#organizations providing no back up to the shit they publish!!!

[isawken]

friendly reminder: if an organization makes a claim but doesn’t provide the source of the data upon which they’re making their claim, said claim is effectively useless!

https://x.com/StrangerJosh11/status/1856410822983201030

It’s dire out here

[lotus-tower]

the orochi revisited: the takagin edit

the digital version of yaoizine vol.2 has been out for a while, so i thought i'd finally post my essay on here! some of the jokes don't work as well without the context of the zine's cover but lol. hope you enjoy anyway. a very brief overview of the takagin relationship in relation to my first essay's framework

The following paper is a commentary on and tribute to My Orochi Stood Up: A Draconic Response to "eat shit and die” (1948), in celebration of its 75th anniversary. Though much has changed in the anal-ytic landscape since Orochi was first published, much is still the same. As the pioneer of ouroboros theory, a now interdisciplinary framework that has made many valuable contributions to the study of literature both anally inclined and not, My Orochi Stood Up is a foundational work that has remained relevant and resonant across years and disciplines. However, in this text I will be focusing on Orochi’s roots first and foremost as a piece of Gintamaology.

To begin, we must acknowledge that it is impossible to discuss My Orochi Stood Up without also accounting for the work it was written in response to, T. S. Hirt’s eat shit and die (1938), or the original unnamed poem where most of its ideas first took shape (1944). Unfortunately, providing a commentary of the former would be beyond the scope of this paper. Readers interested in anality are strongly encouraged to familiarize themselves with this watershed text in Gintama escatology, as it lays the groundwork for everything that follows. As for the poem, it is referenced at length in My Orochi Stood Up, but I have decided to omit mention of it–among many other things–owing to this journal’s physical constraints. While I regret the necessity of this, there is simply too much to say on the subject of “the pole and the hole” in Gintama–particularly the pole, which Gintama explores with endless fascination. The sword, the pillar, the Terminal, the gravestone, the tree–with its fondness for substitution as well as its love of dirty things, Gintama’s collection of treasured motifs has no shortage of things that stand erect. 

Both pole and hole are equally important to the cycle of self-fertilization first described by My Orochi Stood Up almost a century ago. Yet Orochi was, understandably, primarily preoccupied with explaining its ouroboros thesis, leaving it with limited room to discuss in-story logistics beyond the conceptual framework and Gintama’s broad thematics. As you may have guessed, this paper will attempt to do so–and for this purpose it would be more efficient to start from the bottom up, so to speak. So this essay is dedicated instead to the hole, that gaping void named as Gintama’s ultimate antagonist. Let us now revisit the holeistic framework of the serpent swallowing its tail while examining one of Gintama’s most fraught relationships: Gintoki and Takasugi. 

______________________________________________________________

First, it cannot be overstated how much Gintama relies on duality and parallel structures. The Gintama cast and narrative is constructed like a hall of mirrors, parallels upon parallels upon parallels organized on each side of a central divide. This intersecting line, as shown in Figure 1.1, is what creates the reflection in the first place, allowing characters to be mirrors (or, in the prized language of fandom, foils). One could consider it the glass of the mirror, or the organizing force of the narrative itself. The creation of this dividing line provides structure to the characters, the world, and its temporality–but it is also an act of violence. See Fig 1.1.

Fig. 1.1: ⭩🢥⮀🢛❑⮅⮡🢜

On a diegetic level, bad things happen to the characters because life is difficult, and mostly similar bad things happen to everyone because the series rests upon the Joui war and its related conflicts the way a world rests on the back of a turtle. But perhaps more relevantly, Gintama’s central conceit is that one’s ultimate enemy is always oneself, so naturally all enemies can eventually be conflated. It is an efficient tautological loop. 

What separates the characters on each side of the dividing line, then, is not the degree of suffering they undergo but their response to that violence. My Orochi Stood Up terms these unfortunate souls who end up on the wrong side of the divide “hole-sided.” Their lack is caused not by their injury, but by their own response to it, by their failure, for a time, to live up to their own humanity. This is the position occupied by the antagonists (and, intermittently and continuously, yet somehow always away from the reader’s eyes, our protagonist Gintoki), those who have failed to fill the lack in their souls like responsible adults. 

That which Gintama prescribes to fill these naturally and unnaturally occurring holes in humans is dirt: the debris accrued from a lifetime of living, brushing shoulders with other people, becoming stained by them, becoming dirty and worn as you mature, subjecting yourself to the deeply humiliating and humbling experience of being alive. Of course, as both eat shit and die and My Orochi Stood Up illuminate, in Gintama “dirt” is also a synonym and euphemism for “shit.” We are thus not talking about just any dirt-filled hole, but specifically about the anus. The vulgarity of Gintama’s framing of bonds–as shitting onto and into each other–and its use of shit as a humanizing trait is highly characteristic of both the series’s general sense of humour and the ways in which it mixes gags and serious delivery of narrative to create a densely layered non-linear experience in which absurdity and tragedy are forcibly, jarringly concomitant. 

As T. S. Hirt wrote in 1948, “the anus—the dirty human things—is the home for the phallus—the ideals we hold, the source of our power.” Indeed, were Gintama not so irreverent about its most valued symbol, the sword, due to its fondness for wordplay and for low-hanging fruit, perhaps the nationalistic bent of the series would be more questionable. But as My Orochi Stood Up argued, Gintama’s emphasis on wordplay and its fearless decision to call itself the equivalent of “Ligma” are integral to a thematic understanding of the series, and are key to the ouroboros thesis in particular.

But perhaps the singularly most important example is the -tama in Gintama, with its plethora of potential meanings, each of them just silly and dirty enough that you have to take it seriously. Beyond the obvious joke on kintama (balls) and the “silver soul” direct meaning, we’ve seen that tama is also easily conflated with atama (head), and even with tamago (egg). This is clearly demonstrated with the series’ fixation on beheading leading to the salvation of the soul and the bodyswap arc hinging on the pun between soul and egg. [...] The fact that the characters end up turning into giant turds, likening the soul-egg-balls to an asshole, only drives the point in further. (My Orochi Stood Up, 1948)

To return to the unfortunate hole-sided, these are the characters who lack dirt, who could not withstand the mortifying ordeal of being alive. The natural assumption to make here would be that Gintama then juxtaposes opposing forces, setting “desiring-pairs” of head and hole, sword and scabbard in conflict with each other. Indeed, Gintoki is stabbed again and again, with all kinds of blades–but the villains do not want to stab him as much as they want him to stab them, with his much more meaningful sword. Yet those who are hole-sided do not seek to be filled.

[...] But this is a different process than emptying yourself, which is what the antagonists are doing. All Gintama villains are hole-sided, desperately trying to destroy themselves while pretending, as hard as they can, that they don’t know that you can’t destroy a hole–only make it bigger. (My Orochi Stood Up, 1948)

Takasugi desires Gintoki, not because he believes Gintoki can make him whole again, but rather because he knows he cannot ever be whole again, and that is because of his love for Gintoki. Moreover, the series’ consistent use of language such as “broken” versus “unbroken” swords implies that those who cannot be filled are also those who cannot fill others. Just as the serpent cannot swallow its tail without filling its own mouth, its mouth cannot be filled without having a tail to swallow. As My Orochi Stands Up makes clear, the process of self-creation and other-creation are effectively one and the same in Gintama.

All Gintama antagonists are in parallel with each other and in mirror with their counterparts, who in turn contain echoes of our protagonist, Gintoki. In this way, the entire story can be folded in on itself, side over side, into the shape of Gintoki, the microcosm, like a piece of carefully designed origami. One of the most popular endings of the anime, ending 25, “Glorious Days,” demonstrates one half of this as Gintoki stands unmoving and unchanged as the anime’s large roster of antagonists replace each other before him in quick succession, different times and places flashing past without emphasis. “Nothing has changed,” Gintama constantly claims, while simultaneously showing us how the world has entered a different era, a different century, a different genre, in the span of ten years.

In the ending, Takasugi and Gintoki haunt each other’s footsteps. Takasugi’s feet in Gintoki’s reflection in the water lag one step behind, unable to keep up with him but unable to stop chasing after him, while Gintoki’s ghost is not even visible in Takasugi’s reflection; instead, Gintoki’s presence is indicated by Takasugi’s own reflection stopping and looking back.

Gintoki and Takasugi are the most important pair of mirror selves in Gintama, and inarguably the most yaoistic. Rather than homoeroticism, however, what they have could perhaps be termed a sort of homothematicism. Whereas Gintoki has filled himself with dirt and debris from the series’ overflowing, enormous cast, learning and re-learning how to be human, Takasugi is caught in an incandescent storm of rage and grief, a serpent futilely trying to swallowing itself in the literal sense. But he can never succeed, because he has nothing to fill his belly with other than himself; there is nothing he values in the self he is trying to destroy; thus, he can never satisfy his desire to hurt himself.

Takasugi’s immortality is of the same kind as Utsuro’s, which is to say, hole-sided. It is not that they cannot be killed, only that they cannot die. Takasugi therefore turns to the same drastic final resort as Utsuro: destroying the world in order to destroy themselves. Again we can observe Gintoki’s role as the microcosm in comparison to Shouyou and Utsuro’s exaggerated, macrocosmic style. My Orochi Stood Up details how Utsuro as well as the eponymous Orochi’s identities blur into that of their respective planets, likening them to world snakes. Tied to the Earth itself, Utsuro’s existence cannot end independently of it; his only recourse is to destroy Earth, and perhaps take the entire universe with it.

To Takasugi, however, the world is synonymous with Gintoki. 

Takasugi’s doomed love for Gintoki affords him an interesting position in the narrative, where his conflation between Gintoki’s sword and the pillar of the world aligns with the story’s folded structure centered around Gintoki. Takasugi is Gintoki’s shadow, Gintoki’s “other self”, as Gintama terms it, but weak, diminished, unable to carry the burden of living or live up to Shouyou’s teachings. Gintama’s villains–and its weaklings–are those who will recklessly hurt others in order to harm themselves; its heroes are those who will fight themselves in order to become better versions of themselves. Conveniently, in this cast the villains are the heroes are the villains–and so in defeating the villains, the heroes overcome their own shadows, while the villains knowingly throw themselves into this process out of desperate hope that this will finally end their miserable roles in this story.

Takasugi, then, tries to destroy Gintoki because it is the only way he can destroy himself. On one level, part of him possesses the same general meta-awareness that all Gintama characters have about their allotted roles, and knows that if they were to clash, Gintoki would be the one to successfully devour him. But for the most part, Takasugi’s motivations are painfully earnest and straightforward: harming Gintoki simply hurts more than harming himself can ever hope to accomplish, and if Gintoki were to die, so too would Takasugi’s world crumble to nothing. 

