tumblr keeps banning it when I try to post it. (It is very suggestive, I won’t lie.)

Okay, let’s look at the Martyr’s Cross Club, one with (at first glance) quite odd composition. You “should” put the subject in the middle, right? Or maybe not have him so far out on the left there…? Except he’s not the subject. This is a piece looking at the men enjoying him, so they get more emphasis.

For tone and balancing, the very busy damask (which is based on a real damask by the way from the Met), is the background to the two figures on the right. The right-most one is just in his shirtsleeves, and his hair is just filled with flat black. This balances out/gives contrast to the patterned curtain, and lets the eye rest. The guy next to him, for contrast, gets to have some fun pattern on his coat. The rest of the room is black and white, and the heaviest use of black is on the cross, which is up against a wall without much detail so that I get the maximum contrast possible. It really sticks out, despite there being an insane damask on the right side of the piece.

I think this one is really good for showing how to use patterns/tones/high detail without overwhelming the composition or making it hard for the eye to read. Left to right, it goes: white / black / white / pattern / white / pattern. There’s white buffer between everything, well, not white, and that lets the eye rest, and makes everyone stand out clearly from each other.

As for the composition, this is an interesting one because we have invisible composition lines. The curtain and the cross are the strongest composition lines, but the gazes of the men take us across the piece to the guy on the cross. There’s no line, just the gazes of the subjects. We want to see what they’re seeing. It’s really cool. There aren’t many (or any) compositional lines really leading up to the mirror above the cross, which is why a lot of people miss it the first time they see the piece. It’s a little treat for those who linger.

For me, my eye always rests on the guy at the far right (but maybe just because I think he’s the hottest one in the piece.)

Lastly, we’ll look at The Vase, since this one gets the most comments about its composition (and I cherish them all).

This one follows the same rules as always: pattern and high detail is balanced out by white and black. A geometric pattern (stripes on that ottoman or whatever it is) is right behind an organic pattern, which is also up against a black window. The molding on the mantle is next to rough brick texture. The laurel frame is against a white wall. It breathes. You can wander from pattern to pattern, detail to detail. They all take the center stage—the subject is, after all, the vase itself. The people in the art piece are little bonuses to be discovered as you wander around.

Some of the lines go to the vase. Some of them don’t. This is a piece where the eye wanders a lot, but it never leaves the frame much. You keep getting pulled back in and around by all the weird shapes. I think the invisible striking arc of the crop could also be a composition line that people follow—I don’t, but it’s conceivable. (And of note: the crop is not in the act of striking, but it's being flexed in the guy's hands. That does not probably come across tho)

This sort of composition, where you deliberately fuck with the viewer and pull their gaze to something that usually isn’t the subject, is really fun to do. I don’t think the composition itself is anything weird—but what it highlights is unexpected, which makes it feel weird. I would highly highly suggest people start playing around with stuff like this since it can create a lot of different emotions & really surprise viewers. I don’t think it’s particularly hard, you just have to start fucking around and seeing what works. And when it comes to backgrounds, don’t be afraid of them! They’re your friend & you can use them to do a lot of work for you.

I hope that helps! If anyone has questions feel free to ask, I’m always happy to explain something.

[fitzrove]

Fics I want to write & have in some cases already promised various people to write, but didn't manage to because of my thesis (which is now finished, btw >:D). I know I don't often talk about my fics in specific terms on here (and I'm a bit afraid of boring people with them) so I'm putting everything under the cut for convenient scrolling past.

Elisabeth

- Todolf modern ballet au. This one is more self-indulgent than anything I've had requested, but I love it a lot and am excited to write it. Multichapter fic w worldbuilding and a clear plot/arc. ;) I want to write it this spring.

- Mirrorverse Todolf one-shot, smutty. And evil. 2nd in the priority list.

- A Rudolf (Elisabeth) x Meissner (Affaire Mayerling) fic. "Canon-compliant" with excessive amounts of historical detail drawn from the real-life counterparts' lives... and smut. 1st in the priority list.

- Todolf modern au where Rudolf is a lawyer in his dad's sinking ship firm. I wrote a one-shot of this, it was my first Elisabeth fic, and might write more because I have nice ideas. Vignettes with an overarching symbolic narrative. Cuddles.

- A Tod x FJ fic inspired by the improvements I constantly suggest productions make to Nur kein genieren. This spring or summer.

- LUCHENI X TOD LONG(ISH)FIC. Backstory-focused, Lucheni-centric. Again with excessive historical context. >:DDDDD I want to write it this spring or summer...

- Modern au todolfcheni (yes) where they are roommates fjkdkfkf. Mostly a joke idea... unless...

- Jesper!Rudolf and Máté!Tod... being themselves...

Tanz der Vampire

- An Elisabeth Brussels fic (mortdolphe slowburn). Might be a long way off because it'd be emotionally rough, worldbuilding-heavy and time-consuming to write.

- A Schönbrunn-inspired fic. Won't elaborate XD Would be short - this spring.

- Misc other tod/rudolf ideas

- Sarah/Alfred post tdv fic, smutty. I want to write it this spring. Maybe as a treat for finishing my video essay.

- ... Alfred/Raoul fic accompaniment to a Sarah/Christine fic my friend wrote, risqué if not outright smutty

- I'd love to write a longer post-tdv Sarah/Alfred fic about them exploring the world and such because all the amazing ones on ao3 are UNFINISHED. But it'd require a lot of planning that I haven't done yet

Rebecca

- Ich x Rebecca's ghost. I jokingly said "if I ever wrote a Rebecca fic it would be..." but now the idea won't leave my brain. Maybe this spring after I've seen Rebecca? It'll be short.

If I've promised other fics to anyone reading, please remind me ajfkdkjfdk. Rn the ones taking highest priority are the ballet au for self-indulgent reasons, the Meissner fic and Mirrorverse. And the Lucheni fic is tickling my brain too.

Update 13.1.23: the "this spring" stuff might or might not get pushed back by my tdv video essay depending on when I have the finished audio track and can start editing. We'll see :D

[her0-se7en]

PINNED POST LET'S GO TL;DR at the end

here's the thing fellas.

this blog is a mess, allow me to elaborate:

common: reblogs

uncommon: random thoughts of topics I find interesting

rare: posts including media

epic: art/original characters

legendary: art WITH original characters AND lore

[I will not be classifying every post, srry ;w;]

More about me:

I'm a beginner artist: I usually draw traditionally, but I'm experimenting with a few digital drawing softwares (mainly Krita)

I'm new to Tumblr, so I don't know a lot about any events or historical posts (except the color of the sky and a few others). All I saw up until I came here were mere screenshots and a few youtube shorts.

Pinterest is my hometown.

I like creating stories, but they're all in my head and I'll probably never write nor draw them, maybe in the future I'll have enough motivation to do so, who knows? [Please, ask me about them, I'm dying to explain them, even if I don't even know what's going on]

That's all there is to my name at the moment

(more under cut)

Moving on to...

Music taste!!! just because I have no idea what's going on there

Metal (SOAD, Orbit Culture, Disturbed, one Korn song, Rob Zombie, Nightwish, Within Temptation, etc)

Rock (Dio, Avenged Sevenfold, Three Days Grace, Twisted Sisters, KISS, etc)

Breakcore/dnb (Xxtarlit, eightiesheadache, Be4utyFall, etc)

Eurobeat (Eurobeat Brony, Leslie Parrish, T. Stebbins, and etc once again)

Along with miscellaneous, like animation memes.

OSTs of my favourite games!

Speaking of which, here are some game fandoms I'm in rn:

Rain World

Slime Rancher

Minecraft

Fnaf

Portal 1&2

The Stanley Parable

there are probably more that I forgot about, who knows

If you want you can check out my Instagram, I'll post some of my drawings in there, only if I really want to though.

TD;DR I like to draw, listen to a few metal and rock bands mainly, play casual games and am "new" to Tumblr [came from Pinterest]

[kylesvariouslistsandstuff]

The Little Things I Love About ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE

Just like the one I did for PUSS IN BOOTS: THE LAST WISH, and just like the one I did for STRANGE WORLD, here's a little list of particular little details I loved in a detail-packed... Like, literally jampacked movie... SPIDER-MAN: ACROSS THE SPIDER-VERSE:

So far, I have only seen this movie once all the way through in theaters, caught multiple sections over and over at my movie theater job, and again in full on Blu-ray once. I've watched and rewatched sections since, always finding cool stuff. I may revisit the post and update it, too, like I did w/ the previous ones.

Also, MASSIVE SPOILERS ahead... Just in case you still haven't seen this months-old movie...

Much like the first SPIDER-VERSE... Tons of stuff to catch in the glitching opening logos. Logo/design p0rn aaaaall around.

There's already a lot to love in the opening Medieval Vulture attack set-piece, but my favorite detail? As an Italian-American? "Ciao, ragazza!" Complete with the parchment paper script "Bye, girl!" accompanying it. Any elementary school-age kid watching this now knows a little Italian, that's cool!

Lyla's first scene in the movie. Whichever version, too, whether it's the fist-bump or the selfie... I love how she just glitches and zips in and out, while Miguel keeps asking her in vain to call for back-up. Just an out-of-nowhere display of what kind of quirky relationship these two have...

Many have written about the scenes of Gwen and her father, Captain George Stacy, and how they hit very close to home. In that, they perfectly mirror some folks' experiences with coming out. Myself included, whether it's Miles or Gwen... It's even more effective with Gwen, because there are a lot of not-so-subtle hints that she could be a trans girl. (i.e. the dad having a trans flag on his uniform, Gwen having a "protect trans kid" flag, her room turning into trans flag pastel colors when she reconnects with her father at the end of the movie, etc.) I feel it's twice as hard-hitting in the opening action sequence because Captain Stacy has no idea the white-and-pink Spider-Woman is his daughter, loathes Spider-Woman for not-unfounded reasons (he's rightfully upset that Peter Parker is dead) but is taking it way too far (revenge territory), and he's also a cop. Here's this girl trying to reason with a hardened gun-wielding tough guy, who even fires the gun, prompting Gwen to remove the mask... And all the little complexities in the animated acting on George's face, the shock of his daughter being Spider-Woman, mixed with his grief over Parker's death and his sheer anger... It's maybe a minute or two, but goddamn did these animators go off. That's what anchors these movies amidst all the nerd/reference-stuff, spectacle, and dynamic changing art styles.

And to elaborate on this... This is basically a movie about a queer kid running off, without a home, while another one tries to find their people and be with them... Not prepared for the gatekeeping that's ahead... and some of us queers either experience something like those specific things or have a feeling of not belonging. (I also really dig how Jessica Drew is almost like a surrogate mother for Gwen, a parent of sorts who takes her in after showing her father who she is. Almost, as her protectiveness soon starts to wear off and gives way to sarcastic coldness after Gwen pays Miles a visit.) And the little nuances of both of their struggles trying to make it in this truly "elite" Spider-Society. It works perfectly through either Miles' lens or Gwen's.