What is interesting is Gintoki’s response to these violent advances. Gintoki, of course, understands full well what kind of story he is in at all times. “Too bad,” he tells Takasugi, scraping himself back up from the ground. “I won’t fall. Until you stop, I’ll keep standing back up.” Here Gintoki himself is positioned as one of those things that stand erect. The Gintoki in Takasugi’s memory that is invoked is “a figure that stands before Takasugi”–or, put another way, Gintoki understands his duty in their relationship as that to keep standing, for as long as Takasugi needs something erect to throw himself against.

Thus, when Takasugi says that the world will not end as long as Gintoki’s sword remains unbroken, while Gintoki says that the only way to stop Takasugi is to stop his breathing, Gintoki becomes the immovable object and Takasugi the (un)stoppable force. However, in a fascinating inversion of the usual connotations, here the object is presented as something the force has chased after all its life, something unattainable and unreachable and yet no less immovable. Meanwhile, the force traps itself in a circular, looping motion, its unstoppable momentum doing nothing to help it escape its labyrinth. But in their battle, Takasugi and Gintoki do manage to reach each other; not because of Takasugi’s desperate violence, but because Gintoki’s interiority is as vast as the story they are in, and he is able to take Takasugi into himself. 

My Orochi Stood Up’s ouroboros thesis is famously anchored in western alchemical and philosophical concepts. It frames Gintama’s mission of human-becoming as the enacting of the Great Work, viewing Gintama’s parallelism through the lens of the individuation process. On the ouroboros as a symbol of two becoming one, it quotes Carl Jung:

In the age-old image of the Ouroboros lies the thought of devouring oneself and turning oneself into a circulatory process, for it was clear to the more astute alchemists that the prima materia of the art was man himself. The Ouroboros is a dramatic symbol for the integration and assimilation of the opposite, i.e. of the shadow. This 'feedback' process is at the same time a symbol of immortality since it is said of the Ouroboros that he slays himself and brings himself to life, fertilizes himself, and gives birth to himself. He symbolizes the One, who proceeds from the clash of opposites, and he, therefore, constitutes the secret of the prima materia which ... unquestionably stems from man's unconscious. (The Collected Works of Carl Jung, Volume 14: Mysterium Coniunctionis, 1977)

Gintoki’s assimilation of his shadow, of his other self, is best represented by the moment where he finally visibly attains “a human’s sword” at the end of the series. Takasugi’s reflection in Gintoki’s blade bequeaths upon him the honour of being the face of Gintoki’s “human’s sword.” This is a similar use of the reflection as in Ending 25. What is made clear by comparing these two moments is the same obvious truth that Gintama has impressed upon its readers all along: Gintoki is capable of containing Takasugi within him, but Takasugi is not capable of the reverse.

Or, more accurately, Takasugi is chiefly defined by the fact that he carries Gintoki’s ghost within him–and was driven insane by it. Gintoki was able to quietly shoulder the knowledge that his actions caused Takasugi’s descent into madness, but Takasugi was never able to inure himself to the sight of Gintoki’s tears. Takasugi is hole-sided primarily because he hollowed himself out in a vain attempt to scrape the image out. But dirt, as My Orochi Stood Up states, is what remains. 

Takasugi’s crushed left eye has ever been his most obvious hole. Indeed, confronting Gintoki again made him aware that the image of Gintoki’s face that he had been carrying around in his eye like a grain of sand was in fact a speck of “dirt.” And of course, Takasugi was never empty: though the Kiheitai are sparse characters, they serve quite clearly to illustrate that Takasugi had never stopped being surrounded by people who trusted and depended on him, people who could participate in Gintama’s dirty gags and absurd comedy in the ways he could not, and people who, on multiple occasions, physically emulated Takasugi in order to inject his likeness into the series’ gags even when he was not present. People who, in short, supplied him with dirt.

The linkages between the gross and vulgar nature of Gintama’s preferred jokes and the double entendre in the meaning of “dirt” are an intrinsic part of both Gintama’s vision of life and the ouroboros framework. As T. S. Hirt explained, “the persistence of those dirty things marks the permanence of one’s relationships. something clean would never stick so.” Gintama posits that living is mortifying, humiliating, and while not shameful, certainly full of shame and debasement. To be a character that clings to dignity–or to whom dignity clings to–in Gintama is to accept an unfavourable life expectancy. Takasugi, while participating in a few gags, was never thoroughly embarrassed by them. His friends’ actions thus helped to tether him to the world of the living, even at his most ghostly. 

Holes do not need to be completely empty to be deemed holes. Such a proposition would be absurd. Holes are identifiable even when filled partway with soil–even, perhaps, when brilled to the brim. No one is truly empty. My Orochi Stood Up makes clear early on that “head vs hole” is not a false dichotomy, but a misleading one: 

You can reduce everything in Gintama to essentially two things. Shouyou and Utsuro. Gintoki and Takasugi. Humans and monsters. [...] Those who take in and those who are taken in. Those who keep struggling and those who don’t. And then you can also always reduce these two things to one thing: Shouyou/Utsuro are, after all, the same being [...]. You can’t pick yourself back up if you never lost in the first place. We know that Gintoki has managed to become “a splendid human” by the end of the series–so what was he before that? Was he really a monster? At what exact point in the series did he become human? Was it while he was on-screen, while we were looking, but without us noticing? Was it off-screen, while we were flipping the page, or in the space between the panels? The answer, of course, is that he was learning to be human every day of his life [...]. And so “which one is the head and which one is the hole?” is the wrong question. Even if you assigned one to each half and managed not to be wrong, since they’re collapsible into one anyway, they’ll always be both. (My Orochi Stood Up, 1948)

To be hole-sided is not to be the hole. It is to be stagnant, to be trapped in a state of needing to be filled without being able to carry out the process of self-constitution with the dirt that is received. In the end, Gintoki, the “reluctant hole” as T. S. Hirt iconically termed, is the one who takes Takasugi into himself. My Orochi Stood Up quotes philosopher Bernard Stiegler: “The I is essentially a process, not a state, and this process is an in-dividuation [...]. It is the tendency to become one, that is, to become indivisible.” This is, I argue, the climax of their homothematic relationship. Not coincidentally, it is also the climax of Gintoki’s personal quest to become human, the individuation that Jung and Stiegler speak of. 

My Orochi Stood Up capitalizes on the ouroboros’ nature as a symbol of fertility to liken dirt not only to shit but to seed, and the hole to the womb where the tama (egg/soul) is fertilized. It is an intentionally paradoxical and anachronistic framework, where one must have an unbroken sword to be able to be fertilized by the dirt of others, yet it is only through that fertilization that one’s sword can be forged. This is simply another iteration of the classic chicken-or-egg dilemma, as befits the motif of the ouroboros. But for the characters of Gintama, this paradox reflects their continuous responsibility: the task of becoming human is a Sisyphean one that will span their lifetimes and beyond.

In other words, as Takasugi was folded into Gintoki, he found that he was already there; that his lack was filled by Gintoki because he was filling Gintoki; and that being a ghost did not preclude anyone from being human.

I have spoken at length about holes and serpents up until this point without mentioning the eponymous dragon, Utsuro. This is partially because this essay was focused on Takasugi and Gintoki’s relationship, and partially because practically all insights regarding Utsuro are contained within the framework of the ouroboros thesis itself. As the world snake, his body and bones were used to construct the theory we have been discussing, his lack identical in essence to the other hole-sided. It is worth noting, however, that for Gintoki, Utsuro represented the unreachable object. Gintoki’s deepest anxiety was over his blade not reaching Utsuro, because he had been told that he could only reach him with a human’s sword. In the end, as we have seen, he does indeed manage to reach him, with Takasugi’s soul in his hands. 

Takasugi, too, manages to reach Gintoki in the end. Cradled in Gintoki’s arms, he is brave enough–and selfish enough–to ask for a fleeting smile. My Orochi Stood Up argues that the moment Gintoki’s tragedy was revealed to us through Takasugi’s eye was the one that broke Gintama’s own narrative cyclicity. This was, of course, the original bit of dirt flung into Takasugi’s hole that he could not cope with, that halted his process of individuation. As previously mentioned, the ten years that separate the end of the Joui war from the present day span an entire age. At the very end, this eternity spent wandering, too, ruptures, and Takasugi finally finds his way out of the labyrinth, only to look back and see a clear and straight path through the trees.

______________________________________________________________

This essay has been a brief exploration of Takasugi and Gintoki’s relationship in the context of My Orochi Stood Up’s innovative ouroboros framework. In the seventy-five years since it was first published, it has been transformed in diverse and exciting ways. However, I thought it only fitting that for this major anniversary, the focus be brought back to the Gintama characters that first inspired it. Rather than the iconic dragon, Shouyou/Utsuro, this piece has chosen to focus instead on his two most intertwined disciples. While not necessarily treading any new ground, I hope to have presented an interesting snapshot of this relationship known for being simultaneously transparent and opaque.

As we have seen, this relationship is one made possible by the intense parallel structure it embodies. Just as Takasugi serves as Gintoki’s shadow, their journey and the cannibalistic nature of their duality echo the conflict represented by their teacher, and in many respects parallel the shape of the narrative itself. In this way, the position they occupy in relation to these other draconic structures–micro- or macrocosm–is perhaps a reversible one. 

In short, though Gintama “cannot resist the phallus,” as T. S. Hirt said, it is also singularly concerned with holes: how they are filled, what results from them, what constitutes them. The only question it does not ask is what creates them. It is instead implicit that human beings naturally possess holes, that they are a natural part of the anatomy of both our bodies and souls. And thus, it is natural both to fill them and to fail to fill them; the fertile infinity of the ouroboros guarantees that should one fail, there will always be tomorrow.

[eponastory]

Murder! You Wrote.

An interactive second person being of view Devil May Cry fanfiction!

Poll is at the end of the chapter!

Firstly, you will need to read each part as it's posted. In order for the story to go on, you will have to vote on what happens next! Now, this can go in several different directions, so please pay attention for the little clues. You can guess who the murderer is before the story ends, but the reveal will be at the end. Have fun!

Also, this will be a Gender Neutral Reader and there will be no use of pronouns or detailed descriptions. YOU are the Reader. This is pretty much your story, I'm just throwing out possibilities! 😁

It's dark. So dark that the street lights do not provide much luminance to see the words on the sign above the entrance to the hotel. The rain from earlier in the day made the air muggy on this autumn night. You are trying hard to see ahead of you, but the fog has made it difficult. Groaning, you reach into your Jean pocket for the small piece of paper with the address written on it.

As you bring it up to your eyes, you see that you are indeed in the tight place. However, it is not as you expected it to be.

You were expecting this grand hotel. Not this rundown, building in the middle of spookyville. If someone were to go missing, this was the place. The atmosphere alone was speaking to you. Yes, this was the perfect place for inspiration for your next book.

After all, you were a world-renowned murder/mystery author.

Most, if not all, of your books were inspired by places you have visited around the world. It was no surprise that your books were on par with Agatha Christie, but you were stuck on this next one. Your publisher was urging you to write your next book, but you were burnt out from publishing book after book.

You were here for the local Oddities and Curiosities convention as a guest speaker. Except your hotel was not as lavish as the convention organizers said it was. Oh well, at least you did not have to pay for it.

You swallowed as you felt like you were the victims of one of your own stories. This had to be a stupid decision. Maybe you should have politely declined their offer of free lodgings. Next time you will be more mindful of that.

The buzz of the lights in the outdated lobby was the setting of a movie you had seen once. Not a particularly good movie, but it was still enough to set you on edge. There were two chairs up against the mint colored walls with a table in between them. The dim lighting almost made everything look like some insane asylum. Even the white linoleum floor gave you this uncomfortable dread. The long hallway before you stretched on for an eternity. It invited you into some horror you could not explain as it rolled in your belly.

DING!

The feeling vanished as you felt yourself nearly jump out of your skin. You turn around to see a man standing at the reception desk. He was leaning against it with his back turned to you.

"Yo! Anyone there?" He said. You noticed he was dressed rather odd. A red coat, leather pants, and boots. The other strange thing was the color of his hair. "Service really stinks around here." He scoffed as he stood up straight. "They tell you it's a five-star hotel, then this shit happens." You knew he was talking to you when he turned his head to the side.

"It could be worse." The words popped out of your mouth. "For all I know, this could be some H.H. Holmes bullshit hotel." You knew the story about the famous Chicago murder hotel in the 1890's. You wrote a fantastic historical fiction novel about it. "Next thing you know, you fall into a vat of acid or something." There was a short laugh from the man with the white hair.

"Heh, I've seen worse." He turned around to look at you. "You look like the type to be into that sort of thing anyway." You shrugged.

"I know a thing or two." After all, you spent countless hours of research on all sorts of egregious crimes. He nodded, probably not really interested in what you were there for in the first place. "Actually, I need to check in."

"Well, I'd go find a better place if I were you." Obviously, but you were a bit on the poor side at the moment. No new book, and you spent most of your money fixing up your Victorian home. "Service is lacking, and there is no bar." A bar was essential for your work to begin.

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat. Both you and the stranger in red turned to the direction of the sound to see another man. This man was peculiar. He was just as tall as the odd man you were speaking to, but he was as pale as a dead body. Black hair swept back with as much hair gel that could be mustered to keep those locks in check. He was certainly gaunt withp his cheekbones poking out like sharp alabaster. The dark circles under his eyes also did not help his appearance either.

Just looking at the man gave you a distrustful feeling.

"May I be of assistance?" You gulp at the sight of the man behind the reception desk. He gives you a blank stare. You swear up and down that you are in some kind of dream, but you know you are not. You shake off the tingling feeling going down your back as you look to the red clad stranger you were speaking with earlier. He shrugs with a small smirk on his lips.

"Uh... yes, sorry." You pull out your phone with your reservation details already up on the screen. The receptionist only looks down with his eyes as you put your phone on the desk. "I'm here for the convention. My room should already be paid for the weekend."

"Ah yes... the Author." The gaunt man said with a drill voice that dragged out each syllable. He reminded you of Professor Snape from Harry Potter. The slow retort was enough to make you really wonder if you had stepped into some alternate reality.

The grunt from the man next to you said otherwise.

"Uh, yeah, I'm here for the Oddities and Curiosities Convention." You took your phone from the desk and put it in your back pocket. "The convention people were supposed to pay for all of my expenses."

"Yes, everything is paid in full." The half lidded dark eyes of the man across from you seemed to be staring out into nothing as he turned over a page in the log book. Was this place not up to date? Everything was... old fashioned. "Please wait." It was as if the man were a robot as he promptly turned away.

"Seems like everything here is all analog." You made the observation as you saw the old television sitting on a table in the corner behind the desk. "Even that TV looks like it's straight out of the 60's." You told the stranger you met earlier.

"That's nothing, you should see the rooms." He pointed over his shoulder towards the hall. "Rotary phones and vibrating beds with coin slots." That was really bad. And gross, but he looked pretty jovial about it. "It's like I'm back in the late 80's." You were not sure if you should run far away or not.

"I'm really glad I brought disinfectant spray." You thought about the can of Lysol you normally carried around for reasons like this. It was safely stored in your backpack. You traveled light, only bringing what you really needed with you. "Can't do anything about the bed bugs though."

"If it makes you feel any better, at least the sheets are clean." Thank the heavens for that. There was one saving grace about meeting the man you were standing there with.

"Are you here for the convention too?" You asked him. You were curious about why someone dressed like him was actually there.

"Nah, just in town for a job." He seemed to be dismissive of the whole thing. "My client is paying for the weekend, but said client hasn't shown up yet."

"That sucks." You wondered what kind of work the man did. He was definitely dressed for something a bit more lucrative. Red coat, faded Henley, and not to mention the guns. Two guns. .45 caliber. Custom made.

You knew guns only by the research you did for your books. He had to be some kind of undercover agent or assassin... something like that. This was giving you some ideas for your next book at least.

"Here is your key." The receptionist came back slamming the key on the counter to grab your attention. "Your room is on the second floor. Breakfast is provided until 9 AM." You hesitantly took the key while trying not to show you were slightly perturbed by the zombie across from you. "Enjoy your stay." He said slowly and ominously.

"Thanks... I guess." You looked at the man you had been talking to before with a bit of nervousness. "See you around."

"Yeah. I'm sure we'll run into each other again." He gave a mock salute with a smirk before turning his attention to the zombie receptionist.

You slowly made your way up to your room. The elevator was apparently out of order, so you took the stairs. Thankfully the second floor was not too bad. It had a different theme going on. Instead of mint green walls, they were more of a salmon color with brown and orange accents. It could be much worse.

Once you found your room, you unlocked the door and opened it. The guy downstairs was right. It was pretty bad, but at least it did not smell like an old musty hotel. It was actually not that bad. The bed definitely had a coin mechanism, but at least it looked comfy with the beige linens and brown comforter.

At least the shower was in working order.

You threw your back pack on the red chair in the corner before getting ready for bed. Tomorrow you were going to have breakfast, then you had to be at the convention center for ten.

You were sleeping pretty well until you heard something strange coming from the vent above your bed. A strange ticking sound had made its way into your dreams before pulling you to the land of the living. The ticking was not like a clock. It was more like little finger nails tapping on the vent. The rhythm of it had you sleepless for the rest of the night.

Until it stopped at 5AM on the dot.

You were tired when you rolled out of bed at 7. Your feet dragged as you made your way to the bathroom to get ready for the day. Brushing your teeth had been a slow process as you stared into the mirror. Your eyes had dark circles under them indicating your three or so hours of sleep were not enough. Your eyes were slightly bloodshot from being awake as well.

Hopefully you would get a better rest when you returned from the convention.

Going down the stairs was an endeavor. You held on to the railing for dear life as you made your way to the first floor. You were in desperate need of caffeine and you really hoped the coffee at the breakfast bar was adequate enough for your refined tastes. If not, you could always find a Starbucks on the way to the convention.

Once you finally made your way to the first floor, you found the breakfast room. It came as a surprise to see there were five other people there.

The one you recognized first was the man with the red coat you had spoken to last night. He was sitting quietly at a table practically inhaling his waffles while another man sat in front of him. The two men were similar in features which clearly made them related. While the man in red was more relaxed, the one sitting across looked as though he was losing his patience.

Oh well, eggs and bacon were calling you.

You did notice a man and woman giving each other the cold shoulder as they ate their breakfast. The couple was in their early thirties at most and sat two chairs down from each other. It was obvious they were having a silent fight with each other. She would glance at him with hurtful eyes every now and then.

Then there was the older woman quietly sitting at the table by the window with a book in her hand. Her glasses were on the tip of her nose as she sat there. Her dark skin hinted at her Sub-Saharan ancestors. You admired her poise as she sat there eating and enjoying her book. A book which you had written almost ten years ago.

She must be there for the convention as well.

Just as you were dropping spoonful of scrambled eggs on your plate, a scream rang out through the entire first floor.

All at once, everyone in the room stopped moving and turned their attention to the hallways outside. Your immediate instinct was to find out where that scream originated from, so you took your plate and headed out of the room.

Being the true crime fanatic that you were, you followed the wailing sound of a woman who was in obvious distress. Turning left down another corridor, you saw her kneeling on the linoleum floor with her hands over her mouth as she cried. You did not even bother to put your plate down as you stepped closer to the red headed woman sitting on the floor.

"Are you okay, Miss?" She did not turn to look at you as she began to shake uncontrollably. You noticed there was a puddle of blood in the doorway as you moved closer. "Miss?"

"He's... dead." The woman muttered out while still staring into the room she was about to enter. You crept ever so slowly to look inside, but what you saw made you drop your plate.

It was a blood bath.

The whole room was coated in blood. The body of a man had been contorted in an unnatural way. It was something you had never seen or heard about before in any case. Murder like this was not murder, but something else entirely.

"What the hell?" Was all you heard before you suddenly found yourself being pulled from the scene by a hand on your arm.

[greenerteacups]

From what I've seen online, the major consensus amongst HP fans is that Cursed Child is NOT canon ( and many simply pretend it doesn't exist). I remember when it first came out and was being promoted, both the stage show and the published script, and everyone was really excited for new HP material... until we realised that it just... wasn't canon... at all. Yeah, the idea of Voldemort as presented in the HP novels having any sort of romantic relationship with Bellatrix and having a child is simply ridiculous and certainly just exists as a way for him to have a secret child for reasons of the wacky plot... it's very tween fanfic and also very Disney channel sequel (like the og villains all having kids we never heard about is totally a real Disney channel thing).

I remember it being very clear at the time that it came out that any "pointers" or "ideas" JKR provided to the actual writer of CC must've been the very barest of bones, the tiniest of shards perhaps, because it simply read like a sort of AU fanfiction written by the most casual of fans... which, as I understand, it really was. At the time when it came out, it was pretty clear that she had very little to do with actually writing it, though I suppose more was made later of her 'involvement' to legitimise it. I heard since that someone asked her if it should be considered canon, and she said yes? Not sure how this interaction actually went down as I don't particularly care to look into it (since nothing will change my mind that the AU of CC makes no sense within the context of HP canon and lore and it was probably some kind of marketing tactic in support of the stage play) but as she clearly didn't actually write CC herself and it contradicts many things from the books she did write, I'm pretty happy to continue ignoring its existence.