Lots of graphic design and logos in that short convenience store scene, too. Lots for someone like me to look for.

The Spot seems to have linework going on inside him, of his anatomy and structure... Not dissimilar to the Xerography process used by Disney for animated productions from 1960 to 1985, and how the process overriding the clean-up animation process meant that you saw lots of rough linework, sketches, and planning inside of the characters. Like the rawness of the drawings preserved in the finished films. That technique is often paid homage to in other animated works, such as Tomm Moore's Irish triptych films that he did for Cartoon Saloon.

Much was written about, especially because one of the trailers showed this gag, Rio Morales snapping her finger upon hearing that Miles got a lower grade in Spanish class. A little after that, while Jeff is speaking, the look on her face. How utterly INSULTED she is- Again, just, ooh, great animated acting all around.

"Maybe get off the kid's a-

The first universe Spot visits, love that it's very 2D-looking and very, *very* comic book, a hint of pulp and Art Deco and '60s modern rolled into one... before giving us Venomverse (oh I'm sorry, SUMC) and LEGO.

Much of the Morales' rooftop party scene is just jam-packed to the moon and back with all these little writing nuances, tying in all this stuff about being a teen who is hiding something, reasoning with one's well-meaning but very controlling parents, all the humor and drama that stems from that. All that awkwardness, the embarrassment, how the guests play off of all of that, etc.

Miles pursuing The Spot whilst trying to talk to him... I mean, the entire Mumbattan sequence alone mops the floor w/ maybe 95% of superhero movies made in the last 5 years, but... This scene in particular, where the two are flying through a bunch of intricately-designed and planned buildings full of people with all these swooping camera angles- GO HARD they did.

Hobie's universe particularly referencing the ransom note letterforms that made up the cover of the iconic Sex Pistols album NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS, HERE'S THE SEX PISTOLS. They leaned *hard* on early punk from the '70s, more so than any other era, and that's so damn cool.

The subtle animated acting from Gwen during Miguel's warning to Miles about disrupting canon. All the inner-conflict over believing in it or not. And even before that, too, particularly in the aftermath of the Mumbattan Alchemax building collapsing onto the bridge.

And during that whole scene, as the different Spiders start to surround Miles, I like how Hobie is more turned to the side than facing Miles directly, unlike the other Spiders. That's just seconds before it's made clear that Hobie is on Miles' side.

The super-widescreen, Panavision-esque aspect ratio change when - during the whole Spider Society chase - Miles lands on Widow and is confronted by Web-Slinger. Really channeling the spaghetti Westerns, even if that bit has been done before, its use here - very clever.

"SNITCH!"

Miles' smirk when he begins to use his electric charge power to knock Miguel off of him, right before he's about to tell him - and by extension everyone who ever doubted him or told him he can't do what's right or what he desires - off.

The "Go Home Machine" literally being an elaborate spider, itself, inside a nest. Everything, right down to the machinery, all spider-themed. Simply going ALL OUT. Also that scanner that Miguel angrily rips out of the console... What a hilariously excessive work of art that thing is, and we only really see it for like 5 seconds.

Like I said, will likely add more, and this probably read more like yet another review of this film that I really, really love. I apologize for that, lol.

[udurghsigil]

i see u post it a lot but i still dont know what madcom is whats it about?

omg!!!! *rubs my gayass little hands together* sorry for the incoming wall of text. i love this weird little series to death.

so madness combat.... this lil cartoon series that started on newgrounds (by krinkels)... starts off with a guy named hank that doesn't like the music some other guy is playing so he goes around and kills everyone in sight (non-bloodily). but from that point forward it just gets more and more elaborate, much more gory and gruesome, with new characters being introduced and actions from previous cartoons carrying on into the next ones... for example hank Literally kills the sun, now every cartoon going forward just has a dark red-tinted sky. things also just get weird and sorta otherworldy too which i love!

there's like no dialogue n most of it is, i surpose, environmental storytelling??? it heavily focuses on the fight scenes of the main character just wiping out room after room of other chars, and the choreography of the fights are just. so much fun. so many very clean kills its impressive to see how they get pulled off. think like... those old stick fight animations, but typically more elaborate!

um also worth mentioning the characters (pretty much) all look like this. just little stubby guys w their little outfits (except for the big guys). yes i'm taking alot of liberties with my designs for them. and yes there are more chars than just sanfy and deimo.

this kinda series isn't USUALLY the type of thing i'd get into but i just find it so mesmerizing idk. i used to be embarrassed abt it but not anymore. like i said the fight scenes are SO much fun and i rediscovered it after like... only seeing a few cartoons as a child through the friday night funkin' mod scene cuz there are a TON of cool madcom-themed mods. the fandom is also HUGE so it's fun to just. observe what everyone is doing. i can't say i'm a big participant in it other than posting my art but i love seeing what the community makes. there is a ton of fuckin amazing fan content from animations to fangames to art to music to... everything!!! obv i love sanmos the most because i'm a sucker for duos and it's just so much fun seeing how expressive these Faceless Guys are to where you can get a sense of their bond without even needing it spelled out....

it also has a REALLY AMAZING game that came out recently called madness: project nexus and i'm not just saying that because i like madcom!!!! it's a really fun beat-em-up with very smooth controls and . god. i just have so much fun playing it. i could play arena mode for hours. plus it lets the characters actually talk and its cute seeing them interact :333 i GENUINELY recommend this game if u like fast-paced beat-em-ups it's such a blast to play even with 0 knowledge of the original series.

ANYWHO YES.... it is a little silly i admit. but i just adoooore madcom so much. i love me some stickman fights and seeing how the world just unfurls with each cartoon is so fun. it's like you can really see when krinkels is going "maybe i can expand on this little thing i added in X cartoon" when some New Lore drops. i Love when the creative process is like... idk. so palpable. heck i recommend the cartoon series too if ur not squeamish abt stickman gore. it's quite a short watch honestly... 👉🏽👈🏽

[sothischickshe]

Please rank Buffy seasons from most favorite to least favorite and elaborate whyyyyyyy

Oh thank you sweetie, I love this question!!! 😍😍😍😍😍😍😍

So I think it goes:

Season 3: I do like the later seasons too but the high school era is my fave. And this is the best of those seasons for me! Edges out s2 bc FAITH, & also the wishverse

Season 2: also a great season! Spike!!! Points deducted for juliet landau's earscraping accent, and also how on the nose some of the angel/us stuff is

Season 6: THE BIG BAD IS LIFE!!!!! Musical ep! Angsty smutty spuffy! The payoff to a lot of willow/magic/power stuff which had built over several seasons!!!! Def my fave season of the post-high school era, I think you can tell the show was being run by a woman at this point, unfairly maligned, extremely iconic.

Season 1: unfairly maligned! A pretty decent intro season, yes there are some eps which aren't great but that's probs true of every season and w/e it also has bangers like nightmares. Points added for being a short punchy season tbh.

Season 4: what a mixed bag! Several of my fave high concept eps but overall as a season it does flounder. Riley is a very boring character, and the initiative plot wasn't particularly well handled, and the fact the show clearly didn't have enough of a budget to do it well makes it seem an odd choice. Chipped spike was a v fun addition to the gang though!

Season 7: it's OK, overall I like it/s finale as a cap to the show & the first is a pretty engaging big bad. But the eps feel very undifferentiated & a lot of the potential slayers are downright annoying.

Season 5: definitely my least fave season. First of all Dawn is an extremely annoying character, I know she does get better in the later seasons but never enough to justify the sudden inclusion of a young character in a show that was pleasantly becoming one about adults imo (the parallel of conor in Angel probs quadruples my irritation lol). But also suddenly throwing us into ~an au version of the show that we just remain in is SUCH a weird writing choice?? AND riley's still there for a good chunk of the season?? 🙄 bleugh! plus I find glory to be quite an annoying villain, she's a god from some other realm who kinda speaks like a valley girl bc... why? Feels like it was written by Mike schur (derogatory). Ben is such a wet blanket boring love interest too 🙄 and the ~madness stuff is downright offensive. I will add that s5 was v confusing the first time I watched it cos it aired pre watershed on the BBC and they just cut loads of stuff out sdftdfg eg the 'bater' side of the master/bater jokes, or Ben's death 😅 & like i do appreciate that last part isn't exactly the show's fault but maybe that did poison me against it a little extra 😂

Pls tell me yours loopz? 👀

[spacecadetspe]

Oct. 8, 2024

There's too much total chaos to put into a single post, but I'll do my best. I hate that I've gone two more weeks without posting, but it's taken me that long to reach a point where I have the time and mental capacity to do anything.

W's birthday was October 1st. I have been trying to dutifully keep up with X about it, making sure I know where and when the party is, along with semi-gentle reminders to get the birthday invitations distributed in a timely manner. His party was the last weekend in September.

W, for his part, was a good sport about it all. He introduced me to someone he calls "Nana," supposedly someone else on K's estranged side of the family, via FaceTime. Neither of us was expecting the other on the call, but it was pleasant enough for an initial introduction. But I was really surprised when Nana showed up at the birthday party. She and her husband, who W refers to as "Grumps," live in the Florida panhandle, and rushed up to attend this little boy's birthday party.

Then I found out why. X had not distributed the children's invitations until the Thursday prior to the party, and only two of W's friends RSVPed that they would be attending. X had empty seats to fill, and K's family and his own estranged sisters filled in the gaps. He explained it to me, hoping I would be kind and let it go, but I knew exactly what needed to be said in the moment.

"You are not allowed to give me shit for planning stuff at the last minute ever again." Short, sweet, and to-the-point. Not enough to verbally castrate him in public, but enough to stand up for myself and tell him I hadn't forgotten about the bullshit he pulled last year.

He conceded with a nod. "Fair enough," he mumbled.

It was an awkward party. There was almost no adult socializing, except with one of the moms of the two kids who attended. She was a lovely mom of four, and we had a great conversation. Everyone else exchanged meaningless pleasantries and then quietly kept to their individual tables.

But I was there for my kid, and he was happy.

That week, we had another visitor show up in the Dream World: a primordial entity, child of Chaos, who refused to tell us his name except in a warped dialect of Astral. Luckily, one of Pasithea's suitors, Matarajin, recognized him. Saisei Kizen, the embodiment of rebirth. Saisei Kizen came to the Dream World in search of the keys Erebus had left behind (but I don't know where they are). He called our world "an affront to the natural order," but refused to elaborate. He just kept insulting us and being destructive. He brought with him an army of yokai, many of which I am still corralling and occasionally dispatching.

I didn't want to kill the embodiment of rebirth, so for the time being, I put him to sleep. But even with him out cold, the stress in the waking world kept mounting. Stress at work, depression at home, and little time to do anything but sleep and eat. And then he woke up. It took Ingrid, me, and both our Epithet Weapons to subdue Saisei Kizen in his deluded state, and even afterwards I could feel the trigger of the last ten years bare its ugly head.

Delusion. I felt despair sink over me, crushing me into the floor. Delusion means they don't care for anything except an echo chamber. Not me, not you; only themselves and their vision of perfection. Something that nearly killed me, and seemed to be cropping up everywhere I looked.

My places of work. My home. My family. I couldn't shake it.

I fled back to the Nekromanteion in search of Panos. But would it be enough? No matter what kind of pain he dealt me, I had to get rid of this pressure inside me, and I didn't know who else to trust.

And then it hit me, and I cried out for help. "Michael."

He was there in an instant, cradling my head in his lap and pouring that harsh holy light into me. He stayed with me while the dream spirits tried to process me. I don't know how well that worked; I'm still having nightmares. Maybe it's just cleaning up and putting out the last few of the fires.

I took Monday off to go to an interview (Praise Mother) and take my dog to the vet. I had intended to go to lessons afterwards, but the vet discovered a mass under her jaw and we had to stay. The stress of thinking about how everything piled up against me was so great that I burst into tears while on the phone with the School's receptionist.

She was lovely, though, and rescheduled all my students but one, who I will see Thursday.

I went home and collapsed in Fortitude's arms, and it was the best thing I could've done.

[daedalusdavinci]

ao3 wrapped 2023

taken from here. i did this last year and it was fun so im doing it again

1. How many words have you written this year?

i published 110,143 words this year! written...... no clue.

the first half of this year was mostly spent working on the jdau, but the second half was mostly spent on working on oc stuff that i dont post anywhere. i have no way of tracking how much i wrote for that bc this year i shifted all of my oc works from google docs to saved files on my computer, so the dates are all fucking wrong. ; ; if you add that mystery number onto the mystery number of scrapped projects and wips..... theres no telling. theres no telling.

2. How many works did you publish this year?

i posted 12 works on ao3 this year, not counting the fics i rewrote. i posted 9 drabbles on tumblr. this wasnt a great drabble year for me, i think.

3. What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?

i like the afterlife drabble i wrote about jason and nico. i feel like every time i write about them theres just something so bittersweet and punchy about it. it was a cool idea that kind of leaves me thinking about the world behind it, but not in a way that needs to be elaborated on.

as far as fics psoted on ao3, maybe under the skin? its such a different dynamic, and the tension is drawn so taut, it walks the line perfectly between violence/hatred and grief/love. its one im always second guessing myself about, but i had so much fun with it, sometimes i just have to remind myself its okay to make things just for the sake of exploration/indulgence.

4. What work of yours has the most hits?

snow day, with about 1k hits. i think thats the fic where a lot of people stop reading the jdau. its short, its fluffy, and i do actually still love this one a lot. i wrote it when i needed it.

5. What work of yours got more feedback than you expected?

i feel like a lot of my drabbles this year were really weak, so ive been surprised by the number of notes some of them have gotten. otherwise, mostly oc stuff? ive always struggled with sharing original content bc it never feels interesting enough, but the few friends i have shared it with have been so supportive and it means everything. @roomfulloferidans and @ashysiashy especially are always encouraging me and motivating me to keep making more, and i mightve given it up a long time ago otherwise tbh

6. Favorite title you used

oh thats gotta be The Family Disappointment actually. i like how much meaning and interpretation is embedded in it. if youve been reading the jdau, you might think its jason, but seeing that the fic centers damian, you might think its him. both boys struggle with feeling like theyre bruces biggest disappointment, but the fic is about brotherly solidarity, and recognizing that maybe bruce is actually the disappointment.

honorary mention to under the skin, bc i think that one was very funny/clever. i also named some oc works "the debilitating fear of garage doors" and "the inherent eroticism of handholding" and i like those a lot.

7. If you use song lyrics, which artist’s songs did you pull from the most?

its a fucking miracle. for once, i didnt use any.

8. Pairing you wrote the most for this year?

i guarantee it was bruharv again. bc the jdau. ive finally finished it tho, so who knows what the next will be?? the world is full of possibility.

9. Favorite pairing you wrote for this year?

im going to be so real w you. my ocs. their dynamic is so much fucking fun.

10. What work was the quickest to write?

i guarantee it was one of the drabbles. altho i did spend much more time agonizing over them this year

11. What work took you the longest to write?

the jdau. but specifically, im sure it was retirement, bc that one is the longest by miles.

12. How many WIP’s do you have in your docs for next year?

one!!! im working on a hs fic for the first time in ages, tho i dont have all of my plans for it 100% solid yet. ive got threeish chapters written tho, so i think i will end up finishing it. ill probably start another wip soon so i dont contaminate this one w the urge to write nonsensical fluff.

13. What’s your longest work of the year?

its retirement. its definitely retirement. its 46k and everythign else doesnt really pass 10k

14. What’s your shortest work of the year?

one of the drabbles. on ao3, its off book.

15. What WIP are you taking into next year with you?

the aforementioned. its davesprite centric and so far its a lot about family and growing up.

16. What’s your most common “Additional Tags” tag?

probably “Harvey Dent Adopts Jason Todd” again. god im so glad im done w that au

17. Your favorite character to write this year?

my ocs. otherwise, im going to say 2f bc he is so babygirl to me w his sexy trauma and anger issues, and rose, bc rose <33333333

18. The character that gave you the most trouble writing this year?

bruce fucking again i hate writing him so much its unreal hes barely even a person to me hes been written so many different ways so many different times the source material is basically a suggestion and i HATE IT. also, nepeta. i cant get her voice right and its killing me and i refuse to write in pesterlog format im NOT DOING IT

19. What’s one pairing you want to explore next year?

eridve baby im coming home <333333 (<- insane) but probably also a lot of hal ships eventually

20. Which work of yours have you reread the most?

i have reread the jdau so many fucking times reviewing for the next chapter its fukcing unreal and insanity inducing. if i reread it any more im going to start hating it

21. How many kudos in total did you get this year?

772. this feels liek nothing compared to last year but its so much compared to the previous years so i think im doing good and last year was just a fluke

22. Which work has the most comments?

snow day w 7 comments, which tracks, bc it also has the most hits.

23. Did you do any collaborative works this year?

nope! not this year

24. Did you write any gifts this year?

most of my drabbles were requests, and i definitely wrote some fics w specific ppl in mind, namely @roomfulloferidans (Calming a Storm) and @ashysiashy (some oc stuff), but i didnt technically tag any gifts on ao3 this year

25. Did you receive any gifts this year?

nope! im kind of the writer of my friend group so fics are not generally smthn i receive. however, trustymikh drew this drawing inspired by my mermay bruharv drawing inspired by their mermay harvey drawing, so maybe that kind of counts?? i was delighted to see my bruce design in their style, at least. @roomfulloferidans drew a very nice drawing of my oc rogue that i cherish, @mudp1es and another friend of mine drew our spidersonas, and i participated in an oc art trade where another friend drew my oc barbie. i think those count as gifts, even if its not Ao3 Gifts(TM)

26. What’s your most common category?

M/M again bc i think its hot when men

27. What do you listen to while writing?

i tend to just loop playlists or single songs, unless im really struggling to concentrate, in which case ill switch to white noise.

28. Favorite work you wrote this year?

my oc fic, the inherent eroticism of handholding, which im 99% sure i did write this year? it captures a very specific kind of uncertain tenderness where a crush is new and theyre feeling out flirting still. i think about the scene where theyre lying together in the dark while everyone sleeps and holding hands for a reason they cant justify, not looking at each other, talking about nothing, all the time. i also rlly like the oc fic i just finished a lot- domestic(ated).

that i published, i guess under the skin for reasons i already talked about.

29. Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?

im just gonna collect a few here, bc its hard to pick when i write so goddamn much:

Two Face hesitated. Carefully, he asked, “Do you think they want to get rid of you?” Jason’s eyes flickered away from him, his mouth opening, and then closing. “Yeah?” he said, finally. He sounded unsure.

Water dripped from Two Face's curls and slid off of his nose, spattering against the symbol on Bruce's chest. He found himself blinking hard, his breathing coming fast and tight. "You told me- You were supposed to be- Not even in death. Not even in death, would you have ever told me."

The Backroad Home

Eridan kissed like a fire slowly burning him from the inside out. He tasted like liquid courage and saltwater spray, sticky sweet like taffy the way he stuck in Dave's chest. His hands left scorched trails behind when they slid over Dave's skin, haunting, dizzying, warm like the inside of his mouth.

Calming a Storm

back when he and Bruce had lived so deep in each other’s pockets that the line between his and mine had vanished.

To Late Bruce Wayne

For a while, Two Face just let the breeze wash over him, ruffling his hair as his skin prickled from the chill. A siren blared somewhere in the distance, and he sucked sauce absently from his thumb, setting aside the tupperware. “I care deeply about this city,” the TV crackled. “That’s why I’m donating-” Two Face tucked a cigarette between his lips, pulling his lighter out of his pocket. There was a ritual to it. The slow inhale, the gradual exhale. The wind pulled the smoke from his lips, and it disappeared over the rooftops. Bruce’s laugh washed over Two Face. It was vapid and fake over the airwaves, but the memory of it rattled around Two Face’s chest, warm and startled as they rolled in the sheets in Bruce’s dorm. Longing took hold and ached.

Under the Skin. there are a lot of great lines from this one, but this may be my favorite

Spectre's chin bumped gently against Rogue's shoulder, inches left between them, and Rogue thought about how easy it was to steal things in the dark. "Tell me about something," Spectre whispered. "Anything. And I'll sleep."

the inherent eroticism of handholding. this whole fic was very quoteable and so is Domestic(ated) but i will make this my single oc quote.