What do you think of Fantastic Beasts in comparison? Personally, I put Fantastic Beasts in a separate category where I can kind of accept aspects of it as canon expansions of the lore and worldbuilding... I can see JKR's style clearly and the inconsistencies with timelines and certain characters being in places and times they shouldn't be don't bother me as much as the straight up character assassination we see in CC. To put it another way, I think CC feels like it belongs to a totally different IP and was written by a different author (because it was) while FB definitely still exists in Rowling's wizarding world, it's just the timeline is kinda off.

this is interesting context. I think she kind of has to say yes to that question in context, because like... who's going to shill out £150 to see some random dude's AU fanfiction play (if it isn't even good)? of course, JKR's stamp isn't nothing, but even she can't weld extra content into the canon by declaring it so. i see TCC like church ephemera: i'm sure SOMEONE finds it interesting or relevant to what we're doing here, but that doesn't mean it's part of the Bible.

i feel the same way about fantastic beasts, but to a lesser extent. i actually enjoyed the first fantastic beasts movie, i thought it was playful and charming and (with the exception of the dumb polyjuice plot) the perfect way to revive harry potter as a storytelling vehicle. like, yeah, it fucked up by trying to go too big too soon, but if you can remove one (1) subplot or narrative thread and have a solid movie, then as a writer, you've still done okay.

Fantastic Beasts also annoys me because it does feel like harry potter, in terms of tone and mouthfeel. it's got the sauce. it just heinously drops the ball in later installations. in particular, it starts getting nervous about holding the audience's attention and throws stuff in that just wouldn't make it in a natural, organic script — most of the shit from the original series is contrived and ill-suited to the dramatic tenor set by Movie About Funny Man Collecting Magical Animals. (e.g. going back to hogwarts? leta lestrange's secret white father revengeplot triple-rugpull? human nagini?? secret undead dumbledore brother raised by american evangelicals???). i like the idea of it very much. i'm honestly drawn to it as a creative space, because unlike TCC, there is potential there. it's just badly abused.

[darka-art]

Kabal of the Blood Diamonds- Act ch1

The Kabal of blood Diamond : Act 1

The Gladiator from DownWegg.

-----

Note: Plz note that I havn't planed to publish the full story, but I plan to write at last 3-5 chapter. If people seems interested enought, I may end up continuting at last the full arc.

The Kabal of blood Diamond : Act 1

The Gladiator from DownWegg.

•⁚⁛PLZ BEWARE : The fic contains gore, killing in very crude way, swore and sexuall theme. It is not a lecture for younger viewer and I recommend that you perhaps should read something els if these theme make you uncomfortable.⁛ ⁚ •

-----

The loft that had been given to the Scourge and her team was pathetically colored. The ceiling was relatively low, and none of the furniture were made of human leather, but of dark metal. Although luxurious, the apartment was too dated. Shame in Cormmorragh. 

But oh well. El-Shay would go with it. And at least each member of her team had their own apartment, except Veex who insisted on staying in a room full of computers and strange devices that she didn't really understand. 

Evra and her husband Haemonculi, Berbeduale, had built a little corner near the Torture wing. As usual, Berbedual was well organized and had already installed his surgical instruments in the room. 

Savyle was a slightly messier young assassin. No sooner had she settled into the room near Veex that she had already transformed the place into a barracks filled with weapons and armor that covered the floor. She was a somewhat chaotic young woman, but she shouldn't be underestimated.

And El-Shay was there, in the big room far back, where even those big windows seemed closed away from the rest of the world. 

It was perfect like that. She liked to have a quiet room away from the others where she could watch them. She had been Arkon of the prestigious Blood Diamond Kabal for years. She knew very well that anyone could become… Jealous. 

However this time the jealousy came from outside. Indeed, dozens of her precious cargo ships that made the glory of her Kabal had been attacked or simply disappeared overnight, and it had started to titillate the Scourge’s business. 

After an investigation led by his right hand, Evra, the face of the prime suspect had finally come to light: Evisive Lekk. An arena master renowned for his gladiator slaves and lavish parties that entertained the great Elites of the Dark city. 

And that's where she was. 

In a building attached to the home of this great arena master, quietly setting up this little spy mission with his 4 henchmen on the bus quietly showing this bastard that he shouldn't have attacked the Kabal blood diamonds. The Scourge was so close to its prey.

On the other hand, she still had to be patient: Murdering such a popular Noble would have to require a lot of discretion so as not to attract too much attention. Commorragh was merciless. 

Before she could gut that idiot, she had to wait a bit and used a lot of manipulation skills. 

But it was fine. 

She was very good at playing blood chess. 

Suddenly, someone knocked on her bedroom door, snapping her out of her conspiratorial thoughts. 

"It's Evra, may I come in ma'am?" I have heard from our contact.” 

Oh. That, she hoped, was good news.

 " Yes. The Scourge replied. 

Evra entered with her beautiful pale blue hair. His long bat wings were still quite straight. Her round porcelain face still gave her an innocent look, but El-Shay knew her too well to let that fool her. 

Evra was patient and smart. That's why she made the Scourge her right hand. 

The blue-haired Scourge walked over to her mistress and sat down on a chair she had provided for her. 

"Lerro arrived a little early and therefore decided to go and have fun in a bar with two or three newly acquired slaves..." 

And shit. This Reaver was an excellent hunter of information, but he could never help wasting his time in glasses and blade competitions. 

The Arkon sighed and clenched her iron claws.

Her black wings had tensed. 

“I am surrounded by fools. When's that paunchy idiot bringing his butt here? » 

Eve sighed. " Tomorrow morning. If you want my opinion, maybe around noon if he doesn't have too many injuries. And I have a very bad feeling about all this." 

She always shay that, but this time, El-shay shared her feelings.

El-Shay got up fiercely from his chair to serve a drink on one of the cabinets in front of his bed. She opened a bottle filled with red liquid then filled her glass. 

"If he doesn't hurry up, I'm the one who will hurt him. She said, drinking the red liquid in her glass.

___________

Lerro had just finished half his bottle. He already didn't remember when he walked into that bar. The smell of narcotics didn't help. He just remembered that he had sold one of his slaves. It was... What was it called, the all blue? Ah! Yes, a T'au. This one had allowed him to enter this chic little club. 

Small was maybe a little weak as words: In the background there stood three Reaver who had fun ripping off a human's finger with a knife, in the center a player was playing his instrument made of human organ and Eldar and at the bar, of the Succubi spoke of their murderous exploit on civilians whom they had killed while they slept. 

His last slave was a young human also with him at the counter. He was shaking. 

The pale, thin face turned towards his master. He looked at him with his big brown eyes which were already beginning to lose their colors. 

The human was terrified. Lerro turned his eyes slightly toward his slaves. He smirked.

 "And why would I do that, Mon-kheig?" he said in an amused tone. 

"Please... I have two children waiting for me... Please, I'm afraid for them and..." 

"Oh, but it's true that it's all very sad." he said, slowly approaching the chained human. 

"...too bad I don't give a fuck." 

He took the bottle and smashed it in his slave's face. This one fell on the ground and this mis wept. The Blood Diamond spy couldn't help but laugh a good laugh. 

The Waitress didn't seem to have so much fun. 

“I hope you will pay for the bottle. By the way, you still haven't paid for the two bottles... I have an idea: pay now as well as the bottle you just broke, and you can order a new bottle. » 

"Oh LADY, give another bottle for an old mercenary..." 

She held up a bottle. She shook it like a toy you shake in front of a baby. He raised a hand to grab the bottle, but the waitress lifted it higher so he couldn't reach it. 

She looked at him with a big smile on her lips. 

“He, he, he, pay first!” She said with a wavering voice. 

Lerro looked at her darkly. Nobody had the right to make fun of him like that. 

He stood up looking her straight in the eyes. 

He took the chair where his slave was sitting. Lerro tried to hit the waitress with it, but she dodged the chair which instead hit the back of one of the Succubi. The victim of the chair fell to the ground and her friends were obviously unhappy that their discussions were uninterrupted. 

They threw themselves at him, and by reflex, he used his slave as a shield of flesh. 

The warriors threw themselves on the slave, and with their sharp knives, covered him with wounds and cut off his limbs while he was still breathing. The poor human was only the first victim of the decadence that continues in this small bar. 

The three Reavers who were in the background had rushed to the center and fought with the crowd, the player who just a moment earlier had been playing on top of everyone, was now on the ground, a knife in his throat. 

The Succubis were fighting against one of the bar waiters. 

Three Kabalists had entered armed with their guns to participate in the bloodbath and the manager of the bar sent his henchmen to try to regain control of his establishment. 

Lerro came out behind an overturned table, crawling. He was only a short walk from the exit. 

But he just had to wait for one of the Kabalists to walk away. 

Whoever was blocking his exit fired a few shots. 

The warrior turned his head slightly in the direction of where Lerro was hiding. The Blood Diamonds spy stayed hidden, hoping not to be seen. 

The Kabalist remained motionless, then headed into the center to find a new victim. This was the moment Lerro had been waiting for. 

He then crawled. 

A freshly severed hand fell on his face. He almost screamed in surprise, but he restrained himself. He was too close to fail. 

He was only a few centimeters away… and YES! He successfully passed through the exit door and finally came out alive. 

He turned his head to see the bar which was now chaotic, and gave a good laugh. 

As he turned to run, his smile disappeared: The waitress at the table stood in front of him, a gun in her hand. 

She smiled and then exclaimed, "It's time to pay your debts." Then she pulled the trigger. 

And just like that, the Kabal of the Blood Diamonds lost Lerro as well as the valuable information he held.

_______

⛔

© 2022warhammer 40000K belong to Game Workshop

Characters belong to me and @rowscara

[keifyseadragon]

Thoughts, part 2.

Thoughts...