30. Biggest surprise while writing this year?

that people would like my ocs, really. moth tenderly cares for them like real blorbos and i still dont really know how to process that

[vulpixelates]

@actionsurges replied to your post “i am so glad that i've finally found the perfect...”:

oo what's ur method?

i'm a little more lowkey for one-on-one games but for group games: during the actual game i take handwritten notes on my ipad as we go, keeping track of important names and the in-game date and quickly jotting down reminders. after it's over, i type up those notes in a doc and add a "next session" area to the bottom of that day's notes to remind myself of what we planned to do next (both short and long term, usually). then, i'll take the important stuff and port that over to the group-shared spreadsheet (i will elaborate on this later). the multiple steps really assures that it stays in my brain, and taking notes after the game helps me add more detail than i'm able to do while frantically scribbling as the game goes on.

but! the real sorting magic comes in during the typing phase. i've been battling w all sorts of ways to make specific info stick out - originally i took all of my ttrpg notes w physical pens and paper and would just underline things, then once i was doing it digitally i would make it bold, but simply boldness doesn't tell you what TYPE of information you're looking at while you're scrolling through 30 pages of notes. THE SOLUTION:

A HIGHLIGHT KEY. i know what color i'm looking for and can find it super easily within the chunks of text. it makes it super easy to move over items to my inventory, keep track of when we got quests + updates on those quests, etc. and all the people/places can get added to the spreadsheet without fuss. it's such a small thing but it's truly a game changer.

for the spreadsheet: this is something i recommend for everyone because it has made it SO FUCKING EASY to everyone in the group to keep up with information, including the DM so she doesn't even have to take her own notes and can just focus on making the magic happen.

it has multiple tabs for basic stuff (npcs, locations, factions) and then one for quests and one for "problems," like stuff that's character-specific or maybe not big enough to count as a whole quest but that we should definitely remember. (this one was the occultist who keeps cursing herself's idea and it's been very useful so far oiajfeoiajwef) the npcs tab has a section for the in-game and irl dates and the locations where we came across specific characters which is very helpful for remembering timelines when you've been playing in real life for over a year but in-game it's been like a month. this would probably be a good idea to add to quests/problems too but eh. it's so far into the game that i'd have to edit them all in and i truly do not want to do that no matter how much i enjoy this system lol

[nulfaga]

;________; god if you ever wanted to elaborate a bit on the timeline of salomé & miri’s relationship post-3….. would love to hear anytime <3 ;—;

thank you for asking they mean the world to me <333

i won't lie. i haven't really hashed it out blow by blow :') like my biggest and clearest vision is that they just settle down and have a family and nothing bad happens ever again lmao. i think in general things are very slow moving between them like um... ok

they were close almost from the start (obv miranda is kind of cold at first but salomé is an excellent judge of character and made the decision to just. not bite back. which kind of defused the tension and let them get to know each other on like a non-antagonistic footing)...miranda already had it kind of bad by the end of me2 but she's very good at shelving her feelings so.

around the end of me3 salo begins to wake up to like. how much she actually cares for miranda too but it's the absolute wrong time (salo herself is going to pieces literally and figuratively toward the end of the reaper war. she's grieving, stressed out beyond belief, crushed by guilt, etc etc. she convinces herself—it's not true, but she convinces herself—that she would have fallen in love with anyone who threw her a bone at this crisis point. her stance is very much like "if i'm ever sane again i'll reconsider it")

so after the end of the war salo is laid out in a hospital in london (maybe she had to be transferred since london is bombed-out, idk. it's not practical or probable but i always liked the idea that she was airlifted to paris, where she's from. bookends etc) and miranda's tracked her down and spends the better part of a year w/ salo in a private hospital ward while she recovers. waiting by your lover's bedside etc, never mind they're not actually involved yet. during this time they talk about their visions for the future. miranda hasn't had time to hatch many plans, she's just enjoying the fact that no one's trying to kill her for a change. salo on the other hand is pretty firm about remaining on earth, not so much out of personal responsibility/helping to rebuild but because like. christ. she's (more-or-less, temporally speaking) 31 now; she didn't leave the sol system until she was 22; she didn't properly speak to an alien until years after that (very little talking happened during the skyllian blitz, and the thresher maws on akuze were obv nonsapient); so her first steps into the greater galactic community, her first visit to the citadel, introduction to council politics, becoming a spectre, and the Fucking Reaper War all happened in the span of 5ish years (and 3 years in her experience, because she was out between 2183-85). this is all to say that very little of it all feels real to her after the fact; she feels the strong desire to remain on earth at least for the foreseeable future and recenter herself. miranda's a fan of the idea, and she hasn't personally been to earth in decades, so she'd like to reacquaint herself. so there's the agreement that they both want to stay put AND the tacit agreement that they'd like to stay together at least for a while.

so once salo is well enough to leave, they get a nice apartment in a small town somewhere (one largely left alone by the reapers); salo finishes her bachelor's degree remotely & under an assumed name. miranda helps coordinate restoration efforts in the nearby city. it's good work but unchallenging; she'd like to get back into a research lab at one point. this is all about 2188-89

the rest is pretty fuzzy NO IT DELETED THIS BULLET. short version: they get married around the end of the 2190s and have adopted 2 kids by 2200.

eventually miranda goes to work in a clinical research lab for an earth holding, everything aboveboard, etc, but finds it fatally boring. good riddance to cerberus but she misses the work environment where money is not a factor and red tape is nonexistent. that aside, salomé can be a homebody if she likes, but miranda wants any children of hers to see the galaxy. so they move (a little reluctantly on salo's part) somewhere closer to the action, one of the hub worlds like illium or elysium

that's as far as i've planned lmao. i will say, idk if i'm going to stick with this bc it is Quite corny, but i like the idea that one of the kids' middle names is bailey. (because it was on thane's baby name shortlist)

[headcanonsandmore]

Gentry and Gentlemen,  Chapter One

Summary:  Hermione Granger has just begun a new position of governess at Ottery Manor in the Devon Countryside, a world away from her upbringing in Regency-era London. There she meets a redheaded blacksmith man named Ron Weasley. Sparks may just fly between the middle class city woman and the working-class country man with a genuine and heartfelt charm all his own. (Jane Austen Romione AU)

Tagging: @hillnerd @nagemeikenu @acnelli @aimless-twig @femaledoubleagent @thehufflepuffpixie @adenei @abradystrix

~~~~~~~~~~

                   Read on FFN.                                      Read on AO3.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Regency period is full of stories about dashing military officers and their lovers, titled men and women, and the romantic misadventures of the landed gentry. Almost always of young ladies of the gentry and their aristocratic suitors. Of money, land, and upper class goings-on. The sort of stories that have become synonymous with high romance, retold countless times since.

This is not one of those stories.

 *

 The stagecoach trundled along the country lane. It was the middle of April, and the Devon countryside was quickly losing any vestiges of the winter. Trees were growing green, bees were pollinating all manner of plants, and the lane was fast becoming dusty due to the lack of rain.

‘Oh, really, good sir!’ giggled a lady, her aristocratic manner evident in her voice. ‘You are a delight!’

‘My pleasure, good lady,’ replied the gentleman, a large tall man with a similar way of speaking. ‘I find myself inclined to be such when in the company of such an amiable person as yourself.’

There was a loud crack, as one of the stagecoach wheels hit a hole in the lane.

‘My apologies, ladies and gentlemen!’ exclaimed the coachman from above. ‘The roads have not been repaired after the winter rains!’

‘You’d think the locals would have done something about it,’ complained the gentleman to his lady friend. ‘But I suppose that is to be expected of being so far out from respectable society.’

The woman sat across from the couple stared out of the window, a slight frown briefly appearing on her face. Her fellow passengers did not notice this, and had made no attempt at conversation with her for the entire journey from Exeter. But she was somewhat glad of that.

She was a young woman, in her mid-twenties and, unlike the pair sat across from her, was not wearing the latest fashions of aristocratic society. Her dress was well-worn but functional, as befitted her position. Her hat was smart was simple but sturdy. Her face was impassive, yet strong, and her eyes - a dark brown- were piercingly intelligent. A parasol, far from new, was placed sensibly across her lap. Her shoes, polished but faded from use, were the sort worn by practical working women since time immemorial. However, in contrast to all this was her hair; an enormous bushy mane that strained against the many pins she had used to keep it in place. It was the sort of hair that you couldn’t help but notice, and it was perhaps for that reason that the young lady had chosen to keep her hat on in the coach despite the heat.  

‘Final stop; Ottery St Catchpole!’

The coach trundled to a halt, and the coachman (whose name was Mr Jones) climbed down, pulling the small set of steps out from under the coach door. The gentleman helped his lady companion down, and the two of them sauntered away with their bags without so much as a thank you to the coachman.

Sighing to himself, the coachman turned.

‘Er… my apologies, Mr Jones,’ came a voice from within the coach. ‘Could you help me down, please?’

‘Of course, miss,’ he said, before helping the young lady down to the ground. ‘Allow me to help you with your bags as well.’

‘Thank you.’

As the coachman pulled her bags out from the luggage racks, the young lady stared down the street. The gentleman and his lady friend were laughing loudly to themselves outside one of the shops.

‘They were awfully rude, weren’t they?’

‘Afraid so, Miss,’ replied Mr Jones. ‘Many from London feel that Devon might as well be on another planet.’

‘I hope you won’t judge me by their behaviour.’

‘Oh, of course not, Miss…er… my apologies, my memory isn’t what it once was…’

‘Granger.’ Hermione Granger said, giving a small curtsy. ‘And thank you for keeping me company on such a pleasant journey, Mr Jones.’

‘My pleasure, Miss Granger,’  Mr Jones said, tipping his cap. ‘I’m surprised that such a pleasant young lady like yourself is travelling all alone, truth be told.’

‘Well, you see, I’m on my way to a new place of employment.’ Hermione said. ‘Ottery Manor; perhaps you know it?’

‘Oh, yeah, Miss. Very prominent local gentry.’

‘I am due to take up the post of governess for the young children,’ Hermione elaborated.  

‘A governess, you say?’ Mr Jones said, looking very surprised.

‘Yes, I recently achieved my qualification, you see.’

‘Very impressive, Miss. Er… just a word of warning, if you please?’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Well…’ Mr Jones looked rather uncomfortable. ‘You are… that is…’

Hermione sighed. She had been expecting this.

‘Mr Jones, I am well aware that the colour of my skin is perhaps not what the locals are used to.’

‘Oh, no, miss; that’s not what I meant!’ Mr Jones replied, shaking his head quickly. ‘Good gracious, no! Plymouth isn’t that far away, and we’re used to seeing people from all over the world popping through. It’s just… the gentry round here… aren’t quite so relaxed about it as the ordinary people are.’

Hermione smiled. Mr Jones was a sweet old man who clearly wanted to warn her as best he could, even if he didn’t quite have the terminology correct.

‘Thank you, Mr Jones; you are very kind.’

‘My pleasure, miss.’

‘Could you… point me in the direction of the manor house?’

Mr Jones nodded, pointing along up the narrow winding street of Ottery St Catchpole.

‘You can’t miss it; the big house on the hill.’

‘Thank you.’

As Hermione made her way through the main street, she was aware of just how much of a different world this was to London, where she had lived most of her life. For one thing, people walked far slower and had a relaxed attitude in their comings and goings. One could certainly tell that the pace of life was slower.

Within a few minutes, Hermione had left the village, and headed along the country road up towards the manor house. The lack of rain had meant that dust was virtually inescapable, but Hermione preferred it to the mud she had been concerned about. She wouldn’t have wanted to make a first appearance with her best clothes dirtied. That would be most distressing. She, after all, was being entrusted with the care of the children of the local landed family, and ought to be presentable in a way that acknowledged that responsibility she was being granted.

Her stomach began to squirm, as her nerves became agitated. She had largely avoided thinking too much about it when she was travelling but, now that she was so close to the manor, she couldn’t help worrying. What if she wasn’t qualified for this? What if the other staff members didn’t like her? What if she-

‘NEIIIIIGHHHH!’

Hermione’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted, as a large horse rounded the corner of the lane, galloping as fast as it could, and heading right towards her. It was tall, brown, and looked startled, its eyes wide.

Hermione’s bags slipped from her hands as she stumbled backwards, but the horse was already barely seven feet away. With a cry, Hermione tripped over the uneven ground, her hat flying off her head.

The horse reared up on its hind legs, and Hermione found herself frozen on the ground. Hoofs began to fall.

‘WHOOOAAA!’

Suddenly, the horse was no longer there.

Coming to her senses, Hermione pulled herself to her feet, and collected her bags together.

A man, roughly her age, was stood with the horse a few feet away. The first thing of notice was his height, at least a foot taller than Hermione. His head was framed with short, red hair. Freckles covered every inch of skin that was on show. He was wearing a rough work shirt that was tied up to his elbows, and a pair of trousers that were slightly too short on him. A pair of tough work boots, that had clearly seen better days, completed the ensemble.

‘Sssshhhhh, Tiff….’ He soothed, stroking the horse’s neck slowly. ‘It’s okay, girl… no-one’s going to hurt you…’

‘Good grief!’

Another man had joined him.

‘Good thing you’re such a fast runner, mate!’

‘I try my best,’ replied the redheaded man. ‘Good thing we managed to catch her before she reached the village.’

As the horse was led away by the other man, the redhead turned and, spotting Hermione, ran forward.

‘Miss, are you alright?’ he exclaimed, coming to a stop in front of her. There was a splodge of dirt on his long nose. ‘Tiffany got spooked earlier, and we only just caught up with her. I’m so sorry; are you hurt?’

‘I’m… I’m fine, thank you,’ Hermione said, as a pair of bright blue eyes stared down at her. ‘Although I think my hat must have blown away in the wind.’

The redhead man looked around, and pointed up into the branches of a nearby tree.

‘You mean that one, with the nice bow?’

‘Yes, but-’

The man was up the tree in a flash, and was soon leaping down next to her again, holding her hat.

‘There we go,’ he said, handing it over. ‘Maybe a little dusty, but that’s the heatwave for you.’

‘Thank you,’ Hermione said, placing the hat on top of her bushy hair. The two of them began to walk up the lane. ‘I appreciate your concern, Mr…’

‘Weasley,’ the redhead said, smiling. ‘But there’s enough of the Weasleys around here, so you can just call me Ron. Everyone else does; it’d be confusing otherwise.’

‘I… I don’t think that would be appropriate.’ Hermione said, as she bent down to pick up her bags.

‘Why? We’re all people, aren’t we?’ Mr Weasley replied. ‘Oh, let me help you.’

‘Yes, but I’m…’ Hermione stammered, as her load was lightened considerably. ‘Well, I’m starting at the Manor as the new governess.’

‘Oh, you’re the teacher everyone’s been gossiping about!’ Ron said, cheerily. ‘Miss… Granger, if my memory’s correct?

‘W-why, yes!’ Hermione exclaimed, suddenly feeling rather embarrassed. ‘Er…gossip, you say?’

‘Yes; the scullery-maids have been talking about nothing else for the past week,’ Mr Weasley replied, keenly. ‘Well, that and the summer fete. But, yes; a posh lady governess from up-country coming down to our little neck of the woods! They’ll be delighted to meet you!’

Hermione felt her cheeks flush.

‘I’m not nearly as posh as all that, Mr Weasley,’ she said, primly. ‘So I hope I don’t ruin their expectations when they see me.’

‘Why? You sound posh to me.’

‘No… I… I mean… well, look at me.’

The redhead stared at her in confusion, and Hermione felt she needed to elaborate.

‘Surely they were expecting someone less… exotic?’

Mr Weasley blinked.

‘You are from London, aren’t you? That’s pretty exotic.’

Hermione found herself suddenly laughing. Not the usual polite laughs she had been taught as a girl, but a full, unrestrained laugh, full of accompanying snorts.

‘London… exotic?!’

Mr Weasley grinned at her, his cheeks dimpling under his freckles.

‘If you’re born and raised in Devon, it is,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Besides, I bet that’s the first time you’ve laughed in a good long while.’

‘Why… yes, it is,’ Hermione replied, smiling. ‘However could you tell?’

‘I hear tell of the aristo’s who take the stagecoach routes down from London. I gather they aren’t much in the way of humorous conversation?’

‘You would be correct about that. But where do you hear that from? Mr Jones the coachman?’

‘Old Jonesey? Oh, yes; lovely old soul. I’m the… well, the blacksmith and the odd-job man for the estate, so I’m in and out of the village a lot.’

Hermione nodded, trying not to notice how well the redheads shirt seemed to fit him. She supposed blacksmiths were all rather… muscley.

Ottery Manor stretched out before them. It was a double-storied building, with fine windows and a pair of thick oak doors. The house was arranged around a central courtyard, so that two wings of the house stretched out in front. A small fountain marked the middle of the courtyard, and the centre of the house was covered in fine ivy. Grounds stretched out around the house in all directions, full of trees and well-trimmed lawns. Hermione could make out some distant greenhouses and vegetable gardens on the periphery.  

‘You like the ivy?’ Mr Weasley enquired, pointing at the plant as they walked up the main pathway towards the house. ‘Me and my brother Bill -he works in the gardens- pruned them just last week; rather a nice effect, eh?’

‘Yes,’ Hermione replied. ‘Are all your siblings employed as members of staff here?’

‘No.’ the redhead said. ‘Percy -he’s the intellectual one- he works in Plymouth in an office. Fred and George -they’re the youngest brothers aside from me- work in the post office a few villages over.’

‘Any sisters?’

‘Just Ginny. She’s the youngest. Mum did want her to get a good job as a scullery maid, but Ginny’s always been more outdoorsy. She works in the gardens most of the time, but she sometimes helps me and Charlie in the forge.’

‘Charlie is… the main blacksmith aside from you, then?’

Mr Weasley laughed.

‘Yes, he’s always been good with animals, so he handles the shoe-fitting. I’m a bit of a jack-of-all-trades, myself; that’s why I’m the odd job man as well.’

‘There is nothing wrong with being multi-skilled,’ Hermione said, earnestly. ‘Most men in London would love to have a wide array of talents.’

Mr Weasley laughed again, his cheeks dimpling again.

By this point, they had reached the courtyard but, instead of heading for the front door, Mr Weasley lead her around one wing of the house and into a yard of sorts. Hermione could hear horses neighing nearby, and presumed that the stables weren’t that far away.

‘You’d best come through the servants entrance,’ Mr Weasley said, leading her up the rear side of the wing and stopping before a door, which was left open. ‘Not a good idea to get on the bad side of the footmen on your first day. Especially the head footman; he’s a right killjoy about these things.’

‘Well, I am a servant, technically.’

‘I know,’ Mr Weasley said, sighing. ‘But, if I had my way, we wouldn’t have to worry about separate entrances. We’re the people who actually keep this place going, not the aristo’s using this place like a retreat for when the season ends in London.’

Hermione felt rather shocked at Mr Weasley’s words, but she opted not to say anything. She could certainly understand his frustration, but she had never met someone who was so open about it.