The recent presidential election has me nervous, especially as the GOP gloats of how Project 2025 was their plan the entire time. I voted for Harris, anticipating just that happening if Trump won. Lo and behold... Hard not to fear an incoming wave of anti-LGBT bills, a loss of progress regarding civil rights, and continued targeted political attacks. Oddly enough, roughly 40% of the GOP is actually against Republicans targeting the overall LGBT community. Still, extremist ideology and rhetoric permeate the membranes of social discourse and spread like wildfire. Similar is also happening in Europe, which is highly concerning. Deutsche Welle, a German media organization, had published an article detailing the backlash to LGBT rights in Europe. While published in September of 2023, it remains incredibly relevant. The article details the Russian role in promoting homophobia and transphobia in an attempt to erode democracy in more developed nations. Russia alone provided roughly one quarter of the $768 M funding anti-gender activities in the EU between 2009-2018. Russia's gay propaganda law influenced legislation in both Hungary and Poland, and may have inspired the "Don't say Gay" law in Florida. It's frustrating, I got into NAFO, in part, to fight the transphobic disinformation coming from Russian media spaces targeting the LGBT community. I'd once argued that online echo chambers create real world violence, only to have other trans people get very upset calling the argument transphobic thinking it somehow called identity a debate. Nowhere did I call identity a debate, as that was not my point. I was saying that much like how incel communities have a documented radicalization pipeline that creates misogynistic violence and mass killings that a similar thing can be observed targeting LGBT people. Hate filled echo chambers lead to violence like the tragedies at Club Q and PULSE. All of this is the byproduct of heated online debate on the topics of gender, sexuality, transgender rights, and gender equality. Back in 2022 I argued that there was an increase in anti-LGBT hate crimes, to which a bisexual person argued I was somehow incorrect. Data for 2022 and 2023 confirmed my point to be factual, rather than being fearmongering or paranoid. I just wonder why when I, a trans woman, provide my own insights into the threats faced by the LGBT community how people just argue the opposite of what I say or mock me. There is a real link between online hate and real world violence, it's just a fact. For trying to fight Russian backed anti-LGBT narratives I've had slurs hurled at me, been told to end my life, been called a man countless times, faced harassment, and even at one point had a cyber stalker. Yet none of this is apparent to people who think everything I go through is somehow not real. I got death threats from a Trump supporter this year, but I'm sure to other people it's "fake" and any fear I have for my safety "paranoia". Whatever, it's all for nothing. I get so much right wing hate and left wing people don't stand up for me when I need it. I mentioned the online hate to a nurse and the doctor ended my gender affirming coverage and care (I had to find a new provider). The doctor didn't ask to see proof of the online hate, to him it wasn't real. I tried to hang myself not long after, as someone had told me to "jump" (hang myself) when I argued hormones saved lives. Since my provider ended my care, I did what I was told since I had no community, no support, and nobody gave a shit. My own father said he had no empathy for me when people told me to end my life because I'm transgender, he blamed me for the online hate I got. Too much stress. No love. This is a cold world. People ignore every pro-LGBT thing I say looking for a reason to laugh at me, argue, or talk shit. Life is miserable. Another day of self harm. I've been on HRT since 2019, and came out in 2017. It's not new. Additional Reading:

LGBTQ community: Is there a backlash in Europe? | https://www.dw.com/en/lgbtq-community-is-there-a-backlash-in-europe/a-66675016 (September 2, 2023) REPORT ON FIMI THREATS | FIMI targeting LGBTIQ+ people: Well-informed analysis to protect human rights and diversity | https://www.eeas.europa.eu/sites/default/files/documents/2023/EEAS-LGBTQ-Report.pdf (October 2023) Russia’s War on Woke Putin Is Trying to Unite the Far Right and Undermine the West | https://www.foreignaffairs.com/united-states/russias-war-woke (January 2, 2024) Germany's trans community battles right-wing falsehoods | https://www.dw.com/en/germanys-trans-community-battles-right-wing-falsehoods/a-68065874 (January 24, 2024) What Project 2025 could mean for LGBTQ+ Americans | https://www.axios.com/2024/11/07/project-2025-lgbtq-rights (November 7, 2024) Hate crime data:

FBI crime statistics show anti-LGBTQ hate crimes on the rise | https://thehill.com/homenews/lgbtq/4259292-fbi-crime-statistics-show-anti-lgbtq-hate-crimes-on-the-rise/ (October 16, 2023) FBI reports increase in anti-LGBTQ hate crimes | https://thehill.com/homenews/lgbtq/4897184-fbi-anti-lgbtq-hate-crimes/ (September 24, 2024)

[cipheramnesia]

You're a disgusting being for interacting with the monster that is dead-dyke, I'll stab you both if I ever see in real life, know that

I figured I'd just publish this so anyone who wants to can see how fucked up call out posts are. Actually sending me a death threat because I did more than zero fact checking on a call out that's as fake and full of shit as every call out.

On a related note, in my research travels I found what I can only describe as a call out subculture. In essence, a loosely organized group who seem ferociously committed to making sure every single call out they find gets pushed and maintained. This is pretty interesting because it's a kind of resurgence of purity culture, a policing of language and sex that's done under the guise of being progressive or protective, when the reality of it all is oppression of outsiders.

It's not a huge surprise that they often particularly target marginalized people or anyone who shows support to marginalized people. Or, weirdly, seem to be able to suss out someone being part of a disenfranchised social group. For example, the above threat is also antisemitic. I don't bring up my background much, but sometimes it feels like they just... know.

And in a broader sense, I also see a trend of paranoia about sex or language being treated as something profane. My joking post about my neovagina is a good example, it being tagged NSFW or similar literally hundreds of times. I'm baffled and this seems like a good time to bring it up. It's a humorous post with no content that would rate higher than a pg-13 movie rating other than maybe some curse words. Yet it's out there being tagged like it should be 18 and over.

Which brings me to a strange tentative hypothesis that there's some sort of nebulous connection between these types of purity police and radical feminists, which would suggest they spring from a shared authorian or fascist source. And before you dismiss it as overly generalized, let's look at the facts.

Both of them share a use of progressive language designed to make it appear as if they're providing positive resources. However, they also demand uncritical allegiance. If you find any fault with their reasoning, you become immediately treated as a threat. Consider how radfems treat the concept of masculinity, and look to Judith Butler for how quickly they turned agaisnt someone who critized them - including going so far as to take an essay Butler wrote against pedophilia, and selectively pull quotes making it look like Butler was pro-pedo. Now, guess what every single purity police call out post claims? Yeah. It's designed to try to override any reason, and as you can see above, it works. Someone has decided they'd rather commit a transphobic, antisemitic hate crime over the simplest amount of review.

So they have that going on, a kind of low key recruitment to encourage violence and unthinking obedience as opposed to critical thinking. The other aspect is they are both obsessed with purity. Obsessed with having an unblemished legacy of absolutely unimpeachable, perfect behavior. With authoritarians this generally manifests in being able to show a spotless lineage, showing that you unfailingly support the party and its beliefs at all moments of your life, public or private. In radfems, it manifests in their opposition to kinky sex, sex work, devaluation of any woman who may like a man, etc. And for the call out and purity groups, it manifests as that you cannot ever have misspoken online, had an opinion which deviates from the modern accepted norm, never have done anything wrong in all your online history, because they will follow it back as far as possible, and pull something from ten years ago or more just to proclaim how terrible you are in present. Or to use a different example, I remember reading another callout which claimed the subject had got a bottle of champagne after a big fundraiser for rent or some such. And let me tell you talk about puritanism. Did you know you can get a bottle of champagne for ten bucks? Making it seem like someone is a monster for spending three cups of Starbucks on a small celebration is beyond fucked up, it's disingenuous bullshit.

So, yeah, it seems like a leap, but the devil of this is literally the details. The details which aren't included in a call out, the manipulation of language in a call out, the sneaking in of false accusations disguised as "proved" with sketchy screen shots. The demand of unthinking allegiance. The suspicious focus only on marginalized people.

My dear purity police people, my call out culture fellows, your true colors are showing.

(yes you may reblog this, in fact I encourage it, but as usual please be sensible and don't send the asker anon hate, or anything worse - we don't do that, just block or ignore them)

[no-droids]

Whenever You Want

Part Fourteen of the Rough Day Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11.2K

Warnings: Listen there is some dirty smut in this one yall okay like I was blushing when I wrote it, it has a very stark beginning and theres a pagebreak afterwards if you would prefer to skip over it. Smut includes oral sex (female receiving) rough sex, sensory deprivation, butt stuff (ass to mouth, anal fingering/penetration) so PLEASE LOOK OUT FOR IT PLEASE. Also there is jealous/possessive mando in this, season 1 Karga makes another appearance, and some angst/fluff towards the end

A/N: Nothing much today yoditos just love you all

***

Din said he’d meet you here.

You’re currently sitting across from Greef Karga in a cantina on Nevarro, a closed shield next to you and a blaster tucked into the back of your waistband, hidden underneath your shirt.  You’re barely even looking at him, though—your eyes are attached to the door by an invisible string, forcing your gaze back to it no matter how much it bounces around the room.

You don’t know where Din is, you haven’t seen him in hours.  But you do know that when he left, he was moving slower than you’re used to.  You don’t think anyone else would notice, but you sure did.  Not that he was obvious about it—you only picked up on very subtle hints.  Leaning up against things just a bit more than he usually does.  Taking slightly longer exiting the ramp of the Crest than his normal strides would carry him.

He didn’t say what he was going to do—just that he needed to find someone before meeting with Karga, and you accepted it.  But truthfully, you didn’t want to.  You were worried about him—still are, actually.  But for all intents and purposes, he was speaking and acting like himself, showing no real signs of exhaustion other than the smallest instances you described before, so you didn’t really have a leg to stand on.  He’s been through way worse, and you know it.  You just… find yourself worrying about him so much more than you used to, and you need to learn how to gain some control over that part of you.

The kid was still passed out from healing him and you remember Din carefully setting four pucks down in the sleeping baby’s sphere and giving his ears a gentle rub between leather fingers.  He turned back to you and told you to meet him at the cantina in three hours, but if it ended up taking him too long for any reason, to try your best to see if Karga will let you exchange on his behalf.

Admittedly, he didn’t sound too confident about it—the instructions were delivered with a tone that implied a doubtful, just-in-case scenario he wasn’t foreseeing happening.  Or maybe he just doubted the likelihood of Karga agreeing to do business with you, you’re not entirely sure.  All you know is that when he left, you were almost certain he wouldn’t be late, but you also took the time to grab the smallest blaster from his armory before heading out just in case.

Yet—here you are, three and a half hours later, eyes flicking between the door and Karga as you attempt to keep up polite conversation.  After turning down his offer of alcohol for the fifth time and still not seeing any glimpse of beskar coming to your rescue, you figure this may be as good a time as any to start the exchange.

During an extended break in the small talk, you slowly reach over to the corner of your booth and press a button on the face of the kid’s shield.  It hisses open and you completely miss the way Karga’s hand raises while three of his guards automatically reach for their hips.  The little green monster is still snoozing comfortably while you pull out the four glowing pucks Din left you and set them on the table one by one.

They scrape along the top of it as you slowly push them over to him, before sitting back in the booth and clearing your throat, flicking your eyes between Karga and his guards.  To you, nobody appears to have moved, so you muster a polite smile at him.

Karga smiles back, but makes no move to gather or inspect the offerings in front of him.

“Um…” you say after a moment, suddenly feeling your heart start to beat a little faster.  “Mando… Mando gave me permission to exchange on his behalf.”