‘The gentry often have friends and relatives down from London, then?’

‘Yes, but you probably won’t have to worry about them,’ Mr Weasley said, encouragingly. ‘They tend to stay away from the children if they can help it. This time of year, most of them are living the high life in London society; they shouldn’t be arriving here for another couple months.’

‘Well, I lived in London most of my life, but I already rather like it here in Devon.’

The redhead turned to look at her.

‘Really? Why?’

‘Well, judging from what I’ve seen so far, it’s quieter, for one thing. The pace of life in the city is far too extreme. Out here, you can hear the birds in the trees, see the bees in the hedgerows, smell the…’

‘Muck on the fields?’

Hermione laughed.

‘You’re very amusing, Mr Weasley.’

‘I try,’ the redhead said, his cheeks dimpling as he smiled. ‘Not very often I get the opportunity to make a woman laugh without making a prat of myself first.’

‘Oh, I-I’m sure all the local girls adore you.’

‘With five older brothers? I barely get a look in,’ Mr Weasley chuckled, his ears going a little pink. ‘But, thank you, miss.’

‘My… my pleasure, Mr Weasley.’

‘Mr Weasley, I trust you haven’t been frightening the new governess.’

A man had stepped out from the servants entrance. Judging by his dress, he was a footman of some description. His hair was surprisingly greasy, and he had a long, hooked nose. His voice gave an indication that he had taken elocution lessons to disguise a midlands accent.

‘Oh, no, sir!’ Hermione exclaimed, as the two of them deposited her bags near the door. ‘Mr Weasley came to my assistance when my hat blew astray on the front drive.’

Mr Weasley grinned at the footman.

‘Wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t do so, sir.’

‘Mr Weasley… you are not a gentleman, and never will be. You are a commoner, and you would do well to remember it,’ the footman said, looking unkindly up at Ron over his long hooked nose. ‘Now, Miss Granger, if you would accompany me this way…’

As Hermione followed the footman, she happened to look back over her shoulder. Mr Weasley caught her eye, and mouthed “what an oily-haired git, eh?”. Hermione bit down on her lower lip to stop herself laughing.

 *

 On reflection, Hermione was rather embarrassed that she’d been so nervous about her first meeting with her employers. The lord of the manor seemed disinterested the entire time, while his wife asked a few questions about Hermione’s teaching qualification. In fact, Hermione spent most of the meeting nodding politely while the lady discussed the difficulty in finding a good governess in the local area, and that they appreciated that Hermione had come such a long way.

She was then escorted by the head footman back to the servants entrance, all the while wondering if all lords and ladies were so… underwhelming as people.

‘Thank you, but where should I-’

But the footman had already walked away.

Hermione looked around, her nerves building again. She didn’t know her way around, and she hadn’t even been told where her lodgings would be. Maybe she should-

‘All finished?’

Mr Weasley had poked his head through the door.

‘Y-yes,’ Hermione said. ‘But… well, where should I put all my…’

‘Oh, I’ll help you,’ Mr Weasley replied, cheerfully. ‘I can’t go into the women’s quarters, but I can let the scullery maids know that you’ve arrived.’

Turning, he knocked on a door.

‘Parvati? Lavender? The new governess is here; can you help her move her things into the women’s dormitory?’

There was a loud squeal from inside the room.

Rolling his eyes, Mr Weasley opened the door, and poked his head around it.

‘Oy; are you two finished?’

A few moments later, two women appeared from behind the door. Both of them dressed in the same simple uniform, and both roughly the same age as Hermione. They also both seemed to be very giggly.

‘Hello, Miss Granger!’ said one of them, who seemed to be of Indian descent. ‘Nice to meet you; I’m Parvati, and this is Lavender.’

Lavender, a girl with blonde hair that was pulled up under her bonnet, smiled.

‘Sorry we couldn’t meet you at the gates,’ Parvati said. ‘Me and Lav got a bit… distracted.’

There was a snicker from Mr Weasley. Lavender laughed, and slapped him playfully on the arm.

‘Anyway,’ Parvati continued, and Hermione was confused as to why the girl’s face had flushed at Mr Weasley’s comment. ‘We’ll help you take your bags up to the dorm.’

‘I wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble-’

‘Oh, it’s no trouble,’ Lavender said. ‘Besides, we never get to talk to anyone from London; do you know what the most recent styles are?’

‘Er…’ Hermione trailed off, as the two girls hurried along the corridor. She was about to follow, when she realised that the tall redhead was still there. She turned to face him again.

‘Thank you for all your help, Mr Weasley,’ Hermione said, giving a quick curtsy. ‘I am most pleased to make your acquaintance.’

‘As am I to make yours, Miss Granger,’ the redhead replied, his freckled cheeks dimpling once again. ‘Although, like I say, “Ron” is fine. There’s half a dozen Mr Weasleys here, so it just saves time.’

‘In that case, I will call you that,… Ron.’

The redhead grinned, before leaving to run across the wild grass nearby in the direction of the stables. The shirt Ron was wearing was, indeed, rather tight on him, and Hermione couldn’t help but notice how his muscles strained against the fabric as he ran, the sunlight reflecting beautifully off his red hair.

Hermione smiled, as she turned to follow Parvati and Lavender along the corridor. Ottery St Catchpole was shaping up to be a rather wonderful place to live.

~~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading, everyone! Hope you liked it! If you want to keep up-to-date with the series, please subscribe on AO3 or FFN, or ask me to add you to the tag list on Tumblr.

[jjkpls]

the wishlist (m) - 4

“What does it mean if a guy talks about your nipples?”

> genre : smut, fluff

> pairing : jeon jungkook x reader (f)

> total words : 4.7k

> content/warnings : back at it again w/ the bff2l; one sided love, lot of pining; sextoys talk; explicit language; ambiguous infidelity ; awkwardness

previous - next

The issue is that Jungkook -and you're not a bitch for thinking that- is a little bit of an idiot.

He can be very smart. He can be wise and present unsuspecting resources and knowledge. He can teach you things you don't know anything about, figure out others you struggle to -but not during stressful times like for say an escape game because during those, he turns absolutely, utterly useless. 

But he is an idiot too. An idiot that sometimes shapes situations and conclusions and ideas in a very peculiar way that is very singular to him.

That’s precisely what happens then. He plays his role right, to its full extent, with great dedication and commitment. Except he missed a memo, misread the script and ends up playing a role that's not the one you planned for him. He believes that he’s your new adult toy provider (as if there is such a thing).

When you think he’s coming over to share a meal or play some game or binge-watch a series you promised to wait for him to experience together, he has a box hidden in his pocket or carried under his arm. 

He has the decency to not comment on it the first time around. He just set it down on the coffee table, between the bowl of chips and the one filled with guacamole. You see the logo on top of it. You recognize the design, reffined, minimalist with the pretty pastel matte colour. 

He probably identifies the shame and the annoyance on your face, painting your cheeks and reshaping your eyebrows, and doesn’t say anything. Simply smiles to himself and starts talking about the series’ new episode that’s about to start. 

It takes a lot of efforts, coming from you, to ignore the conspicuous object sitting just in front and in between you. But eventually, probably because more than a decade of friendship with this guy have grown impressive mind muscles on you, you manage to make abstraction of it. 

It just stops existing for a while until he leaves and you’re curious to see what’s inside. And again you have the same old intentions as before. The same ones.

You won’t use it. 

It’s curiosity. And it's fine for you to be curious because he’s the one buying it and gifting it to you. Why should you be blamed?

Freshly hopped in bed, just done reading the notice hanging over your face, you’re yawning and sending your eyebrows high in interest. Again you won’t use it but it sounds very interesting. That’s when you get a text from him.

Guk

So about the toy!

As if you were waiting for his explanation. As if the conversation got cut short and you were expecting him to pick it back up whenever possible.

You won’t entertain him.

You

I said not to buy me this.

Guk

You never said that! You said something about me being crazy but never about buying one again

Because you're mostly made of petty bitch material, you scroll higher quickly, wishing to find something, any text that would corroborate what you’re saying.

You don’t find anything though. Because you never actually told him to not buy you other toys by text, and now that you come to think of it, you probably never did out loud either because you didn’t fucking know that he would even consider doing so.

It’s not even Christmas anymore. It’s not your birthday. There’s even less of a valid reason for him to get you this therefore, of course, you did not explicitly warn him not to, you didn’t think it would be necessary.

You

It’s not even my fucking bday why???

Guk

I told you the lady at the shop

But who the hell is that lady?

Guk

She talked about a lot of products and they all seemed cool and because you liked the other one I thought I’d get you this one too

You

Jungkook

This simple response says a lot, you hope he can read between the pixels of his screen the desperation, the irritation, the frustration, the silent insults. 

Guk

Listen it’s super cool it's supposed to mimic the touch of a finger

Jungkook then proceeds to explain to you how it works. The original idea being a system with a tiny ball rolling under a silicon skin, to place on your clitoris to have the illusion of a finger's touch. And it’s interesting and innovative surely and sounds intriguing as in, you wonder if it’s accurate, but you’re tired and it seems like you’re wading in some sort of swamp you can’t escape from. There’s a fire burning your skin from your cheeks to your chest. You’re both hating this conversation and unwilling to just draw a final period to it. This asshole.

You

I can read

Guk

So you opened it already??

There’s a bunch of excited emojis that follows his last message and fill up the empty space your lack of response leaves. 

Why and how can he be so eager?

Here comes the delusional part of your brain. It’s a very wide, very deep hallway covered in bookshelves filled to the brim with stupid interpretations and beliefs and sometimes even memories you’ve shared with him. Often next to the laters are pinned an article from a teenage magazine or the jacket of a romance movie, specifically there to validate that yes, indeed, it must have meant something. 

The door of that corridor just creaked opened. You can discern the sound, you can feel the particular atmosphere without even having to take a step through. 

Is it really that normal to be so excited about that? For him? As a friend?

It’s the most frustrating part: you are friends. Friends who supposedly can tell each other everything. Friends who can ask each other anything. 

You should be able to talk about it. Just ask him. If there’s anything behind this whole mess, if he means to tell you something, if it’s wholly mindless, if there’s no hidden agenda.

It should be fine. There’s only trust and affection in this friendship. 

You are still too scared, you are terrified that he’d start linking dots, ask himself some new questions, potentially answer them himself, and have you all found out.

You'd have your barely well-worn cover thrown completely away. 

You send the blank emoji. The one with even the eyes closed. It summarizes your actual state pretty well, speechless, relatively annoyed. 

Guk

She said you could try it on other parts of your body too

Guk

At first

Guk

Like on your lips or your nipples

You want to die.

Now.

No, better, you wish to have never been born. 

Why is he talking about your nipples? Why?

And through all that, you still feel like something is wrong with you, along with your feelings. 

Turns out you are so overwhelmed by his clueless inadequacy, you need a good half an hour and a random shot of tequila to get through it. When it’s gone and exhaustion of a long day and alcohol have knocked nervousness and panic out, you fall asleep, forgetting about answering his outrageous last texts. 

“What does it mean if a guy talks about your nipples?”

Min's finger stops midair, above the cash register she's been working on. She needs a good minute to get back to her senses and while you wait, anxiety invades you. Maybe you should never have brought it up. 

But this question, the torturous thing is slowly killing you.

Min finally turns her head to you, eyes squinted and eyebrows drawn low. She sucks in her pretty red lips before opening them to start formulating, with it seems a certain struggle, an answer. 

“I don’t think I quite understand.”

It’s a pretty straightforward, relatively easy question. That’s what you'd want to say but you’ve reached the state of bashful regret and decide not to press it. Some things are better just left alone. 

“Who talked about your nipples?” She ends up asking the one thing you wished she wouldn’t because there is no way you’re giving his name. 

“Doesn’t matter.” You mumble, turning around slightly, getting back to the task you were here, paid, to do -wipe the shelves clean and not talk about your “““love””” life. 

“I think it does. You wanna know if it means something? Like the guy's into you?”

“Something like that.” Your cheeks are aflame now. No doubt about it. You silently curse at your manager who refuses that you don’t wear the ugly hat that holds your hair back because having a curtain of hair to hold behind, as a help to keep some of your remained, sparse dignity would have been peachy. 