“I believe you,” he drawls out in response, but the pucks still sit untouched in front of him as he leans back in the booth and studies you.  “Mando has always had a… let’s say, a frustrating penchant for disregarding the pillars of our code.  My apologies, young lady, but I’m afraid that I cannot accept these from you.”

Your voice comes out quieter than you’d like it to sound.  “Why not?”

“It is… unlawful,” he answers after a moment.  “Our organization operates under strict rules.”

Does it?  You blink.  No, it doesn’t.  You’re nothing to the Guild and you’ve sat next to Din quite a few times while Karga talked, listening to him drunkenly boast about return rates and out members by name.  You’re not sure why he’s barring you like this, but you’re also not self-assured enough to put practically any spine into it whatsoever.  “I’m… afraid I don’t understand.”

“I cannot legally do guild business with individuals not recognized as members in an official capacity,” he sighs, sounding grave and almost apologetic about it, but you don’t know him well enough to know if he’s a good actor or not.  “There’s nothing I can do for you besides provide you with my company, not until Mando decides to show.”

Well now that doesn’t make any sense, and you’re starting to worry that for some reason or another, he isn’t going to show.  Though it was incredibly well concealed, you’re well aware that Din was still lingering in the final recovery stages when he left the Crest earlier and all you have to go on is his word that he’d be here.  Something could’ve happened.  Something could be happening right now, you need to push.

“People pick up bounties for extra credits all the time,” you mumble, still way too fucking quiet about it.  Maker, you’re not even sure if he could hear that over the sound of the cantina.  Speak up, speak up.

“Yes, but those quarry are listed on the New Republic’s most wanted database,” Karga acknowledges diplomatically, educating more than he is arguing, before uncorking the bottle of glowing blue alcohol in front of him and beginning to pour himself another shot.  “They’re fodder.  Up for grabs—names, last known locations, and biometrics published for the entire galaxy to read.”  He tilts his head down at the four metal pucks on the table without removing his gaze from the gradually filling glass.  “Those pucks are different, they’re commissions.  Tied specifically to Guild contracts.”  Karga clunks the bottle back down again and corks it, pinning you with a stare.  “For all I know, you could’ve murdered a member of our ranks and come to collect payment for his bounties.  Can’t have that.”

Your blood suddenly turns to ice at the implication, eyes wide and your heartbeat rocketing as you look from Karga to the three guards casually stationed behind him.  “You—You think I murdered Mando?”

“No,” he says, easily and in the very same breath, before throwing the shot back and wiping his mouth with a grimace.  “Not sure I’d care too much if you did.  It’s not my rule, but I am required to follow it or risk losing my position in the Guild.”

Shit.  Shit.  What do you do?

You’re blank, left quiet and feeling increasingly unsure of how to proceed.  Karga, however, seems completely unbothered and even appears to be enjoying himself and your company.  He gives you another smile, this one a lot friendlier and more genuine than the one earlier, before setting his elbows on the table and leaning forward.

“Look, I want to help you,” he admits, keeping his tone light, “but my hands are tied.  Just relax and share a drink with me until he gets here, it’s not a problem.”

Fuck, you don’t like this, and a quick look around brings another reminder of Din’s continued absence.  Your chest feels tight, the anxiety starting to compound and make you jumpy.  It’s been too long—it’s been at least forty minutes or so of waiting by now and something just feels wrong about this.  Not having him next to you feels wrong enough on its own, but when he specifically told you he’d be here?

You clench your jaw and try to work up your nerve.  Karga is a nice guy, right?  He knows you by name, he knows who you are to Mando.  And while you never really thought about the bounty hunter’s omnipresent protection as being anything other than metaphorical, you suddenly realize that… it might be literal, too.  How much sway do you actually have here, you wonder?  You’re not stupid, you’re not going to try anything stupid, but maybe just another question won’t hurt?

“Well, um… how do you become a member, then?”  You ask him, and you watch as he leans back in the booth, raising both eyebrows at you.

“Excuse me?”  He asks, though there’s a genuine amusement in his voice.  Stunned that you’d even say the words aloud.

“I have four bodies,” you tell him shortly.  You’re still quiet about it, but his thoroughly entertained astonishment is beginning to rub you the wrong way.  You don’t want to be part of the Guild, you don’t want to be here, you’re doing this out of growing necessity.  “One of which I dragged through a blizzard on Hoth by its ankles and put into carbonite myself, so please just tell me what I have to do to get you to take them.”

“I can’t,” he repeats, shaking his head like you’re just not getting it.  “New members are only accepted if they bring in an S-level criminal from the database or if they complete a commission that was granted to them by someone of my station—neither of which apply to you.  If you cannot present me with any sort of reasonable argument for which they could, then I’m afraid this is not a favor I can swing.”

“I was sitting right here,” you return, suddenly finding your voice.  If Karga wants an argument from you to get this to happen, then you’ll do it.  You just need to finish this exchange, go back to the Crest, and scan around for Din’s signal.  “When you first gave the pucks to Mando, I sat right here and you pushed them over to this side of the table—I was present for the commission and now I’m here to complete it.”

He shakes his head.  “But I didn’t give them to you, I gave them to Mando—”

“Yes, but you only wanted to give him three,” you immediately point out.  “The last one, the one I told you I put into carbonite—you said you threw it in because you liked me, it could’ve been for me.”

Karga suddenly stops and blinks at you for a few seconds, and you bite your lip, wondering if the logic will hold.  It’s flimsy as fuck and you know he could very easily rip it apart if he wanted to.  It could’ve been for you but it wasn’t, he gave it to Mando.  You also purposefully leave out the fact that you’re also the reason Mando only gave him three bodies in the first place; your only goal here is to complete this transaction as quickly as possible and leave.  You don’t like the fact that it’s taking Din so long, and you also don’t like the fact that Karga seems so keen on keeping you here with him, no matter how many reassurances he provides.  He said he wants to help you?  This can be his chance to prove it.

After a few extended moments of consideration, Karga finally shrugs like he really couldn’t care less before reaching across the table for the pucks and beginning to stack them in his palm.

“What is your last name?”  He asks, turning behind him to gesture for one of his men with a jerk of his head.  The bodyguard exits the cantina without another word and your eyes flick back to Karga’s.

“Why does it matter?”  You ask uncertainly, watching another guard approach with a holopad as he shrugs once more.

“It doesn’t, but we need something for our records,” Karga explains, grabbing the device as it’s tapped against his shoulder without removing his gaze from yours.  “I can just use Doe if you don’t feel like sharing—most of our members tend to prefer anonymity, including your companion.”

Your eyebrows furrow even as your heart continues to pound, wondering how they can afford to be so lax about some things but take others so seriously.  “You have him down as John Doe?”

“First name Man,” Karga grunts in response, finally breaking eye contact to begin navigating through pages on the holopad.

“Ah,” you say shortly, knowing you’d probably find the joke funny in other circumstances.  You’re not out of the trenches yet, you still feel the worry tugging hard at your chest.

“Very well,” Karga announces with a sigh, pocketing the pucks in his leather overcoat and then handing the holopad back to one of the men flanking him after a moment.  “Someone is collecting the carbonite plaques from your vessel as we speak.”

You give him a nod, taking a deep breath that you hope is slow and subtle enough to not give your anxiety away.  He helped you out, you’re halfway through this.  Now comes the exchange.  Now it’s his turn to give you the credits and four more pucks, that’s how this should go.

Only, Karga leans back in his seat and cocks his head at you.  “Unfortunately, I believe we have found ourselves in the midst of yet another predicament.”

Your heart continues to slam, praying you haven’t somehow majorly fucked things up by getting this far.  Din still isn’t here, why is he so fucking late?  He nearly froze to death and you handled a dead body just to make this meeting on time, where the fuck is he?

You raise an eyebrow at him, willing the building panic not to show on your face.  “Have we?”

“You’re lucky credits are attached to commissions instead of rank within the Guild,” he prefaces, pulling out a large handful of them to begin counting, and your eyes flick around the cantina while you know he isn’t looking, “or else you’d be getting about half of what I’d normally give him.”

Heart galloping when you still don’t see any sign of him, you just decide to keep extra quiet as you watch Karga divvy out a sizable stack of credits, hoping your prolonged silence will protect you somehow.

“The question now becomes…” he lifts an eyebrow at you while sliding them across the table to you, “how many pucks do I give you in return, hm?”

Fuck, you don’t like this, you’re trying to make it crystal fucking clear that your intentions do not extend beyond the perimeter of this table.  There’s no you to be found in this deal, you’re just an emergency proxy in Din’s absence and you only inserted yourself in the situation to accomplish that task.  “I told you I’m only here to exchange on Mando’s behalf, that’s it.”

“Be that as it may…”  Karga glances around the cantina like he’s thinking extra hard about it.  This is a made-up problem, you both know there’s no predicament here.  He knows you didn’t kill Mando, he knows there’s no real reason to be giving you such a hard time about this, and you clench your jaw as he still seems to take his time considering it.  “Tell you what, young lady,” he finally turns back to you.  “Do me the honor of sharing one sip of this fine spotchka with me and I’ll give you four pucks to pass along to Mando.”

Okay.  Okay, you can do that, if he really cares that much.  Karga gestures for the closest droid to come by with a glass for you, but you just grab the bottle in front of him and uncork it without thinking too much, balancing the glowing blue liquid with two hands and diligently taking a small sip of it before setting it down again.  Appearing satisfied with your demonstration of upholding your end of the bargain, Karga grins and reaches into another pocket.

“Four for Mando,” he pushes four pucks across the table, “same rate and return as last time, as promised.”  You nearly deflate in relief as you quickly gather them up and begin dropping them into the snoozing baby’s shield along with the credits, but then Karga reaches back and pulls out another puck, pushing it over to you.  “And one for you.”

You blink at him, frozen in place.

“Lowest level, lowest pay.  Not even a criminal by New Republic standards, just a missing person,” he goes on to say, but then quite suddenly… 

Quite suddenly you’re absolutely fucking horrified.

You don’t want it.  Everything inside you surges up to scream that you do not want that puck.  It’s a waste of time, even if it’s an extra job—it’s too much trouble, too much fuel for such a small reward.  You already know good and well that Din won’t want to bother, getting this extra puck would be considered a detriment to him.

“What if I don’t want it?”  You ask, sounding nervous and vaguely out of breath as you look down at it.

Karga scoffs.  “Of course you don’t.  Nobody wants these, why do you think I’m trying so hard to pawn one off on you?”

Shit.  This is not at all how you expected any of this would go.  You know he’s not really asking, even if his tone and continued courtesy implies it’s only a request.  There’s an expectation attached to this, and it appears you take too long pondering an offer that isn’t actually voluntary.  Karga stares at you and your clear apprehension for just a few seconds more, before finally giving you an ultimatum.  “You said you’re here on his behalf.  You either take all five pucks now or Mando only gets three next time, your choice.”

Oh.  Oh, no.  This is a lose-lose; three pucks means more fuel and less credits, five pucks means more fuel and less credits.  It’s not like you have any real bargaining power here—almost everything he’s done for you today has been a favor of some sort and you’re well aware that things can always get worse.

Still, you take a deep breath and try your best to throw around whatever weight you have left in one final agreement.

“Give me your word you’ll go back to giving him four from now on, no more hassling or hard time constraints and we’ll take it just this once,” you tell him, trying to conjure and put power behind your words even though you’re unsure if they’ll stick.

“Deal,” Karga readily agrees with a smile, reaching his hand across the table.  You have no choice but to meet him in the middle and clasp it, unable to feel anywhere close to good about your performance here.  It was clunky and insecure and even though you just barely succeeded in making the exchange overall, you’re massively disappointed in the specifics.

But then Karga’s eyes quickly flick over your shoulder.

“Ah, Mando!”  He suddenly calls out, and your hand nearly snatches away from his while your body goes rigid.

Oh, this isn’t good, this is not good.  Well, it’s good that he’s here but it also really fucking isn’t.  You don’t even turn your head; you sit completely straight and still while the cantina falls to a hush and heavy footsteps begin to approach behind you.  You fucked up—you fucked up, you didn’t wait long enough and you feel the sharp regret instantly twist in your stomach.  He said he’d be here, why didn’t you trust him?  Your anxiety and stress compounded and spurned you to act too quickly, you made the deal a few fucking seconds before he showed up.

And, as Din eventually comes into your peripheral, taking his time leaning his rifle up against the table, you immediately realize that you should not have worried.  Recovery isn’t even a word in his vocabulary right now—he’s more intimidating than he’s ever been, more powerful and certain and dangerous while he lowers himself into the seat next to you than he’s ever felt to you before.  Everything is so quiet now that he’s here; you feel like even just swallowing against the sudden dryness in your throat turns into an audible gulp.  The man sitting across from you may own this cantina and every material good under its roof, but the one sitting by your side feels like he steals the literal air from the room just by walking inside it.

Yet, in spite of the daunting presence of the Mandalorian, Karga beams and tips his glass at him.  “I believe you’ve arrived just in time for your favorite part of the conversation, friend.  The farewells.”

You stare wide-eyed down at the table as Din leans back into the booth and very slowly extends his arm behind your shoulders, saying nothing at all to him.

The testosterone is radiating from him to the point of near suffocation, you can taste the alpha in the air.  Your heart slams in your chest at the unspoken claim he just made with a subtle movement, and though you’ve never been one for masculine displays, this one weirdly feels… good right now.  You know it’s primitive and crude and you’re not a piece of meat to be fought over, but it doesn’t feel like that at all.  It’s the immediate feeling of security that serves to heat your cheeks, the fact that you’ve been a nervous mess trying to be extra brave this whole interaction and then suddenly you have the backup of an entire army contained within one single suit of armor next to you.

If you weren’t internally panicking at how badly you screwed this shit up, you’d probably be going fucking feral for him right now.

Karga says your name and your gaze snaps to his, feeling like you can’t breathe.  “My associate has collected the plaques, nothing keeps you here any longer.  It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

Still, nobody at the table moves.

After a moment, you carefully glance up and to the side at the sharp, metallic profile of his helmet.  Maker, you can’t explain it—it’s like you feel terrified but not really for yourself, if that makes sense.  You’re upset with yourself for not having enough trust in his word, absolutely, but something in Din’s demeanor tells you that he’s going to be considerably less understanding of how Karga handled this situation than the way you did.

The helmet slowly turns down to look at you, and you bite your lip while carefully placing your hand on his thigh brace under the table, letting him feel your fingers brush against the bend of his knee.

He turns back to Karga after a few seconds, still not saying a single word, until eventually Din’s arm is lifted from behind your shoulders and you feel his leather fingers gently clasp your hand, before he starts to rise from the booth and pull you along next to him.  You both stand, and he silently presses a button on his vambrace without dropping your grip, urging the kid’s shield to follow along behind him.

“Um, goodbye,” you just barely remember to tell Karga as Din begins leading you away, apparently not waiting for the polite farewells he arrived in time for.

“Wait!”  A voice calls out just before you can make your exit, and Din pauses just in time for Karga to extend that damned fifth puck out for you to grab.  Right in fucking front of him.  “Can’t forget this!”

Fuck.  Great.  Thanks.

Blood rushes to your face while you go to reach for it, taking the puck and then placing it in the open shield along with four others in a way that you hope is casual but you know isn’t.  You close the lid on it and then squeeze Din’s hand slightly, but he stays rooted to the spot for a few more seconds, having watched the entire exchange play out.  Though you obviously wouldn’t be able to read his facial expressions even if you could lift your head to look up at him, you can’t will yourself to do so right now.  You’re too disappointed in yourself and nervous—you just stand there silently as he looks back at Karga, staring at your feet and praying he doesn’t do anything brash.

After too many moments of uncertainty, you squeeze his hand again and slowly begin to pull on it.  Without needing much pressure at all, he goes where you go, and you end up being the one to lead Din out of the cantina by the hand still tangled with yours.

*** 

The walk back to the Crest lasts an eternity.

Neither one of you say anything at all to each other the entire way there, and you know he’s not mad at you yet, but you’re worried.  You feel incredibly self-critical right now and it’s really not helping that he seems even quieter and more wound up than usual.  You don’t know if it’s because he already figured out that you just handed him extra work or if it’s because whatever made him late to the cantina also altered his mood, hit a reset button and reminded him of the way he used to be, the armor he’s wearing.  Was there a confrontation, you wonder?  Is he okay?  He seems like he’s… extra Mandalorian right now, there’s not really a better way to describe it.

He doesn’t drop your hand, though.  As you pass through the markets and shanty huts lining the streets, Din holds onto you.  Shoulders tense and strides heavy, but his fingers stay tangled in yours.

Regardless, you keep your mouth shut and eventually the Crest comes into view.  The ramp drops to the ground and the three of you make your way up, and you have enough foresight to carefully drop Din’s hand and lead the baby’s shield over to the unused cot built into the hull walls, closing him in a safe quiet place to sleep and continue building up his strength again.

You turn around to see Din press another button on his vambrace.  He stays with his back to you as the ramp slowly closes, but as soon as it latches up against the hull and locks into place, he nearly whips around and suddenly he’s right in front of you, gloves cupping your face.

“What happened?”  He asks sharply, the helmet looking you up and down.  “Are you alright?  Why did you look so scared?”

You reach up to rest your hands on his, blinking up at him and not knowing what to say.  How are you going to tell him?  He’s gotta waste extra fuel and time on a bullshit quarry because of you, what are you going to say?  You don’t even know if it’s last known location is nearby; he might have to fly to some remote, desolate corner of the galaxy just for a handful of credits because you couldn’t wait a fucking hour for him.

“I, uh…  I-I’m sorry, I just…”  But it’s nearly impossible to form a coherent thought when he’s this close to you and sounding fucking sincere, genuinely concerned about you while you’re stuck worrying about how to break the bad news to him.  “Oh, stars, um…”

“Did Karga fuck with you?”  He asks in that same sharp tone when you don’t finish your thought, but you’re so absorbed in your own conflict that you barely even hear him.  “Because I can go back right now, the cantina is just—”

“Okay wait, please—” You suddenly speak up, “before I tell you, just… please keep in mind that I did save your life two days ago, so…”

“Sweet girl,” Din rumbles slowly, a subtle warning for you to hurry up and spit it out.  His fingers tighten just slightly on your cheeks, still so gentle but needing you to communicate with him right now.

Tell him, you just need to tell him.  If he gets mad, then he gets mad, but at least he’ll know at that point and you won’t just be springing it on him out of nowhere.

“I fucked up,” you breathe out, eyebrows pulling up in the middle as you tighten your own grip on his hands.  “I’m so sorry, I fucked up and you were late and I got nervous and I didn’t wait long enough and I tried to make the exchange like you asked me to but then I had to take a fifth puck and I didn’t want to but Karga threatened to short change you next time around unless I agreed to take an extra one for the lowest pay just this once and I didn’t have any bargaining power and you showed up right after I agreed to the deal and I’m so so sorry—”

You cut yourself off with your own ragged gasp, not having paused once to breathe throughout the entire thing while your expression twisted up with regret more and more the longer he allowed you to speak.

Din stands there in front of you and doesn’t move, hands still attached to your face.

“Okay,” he eventually tells you.  Stunted words, like he’s trying extra hard to find them when yours just fell out of your mouth in a complete mess.  “It’s okay.  You did… good.”

The silence is tense and you’re becoming more and more anxious the longer he takes to speak.  He’s lying for your benefit, he must be.  When he drops his hands from your face and takes a full step back, you take the gesture as symbolic and nearly launch into panic.

“Maker, I’m so sorry I didn’t wait for—”  You start to say, but Din cuts you off.

“Did he make you…”  His back suddenly goes a little straighter, voice finding a quiet edge through the modulator as his fingers subtly twitch at his sides, “…Uncomfortable?”

You pull back at the sudden change in subject and furrow your eyebrows.

“Who, Karga?”  You have to think about it.  Did he make you uncomfortable, or were you just uncomfortable already?  You might’ve just been scared because you were making it scarier than it really was, you can admit that’s a valid possibility.  “Um… no?  I don’t know, not… not really, I don’t think.”

“No?”  He asks, taking a small step forward.  “You don’t know?  Or not really… you don’t think?”

You know you can only see the blade of his visor, but something makes you feel like you’re looking right in his eyes.  You even go back and forth between where you’re pretty confident each one is, trying to read his intentions right now.  It’s like he’s purposefully trying to keep space between you even though he looks like he wants to move closer, fisting his hands at his sides when he looks like he wants to touch you.

“No, he just… lowballed me towards the end of it and I got intimidated, but I’m also not…”  Your expression narrows in concentration while you try to find the words to explain yourself, wanting to be as honest as possible with him.  “I don’t know, I’m not like you.  I’m not that strong, but I’m trying to get better.  I think he was probably just being normal.  He did offer me alcohol a bunch, but I’m pretty sure he also did that last time, so—”

“And I didn’t like it the last time he did it,” Din says quietly, taking another small step forward.

You blink up at him, completely dumb.  This is what’s bothering him?  Is he really not upset with you at all for giving him more work?  It’s like the major fuckup on your behalf just went in one side of the helmet and out the other, he barely even acknowledged it other than the role Karga played.  He said it’s okay and you did good, which are like… five of the most common words in Galactic Basic, a Wookiee could probably find a way to say them.  How are you supposed to take that?  Were you just overthinking this whole thing from the very beginning?  You know anxiety tends to be irrational by definition, but has none of your panic from the past hour been justified whatsoever?