“What did he say exactly?”

Silence. You’re not elaborating. She sighs, defeated. 

“Well, I suppose... he’s considered the fact that you have boobs. If it’s a straight guy, that’s a good sign, I guess?” She shrugs.

You don’t like the answer. It’s exactly what the wrong, defective part of your brain, the one directly wired to your heart, wanted to hear. 

She doesn’t even have the context, anyway. It doesn’t mean much, doesn’t hold much power in your court of sensibility. 

She stares at the side of your face, clearly attempting to drill holes in your head to try and find some answers. You’re awfully silent, have said too much yet not enough and she’s dying to know the whole story. You won’t give in and she can tell. There’s no way you’re sharing the whole thing. The most, probably, probative point of the whole story: the sex toys. It’d turn her into a devastating tsunami of nonsense and misinterpretation and drown you in its wake and you can’t, when you’re already struggling to stay afloat, allow that.

Tag list: @fangirls94 @realswimshaddy @safi4x @pnkd @somewhereinthestarss @kpopfandomftw @kai-kai-bookshelf @pasteljoonie @ggukkieland

A/N: Don’t forget to click on the next button on top, two parts are being posted simultaneously :)

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Page of Swords

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | three

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: You attempt a new skill. Mando attempts to teach you.

Word count: 4.7k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings/tags: gun usage/mentioning throughout, mature language, pining, more dirty thots-ish, angst because why not, does this count as fluff? sure, gun kink if you squint w/o your glasses

Notes: As the reader (you/us) begins to become more familiar with Mando, his perspective starts bleeding in to the narrative, without a blocked off POV. Also, the reader’s past will start weaving (incoherently?) into the story as well. The large italicized chunks denote past tense interactions (which is probably obvious but who knows any more). Cheers x (gif credit: @djarinsgf)

A shot rings out.

Birds explode from the canopy with offended squawks, squalling in a winged flurry to scatter every which way until they recede again into the green, disappearing back into their hiding places. You groan. You thought you’d be better at this.

It’s not that you thought you were some sort of savant, you just didn’t expect to be this bad. Honestly, it’s embarrassing—you’re embarrassingly terrible— like statistically, you should have hit something by now, but you just keep missing—a crowded tree line in front of you, and not a scratch in sight—nary a singed branch nor a bullet holed trunk. It’s almost impressive how poor of a shot you are—and you would be, if you weren’t so damn exasperated with the whole affair. With a frustrated grunt, you throw your hands up, brandishing the weapon haphazardly.

“Careful,” Mando warns slyly, “you could hurt someone with that thing.”

“Yeah, well at least I’d hit something,” you grumble.

The kid had been fussy - almost unbearably so - in the weeks that followed your short stint on Bajic, and your party was itching for some time off the Razor Crest. After his third tantrum in a day, Mando decided to land on some unknown planet you couldn’t even spell to stretch your legs and take a breather.

You had almost sobbed when you saw him drag his menagerie of weaponry over. You knew what this meant, you knew what came next—his weekly, routine buff.

You think he’s doing it on purpose.

Ever since the first time, when you damn near had a conniption ogling him, you swear it’s like he’s doing it just to mess with you. He isn’t—of course he isn’t, rationally you knew that, in fact there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He’s a Mandalorian—weapons are apart of his religion for kriff’s sake—but Maker does it seem intentional. Premeditated. It’s like you can feel the blistering ray of his gaze on you as he takes his time, roving a leathered hand over the bulge of the shaft—greasing it, stripping it, part by metal part…

It’s all in your head, you told yourself. It’s all in your fucking head and you need to get a grip.

Immediately you sprang into action, busying yourself with anything you could get your stupid, little hands on—in this case, being one of his many blasters.

“I wanna give it a go,” you said.

He let you, surprisingly. He hesitated, at first, his helmet tipping at a disbelieving angle. But he gave in—it took less effort on your part than you’d figured—and Mando conceded. He obliged.

How hard could it be? You thought.

Famous last words.

He’s parked there, settled on a throne of crates pushed flush to the Crest, slouched against the outer hull of the ship as he cleans, from the looks of it, every item in his arsenal—a front row seat to your pathetic endeavor and you’re failing—epically, ridiculously—shot after errant shot.

You line yourself up, scrunching your face in concentration as you bare the blaster in your hands. Maybe this time…

You fire off a round and an animal scampers scared in the thicket. Nothing. Another sublime miss.

You hear a noise come from Mando’s direction, something subtle like a blip of static through his helmet - Maker, he’s laughing at you - and you pivot around to him.

“What,” you ask, although it's less of a question and more of a griping pout. He replies with silence, that fickle language he's mastered to perfection all on his own, his focus pitched down to the bristled rod he’s driving in and out of his rifle, scouring out the residue from the inner barrel. “Ugh, what Mando?” you say, just shy of a whine, one hand slotted on your hip, the other dangling by your side, the pistol foreign and cumbersome in your grasp.

“Didn’t say anything,” he replies with a half shrug, his pauldrons shifting so imperceptibly you almost miss it. You pause, hurling him a look that misses him completely before you heave a frustrated sound.

“Fine, you show me how it’s done then.”

The T of his visor finds you. Its cold and unknowable as he rolls his helmet, tilting it up to you, hands slowing their ministrations to a rest. He’s wears a glare, carved into the steel hollow of the plates—unamused and smoldering—and with it, you feel small; microscopic and withering under his pointed gaze— suddenly too exposed in the open patch of jungled wilderness they’ve landed in and your mouth tweaks, teeth grazing the plush there. You assume he won’t do it. There’s no way he’ll rise to such obvious of a challenge, but he’s sighing—you can see it in the slant of his armor—and marching towards you before you can take it back, drawing closer and closer until Mando’s slated in front of you, expectant and postured and you forget— like the skip of a record, you forget why he’s even there— not a foot before you— and your eyes dance across his helm, flickering back and forth.

“May I?” he nods down to the pistol in your hand and you start - oh, shit - and offer it to him clumsily.

Mando squares off against the untamed green. The air lays hot and sticky around them. There is no trace of wind, no glimmer of breeze, and his cape hangs mute down his back. You’d never seen him fire his weapon. He surrounded himself with them, sure, always had at least two strapped to him at all times— probably even slept with one, you reckon— but you’ve never seen him use one.

With one solid movement, he cranes his arm, taking aim.

Now, you aren’t one to condone violence, but he just looks right doing it; an extension of himself with how natural it is, how innate— an added appendage, born unto him. The pistol looks good in his fist, like it couldn’t possibly belong anywhere else, the orange tips of his glove curling around the hilt, looping over that sensitive release.

He has practiced hands. Methodical. Sturdy. It’s sensual, to watch him like this. Pornographic even— sacrilege in a way. A part of you wants to look away and turn your gaze, grant him privacy as he handles the blaster— delicately, confidently. It’s intimate.

The pistol croons in his palm. She bends, supple and lilting. He knows just where to touch, where to stroke— she does anything he tells her. She melts for him.

Warmth pools in your mouth. Mando pulls the trigger.

He lands an impressive shot onto an impossibly narrow tree trunk nestled further in, and your features contort with amazement. Maybe you want to see it again—like a nosy neighbor peeping in through drawn curtains. Maybe you’re being reckless and smarmy, and maybe you know it. A Mandalorian’s got a gun in his hand and you’re prodding him - brilliant strategy, top marks - but your adrenaline is pumping something fierce and you feel yourself grow bold with each seize of your heart.

“Lucky shot,” you huff.

He pans to you, lolling his head, visor locked onto your face. Without flinching, without gracing you with a remark, he raises his arm and fires— doesn’t even have to kriffing look. The scorch mark sizzles - haughtily, jeering - no more than a few inches away from the first. You nearly choke on the arrogance of it— the lazy, smug performance— like he can’t be bothered with any of it, as if your taunts are all so beneath him.

You have to bite down on your lip to stop it from snaking into a wicked grin.

Mando offers the pistol back to you, flipping it grip-side up in a fancy flourish before striding - strutting - back to his post. You shake your head, a determined set to your jaw and you retake your aim, squinting in the hazy afternoon light, pulling the trigger— and nothing happens.

Again, click. Nothing, click after fruitless click. You make a face, pinching—

“Safety’s on.”

You flush, thanking the Maker that your back is towards him, and switch it down with your thumb. “Right,” you mumble sheepishly, wetting your lip. You align your sights, bracing yourself for the impact—

“It’s your stance.”

Three words.

Three words, the only solace Mando provides before devoutly returning to his work.

You wait for him to elaborate, to edify you— for any manner of sage advice— but the explanation never comes; he leaves you like this, marooned with three fucking words and you have to screw your eyes shut. This man is baffling— maddeningly unhelpful— infuriatingly sparse. It makes you want to howl and rip your hair out— and you whip around violently.

“What about my st-”

Your question comes scampering to a halt, tail between your legs, throat gone dry. Mando has planted himself directly behind you— standing so close you can see your reflection in his beskar, see the blush blurring your cheek under the alien sun.

“What uh, what about my stance?” you ask, mousier now, swallowed up by the sheer size of him so near to you.

“It’s not wide enough.”

You glance down at your feet before looking back up to him. “What do you mean?”

“Turn around,” he says.

You quirk your brow at him before he repeats himself. “Turn around and spread your legs. Hips distance apart.”

Fuck, he has no business sounding like that— like bourbon and smoke and iron tang—but you do as he says. You’re shakier than you want to be— you wish you could be cool and collected but you’re not. You’re anything but, and you’re nervous. Maker, Mando makes you nervous— it’s not just the weapon in your hand, it’s him— setting you off and giving you butterflies like you’re some sort of forlorn schoolgirl. You’re a grown woman, and this is what he’s rendered you to— jittery, molten mush. It’s embarrassing. Fucking mortifying.

You guess it’s the day for it.

He doesn’t touch you, but it hardly matters; you can sense him there all the same, a shadow in your peripheral. He leaves a thick breath of space between your bodies and with your back towards him, you can feel the waves of heat radiate off the bounty hunter, pulsing out out out from him and it’s almost intolerable— as if you’ve flown too close to the sun, waxed wings melting in pearled streaks down your spine.

You scuttle your feet open, parting just outside your hips.

“Arms up,” he says, and you hoist them into position. You’re sure you look as awkward as you feel, if not more, all the angles of your body feeling perfectly wrong and misplaced. “Relax your elbows,” he adds, and you do— you try to, at least.

“Too much. Somewhere in between.”

You try again, strengthening through your triceps and down your forearms.

“Better,” Mando gives. You think you feel him nodding approvingly behind you. “The important-”

Kriff, you panic.

You spin towards him, dropping your form and cutting him off with a humbled, worried look, throwing up barricades and hurdles— landmines for him to dodge. Or step on.

“Wait hey Mando, you don’t- I don’t want to take up your time,” you begin.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m serious, I don’t want to bother you with this.”

“You’re not.”

You blink.

“If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.”

He speaks so plainly, unvarnished and matte— unflinchingly earnest in a way that gives you pause. It leaves no wiggle room for interpretation and you sigh, defeated, shoulders slumping as you haul yourself back around.

“Arms up,” he reiterates, but there’s no malice there; he sounds kind— untroubled. It always surprises you how mild he can be— Mando should be anything but, he’d have every reason to, but he’s calm. Patient. You wonder if he even realizes it, if he even recognizes the tenor of his own voice— how gentle it can be— under the helmet. Despite it.

“Think of your posture as firm, without tensing,” Mando explains. “Soften your knees, don’t lock them— same goes for your arms— don’t stiffen against the recoil, let your body absorb it.”

You mirror what he coaches, shooting him a curious, hopeful look over your shoulder.

“There. Good,” he says. “Now, which is your dominant eye?”

Your arms fall down to your sides. “My what?”

“Dominant eye.”

You give him a baffled look like he’s speaking another language - in all fairness, he is - and Mando emits another puff of air through his modulator, chortling.

“Eye dominance. We’re all either right handed or left handed. Eyes work the same— right eyed or left eyed. We favor one or the other— you’ll focus that one to aim.”

Oh, huh.

You still appreciatively, basking in the novelty of the information. “Really? I didn’t know that. That’s- that’s actually pretty interesting,” you muse. “Brains and brawn, huh?” You flash a cheeky grin back at him.

Mando grunts, nondescript and unaffected and robotic but he swears he can feel pink creep over his clavicle, tainting the tan of his skin concealed there.

He fits his gloved hand over yours, if only for a second, and you do your best to ignore the rough patch of his leather grazing against the thin flesh there. You try to ignore the chill that sweeps across the curve of your waist, how the peach fuzz prickles up, electrified and magnetized, as he unfurls your fingers from the gun, letting it slip from your grasp. He tucks it under his arm, keeping it pinned there with his bicep.

“Hold your hands out like this.” Mando shows you, creating an oval with his fingers— like a view finder or a scope. You mimic him, feeling like every bit of an idiot, but you don’t contradict him— you do as he does. “Now, set your focus out on a fixed point through your hands,” he instructs and you do, setting your sights on a gnarled tree branch.

“Got it?” he asks.

“Got it,” you respond.

“Now alternate closing each eye. The image should stay in the frame with one, and then shift out of it with the other.”

You frown, concentrating, and close the right before blinking over to the left— kriff, he’s right.

“Oh shit,” you mumble. “My left. It’s my left eye.”

“You sure?”

You check again, squinting through either eye, the tree bouncing in and out of the frame of your fingers. “Mhm. Yeah, my left eye keeps it centered.”

He makes a thoughtful sound. “Left eyed but right handed. Interesting,” Mando murmurs.

You glance up to him, dropping your hands. “Why is that interesting?”

“Not common. The brain’s typically wired the same way all the way down— one side of the body will be dominant. It’s not usually split.”

“You telling me my brain doesn’t work properly, Mando?” you quip dryly.

“You said it, not me.”

He holds the blaster out to you and you swipe it from him with a huffed snort, returning towards the tree line and stars your face hurts. Your face hurts and it’s burning with this asinine smile that’s digging mercilessly into your cheeks. It makes you want to massage your jaw, get the damn thing to relax. Honestly, it makes you want to give yourself a slap.

“Make sure to cross your center with it. Line it up towards the left.”

“Maker, do you think about all this every time you shoot?” you ask, mystified, as you fix your aim.

“Muscle memory takes over eventually. You’ll get there with enough practice.” Mando replies gruffly and you guffaw, loud and wonderfully ugly. You seriously doubt it.

After a series of very near misses— you are getting closer, you’ll give yourself that— your arms grow tired; the joints and muscles protest as you extend them out from your body, taut and tense— the gun dead weight in your wobbly hands.

Your shoulder smarts where you injured the tendon in the explosion. You roll it out, earning snaps and pops as it notches over the bone there. They told you you were lucky. They congratulated you - it’s not a complete tear! - and it’s on the mend well enough, but it’s weak. It doesn’t matter the weight of the object.

The longer you hold anything, the heavier it feels.

You suppose you could throw in the towel at any point, but the fact of the matter— as terrible and true as it may be— is you want to impress him. That awful, nagging feeling— you want to impress the Mandalorian. You want him proud of you— you want to be nice and shiny for him to admire, like one of the guns he polishes until it’s sparkling, until he can mount it on display and show it off. It’s absolutely nauseating— but you couldn’t stop it even if you wanted to, and you don’t. You don’t want to.

He isn’t blind to it. He sees the exertion, the tax— how beads of sweat congress around your temples, dampening the base of your scalp, butterfly kissing your skin with a sheen. A trail of wet salt, one lone pilgrim, ventures down the back of your neck, wandering lower and lower, past the hem of your shirt, disappearing into the soft valley of your spine where Mando can’t follow. His throat bobs rough against his cowl.

Transferring the pistol into one hand, you shake out the other, flexing through it and relaxing your grip.

“Wait,” he says and you cock your head back at him. Mando’s retreating to his pile of guns, rifling through the metal anthill before selecting something sleek and chrome. “Here,” you exchange pistols, giving him back the bulkier of the two. Immediately you feel the relief of this new one— it’s lighter and smaller, slighter in your grasp, too— and you turn it over in your hands, noting the way the nozzlelike barrel glitters in the sun.

You’d almost consider it pretty if it weren’t a literal killing machine.

“That’s a CDEF model. Lightweight, reliable, Dedlanite casing, standard issue for CorSec officers.”

You nod along, as if you have any clue what he’s talking about— you don’t. You really, truly don’t.

“Should be easier.”

“Mm,” you hum out in ignorant agreement, slotting your arms back up into position.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to fire.” You rest it against the slide of the barrel, hovering nearby.

Mando shifts closer towards you, the grass grinding under his feet as he takes a half step in to your backside.

“Breathe. Don’t hold it in. Let me hear it.”

Fuck, this feels like a sin; this small gap of distance he’s erected between you as tense, as strained and feverish, as whispered confessions in the dark. Like sneaking back into your parent’s house late at night— the morning moon peering down at you with a heavy lidded gaze— knowing, knowing, keeping your secrets to herself, pressing them to her chest, winking sleepily.

It would be so much easier, so much simpler, if he just put his hands on you. Placed your body where he knows it should be, force you into the shapes and positions he’s so intimate with himself, but he doesn’t. He draws it out. He respects your space and autonomy and it makes it worse. Your imagination fills the void separating you two, and it’s running wild and rampant and depraved and—

“Focus,” he utters, his voice no louder than a purr. You’ve never heard something so mechanical make a sound so deliriously smooth, and you have to suppress a nervous scoff. Focus, he says, as if he isn’t suffocating you with how close he’s standing— as if you aren’t enjoying it— as if you aren’t vibrating down to your very bones at the proximity of the bounty hunter—so close, you bet he can hear them, rattling and slapping against each other deep beneath your skin.

“Remember what I said about your posture,” he suggests quiet-like and murmured, without a trace of condescension there—a harmless reminder. You make the adjustment, fixing your shoulders down your back, and release the stress in your arms.

“Firm without tensing,” you respond under your breath—more for your sake than his— striking it from your mental checklist.

“‘Atta girl.”

No.

No no no, Maker, you feel it. You can fucking feel it—how something low and resonant spasms beyond your belly, the clench of your empty cunt at the encouragement—the heady praise of it all.

Atta girl.

He said it softly - rudely husky - just above a whisper, something tailored specifically for you—almost like it slipped from his lips and he didn’t even notice its passing. It meandered out of him, so easy—too easy. It practically sauntered.

You’re trembling— stars, you hope Mando doesn’t see it. It’s humid and muggy and yet you’re shaking as if it’s freezing, as if you’ve got icicled snot dripping from your nose, and your nerves go haywire, fraying in every direction as you sip in a whistled breath.

You can do this. You can do this. Focus.

“Take the shot,” he orders.

Focus.

Pressing into the slope of the trigger, you fire.

You gasp excitedly— a surprised, whooping laugh tearing through you and you whip around, giddy and beaming - bright, beautiful - a lock of hair sticking to your lip. It’s the youngest, the freest, Mando’s ever seen you; maybe the happiest, too, and his stomach twists at the sight, a tourniquet cinching around him, winding and coiling until he’s convinced it’ll burst. His fingers twitch, every instinct begging him— demanding him— to reach out and return the stray strand behind your ear alongside the others but you beat him to it. Deftly, you flit it away yourself instead, and he’s relieved.

Devastated, too. Gutted.

“Did you see that?” you ask, gleeful as a child.

He pries himself off you, dragging his gaze over your shoulder to where you struck the trunk, a coaled mark charred there into the bark, before returning his attention back to you. You meet his eyes, despite the blackness of his helm— you hold them, for a breathless, ageless moment, you hold him there.

“Not bad.”

He can’t muffle the jolt of his heart as it rumbles through his chest, breaking his mouth wide open into an aching smirk. He doesn’t know if you hear it. He fears you might.

He prays you do.

///

“Cooling vents,”

Metal scrapes against the table as you place the delicate bits down, deconstructing the blaster. The Mandalorian nods, silent as a specter.

“Gas refill valve,”

Another clunk.

“Actuating blaster…” You turn over a particularly knobby bulb before peeking up at Mando through your lashes, a wry grin tugging rosy and coy at your lips. “… thing-”

“Module,” Din corrects.

“Module, right, that’s what I said.”

He sits across the galley from you, arms folded over his chest as he eases back against the hull of the ship, overseeing as you take apart the blaster, the slender little thing he gave to you - he rarely uses it anyways - as you name the pieces and parts just like he’s taught you.

“Keep it,” he told you.

You resisted. You fought it, laughed it off incredulously— stubborn to the end— argued you wouldn’t even have a need for it.

“What am I gonna do with a gun, Mando?” you balked, and Maker he’d hoped you’d never have to use it, would never have to see a firefight in your damn life let alone be in the middle of one, but he wants you to have it— have a part of him, strapped to your hip— the closest he’ll get.

He’s selfish. Din is a greedy, selfish man. He wants to see himself on you, wants you to carry him around like a souvenir from something unforgettable— something irreplaceable— a memory like warm bathwater you dip into long after it passes, and he’ll take whatever he can get— just like you, hungry for anything you’re gracious enough to feed him. And fuck, if he doesn’t hate it— doesn’t want to bury that feeling, cold and lifeless, six feet under the earth. No ceremony. No elegies. Dead and gone, returning to the dust from whence it came, crawling back into the ribcage it sprung from.

Din said your name. Firm— gentle, too.

“Keep it.”

They’ve been at this ever since you managed to hit the target that first time. Hours have passed, dawdling by on the fat little legs of a toddler, plodding and slow. The sun had set, and winged bugs the length of your palm had taken up residency in the dark rainforest, making themselves known with a haunting tune, screeching and singing into the lush wood. After the child had tried making a pass at one, no doubt in the mood for a quick snack - isn’t he always - you had agreed to retire back inside the Crest.

You were so excited, your whole face lit up— like fireworks he remembered once, through the eyes of a boy in the summered night— and you wanted more; like a sponge, sopping up all you could, sucking Din in and ringing him out for it and fuck, he couldn’t say no.

He can’t say no to you.

You start prattling out questions about everything and nothing - what blaster do you prefer, do you have a favorite rifle, what’s the difference between plasma and gas charges, you have a flamethrower on your wrist? - and before long you get him lecturing, going on about weapon safety and trigger discipline and slide bites and ammunition rounds and gun brands and serial numbers and Din knows this isn’t you. You’re a borderline pacifist for kriff’s sake— he’s almost certain that if push came to shove, you’d rather lay down your life than take one. You’re no gunslinger, and you don’t hold any aspirations to become one.

But here you are, fist tucked under your chin and leaning in to him, hanging off his every word.

You have no personal interest in weapons. Frankly you’d be pleased if you never held a gun again in your life. No, and whether Mando realizes it or not, you want to know because it’s him. You want to know him. And maybe it’s because its the most he’s given to you since you stepped foot aboard the Razor Crest— almost a month, and what you’ve gotten from him today alone has been more than he’s given in weeks— not a door so much as it is a window into his life, an allowance, a glimpse behind the beskar. Its more attention, more words and insights, more tiny gestures and maybe you’ve been a little starved for it— maybe you’ll eat up any scraps Mando tosses with a calloused glove, molded and rotting, from his plate.

Even if it’s this, even if its fucking firearms.

You want to know.

It’s who you are: it doesn’t matter what someone’s passionate about, you’re interested in their interests. You care what they care about. If they matter, then it matters. It’s who you are, webbed and weaved into the innermost fabric of your being, and you can’t pretend to be anything else; you don’t know how to unbecome.

You’re splayed before him— a bleating heart, kaleidoscoping and blooming and twisting in his hands. If only you could pry open your chest— turn yourself inside out at the seams, spill yourself to splatter, sanguined and slippery right there on the deck. You’d do it, if you could.

Am I loving enough ��Am I giving enough  Have I paid my debts  Am I worth this now, finally— Worth that which I offer, have I earned it back

So effortless, this vignette, seated here in his galley, dismembering a blaster and labeling the parts, terminology klutzy on your tongue— tripping over yourself just to get it out— looking to him for hints and clues, fluttering your doe eyes with cartoonish bats.

He answers. You laugh. He smiles.

The kid is in his pram, entranced by all the shiny baubles and bobbins just out of his reach - thank the Maker -  and giggles at their little game— happy, for once, just to watch.

You and me both kid, Din thinks. You and me both.