“Why were you so late?”  You ask him, but it’s not accusatory in the slightest.  It’s… concerned, worried about his well-being without having a real reason.  He’s clearly more than fine right now, he’s like a hurricane enclosed in metal and holding still in front of you.  Too much potential energy just waiting for a reason to be released, too much tension held tight and ready to snap.

“I’m sorry.”  He quickly reaches out to grab your hand and squeeze it, before dropping it just as quickly.  Fucking lightning quick, you’ll never understand how he can be so damn quick with all that extra weight strapped to him.  “It took longer than I thought it would and she’s not really someone you can rush.”  His response, ironically, feels very rushed, like he’s trying to address the tangent but also keep things on track, but something in the answer he gives catches your direct attention.  “Did he flirt with you?”

“Who is she and what can’t be rushed?”  You blurt at the same time, not even taking a split second to think about it.

Din stops short at the blunt question, staring at you in a silence that feels like it’s vaguely taken aback.

After a few moments of that… strangeness, of the two of you realizing that you’re both feeling slightly possessive over each other for absolutely no reason whatsoever, you start to feel… warm.  In another weirdly stupid, primitive way.  You know that letting those kinds of thoughts have their day in a relationship isn’t a good thing, but you can’t explain it.  Some deep-seated, prehistoric instinct inside you just goes fucking nuts whenever he gets in either provider or protector mode.  Now you understand exactly why he wanted to get you alone after you admitted to being jealous once before.  You totally fucking get it, you’re right there with him right now.  He hasn’t said anything, but you think he feels it, too.

“She makes things,” Din finally answers you, careful with his words and somehow managing to address your question while also sidestepping it, leaving you with only the smallest bit of information to go off of.  “Did he flirt with you?”

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly.  “Maybe.  He could’ve just been trying to be friendly.  What did she make for you?”

“She made it for you,” he responds, again not really answering the question but continuing to juggle two separate conversations for your benefit.  “Did he scare you?”

“For me?”  You ask, eyebrows shooting upwards.  Provider, that stupid cavewoman DNA whispers to your lower body, making your voice go a little breathless.  “You asked her to make something for me?”

“Did he scare you?”  Din repeats sternly, grabbing your hand and giving it a firm squeeze.  “Because I can go back, I swear—”

Protector, it whispers this time, and your knees nearly buckle.

“Everything is scary when I don’t know where you are,” you admit to him, knowing it’s the truth regardless of how self-deprecating it sounds.  The only times you’ve ever truly been brave was because of him or the kid.  Stabbing a Corellian and then immediately flying the Crest out to him afterwards, walking through a pitch black forest believing a dangerous criminal was hiding in it, dragging a dead body through snow and shoving it into carbonite, standing up for yourself and pushing a deal through when odds were stacked against you.  Though it’s nothing to him, it’s nothing, it’s leaps for you.  You’re slowly learning to find a backbone, and he’s the one inspiring it.

Din holds there for a moment, unmoving with his hand still clutching yours.  You can’t get a read on him but you know how you feel right now.  Achy.  Hot.  Needy.  Wanting him to come closer.

“Will you do something for me?”  He asks you after a prolonged silence.  His voice is quiet, but… incredibly restrained.  Controlled chaos—his body is rigid and he’s flexing muscles that aren’t necessary for just standing, feeling like a sprinter holding still on the starting blocks.

“Of course,” you breathe out.

Din lets go of your hand and tilts his helmet over at the corner of the hull behind you.  “Go turn around and face that wall.”

You freeze, immediately recognizing the undertone in his voice.  Heat ladles deep into the pit of your tummy, sends warmth pooling downwards.  He wants to do this here?  Right now?

“We’re—” you look around the enclosed hull, “Mando, we’re not in hyperspace, we haven’t even left the surface yet…”

He looks around too, taking a second to blankly take in his stagnant surroundings like he had absolutely fucking no idea, before turning back to you and not saying a word.  Maker, everything below your waist is already stirring, twisting hot and deep inside, but you’re trying to be the voice of reason for a second.

“What if somebody hears us?”  You whisper, and Din cocks his head to the other side.

“I can help you stay quiet,” he murmurs, and… fuck.  You don’t know what it means, but you immediately imagine his hand held tight over your mouth while he takes some of this stress out on you and you already feel yourself wilting at the thought.  Okay.

“Okay,” you breathe without needing anything else at all, before spinning around and standing exactly where he told you to.  It’s just a corner near the back of the hull, nothing else here to look at besides two metal panels meeting at a right angle, but that’s admittedly what makes your heart start beating quicker.  You can’t see him come up behind you but you can feel it.  Slow, measured, but so restrained.

But then he stops almost immediately, before the back of your shirt is suddenly being yanked upwards and you remember at the very last second.

Din carefully grips his blaster and then eases it out of your waistband, the metal sliding warm along your skin from pressing against it for so long.  You never told him you took it with you, and he’s so fucking quiet behind you.  You have no idea how he’s reacting to that piece of information you originally didn’t think twice about.

“Do you like carrying my gun around?”  Din’s voice murmurs soft through the modulator to you, but then the blaster is tossed uselessly to the side, skittering loudly across the floor of the hull.

“Yes,” you reply, beginning to shyly turn your head back to look at him, hoping to gauge his response.

“Don’t turn around,” he quickly interrupts you, pushing your shoulder back into position and keeping you facing the corner.  You blink at the metal walls in a bit of a daze but follow instructions regardless, feeling your heart pound at the sudden display of dominance from him.  He has a very valid reason for it and you don’t realize what it is until a few seconds later, but even if he didn’t and he was just telling you what to do for the fun of it… you’d still like it.

But then his helmet is carefully being lowered over your head and you shudder as your vision is replaced with a familiar black abyss.  Fuck, his helmet, why does he like it so much when you wear this?  Admittedly, you don’t have much time to contemplate—as soon as it’s fitted and secure, he spins you around and you have to just do your best to maintain your balance, not having any visual to help.

“Can you hear me?”  Din asks, and your clothes start to be ripped off of you.  Your shoulders tip sideways with how quick he is about it, feeling him pull the fabric off and hearing the soft sound it makes landing on the floor.

“Yes,” you tell him, but he doesn’t respond, continuing to strip you completely naked in the hull.  Once your upper body is bare and he’s yanking your pants and underwear down your legs, you try saying it again as you step out of them, louder for him this time.

“I can’t hear you,” his voice grunts after a moment.  You know he’s in front of you but you can’t really tell where, now that he’s not touching you.  “Scream.”

You take a second, not having hard evidence anymore but still very well aware that you’re parked close to a marketplace on Nevarro and multiple people are nearby while you’re wearing his helmet.  This is dangerous for him, and not sure if you should, but then an arm is wrapping around your back and a large leather palm rests directly over your chest.  Din repeats his last word very slowly and clearly for you, waiting to feel it under his hands.

Your sternum lifts while it rises with your deep breath and then collapses as you diligently yell as loud as you can into the helmet, feeling like you might deafen yourself with the trapped sound.

“Good,” he growls, suddenly spinning you around and pushing you back into the metal paneling.  “I can’t hear you, be as loud as you need.  Hit me or something, put up a fight if you want me to stop, alright?”

Arousal rockets through you and you let out a moan already, taking advantage of the noise suppression and beyond turned on at this point.  You feel like you’re buzzing with it, lit up with excitement and wondering with bated breath what he’s planning to do to you.

“Alright?”  Comes his voice from behind you once more, and you quickly jerk the heavy helmet in a nod for him.  You can put up a fight and you know he’ll stop, you don’t have any problem with that and the fact that he specifically made sure to wait until he knew you understood him makes you start to pant inside the hollow beskar.

But then you feel him flick a small switch at the base of the helmet and then everything abruptly cuts out and goes dead silent.

Nothing.  Nothing.  You’re standing in a pitch black room where no other sound exists besides your own labored breathing.  Just like the waterfall on Naboo, but you can’t speak this time.  Temporarily making you blind, deaf, and putting a proverbial gag over your mouth all with one powerful piece of armor.

You shudder and he kicks your legs apart before you can do much else, yanking your hips back while you just try your best to cling to the wall for stability.  You don’t know what he’s going to do, you’re completely isolated in here and the only way you can even tell he dropped to his knees is the hot glide of his tongue through your pussy from behind.

Oh fuck—you arch into position as best you can while hands wrap around your ankles to pull them apart, trying to make the angle better.  His tongue licks softly over your clit and each time is like an electric shock jolting through your body, making you twitch back and up for him, stretching and begging him to do it again.  You can’t see anything right now so your mind readily imagines the visuals instead, providing you with a third party view.  Din, fully clothed and face shielded by your thighs, eating you out from behind while you brace yourself against the wall, completely naked and at his mercy, head tilted down from the weight of his helmet and living for the moments he decides to drag his tongue across your clit.

Without warning, a sudden burst of sensation ripples along your backside and causes you to lift the beskar in surprise, but without being able to hear anything, it takes you a second to figure out that he just smacked your ass.  The realization comes more or less at the exact time he decides to flatten his tongue and follow the curve of you back and up.

You gasp into the pitch black and there’s a moment where you just hold utterly still for him, experiencing and processing the sensation for the very first time.  His mouth is soft and warm as he tastes you here, his fingers digging into the swell of your cheeks to spread you open.  You’re glad your face is hidden so he can’t see the shock in your expression, the way your mouth drops and your eyes close as you let him explore you this way.

His gloved hands leave you for just a moment while he continues gliding his tongue against you, along every single bit of skin he can reach, and then you feel a bare hand reach up between your legs and begin to rub slow circles around your clit.  His other arm pushes against your lower back and you’re forced into the corner even more, your naked breasts pressing hard against cool metal and feeling his hot mouth and strong fingers work you closer to the edge from behind.

You’re panting into the helmet, your hips arching back to feel that stimulation on your clit better, and as his fingers move over it slow and strong, you feel a soft vibration against your skin and you realize he’s moaning into you.  The knowledge sparks a different kind of heat through you and makes you suddenly go still and tense right here.  If he stays just like this for even just a few more seconds, you’re going to cum.

“Din, I’m gonna cum,” your voice warbles inside the enclosed steel—just as his touch decides to abandon your body.  You groan loudly in distress, completely alone without his hands or mouth on you anymore, but all he likely hears is the silence of the hull and the way your palm smacks against the wall with it.  You were so close, everything feels like it’s pulled up so tight and painful and it hurts—

A hand clutches your hip and then a thick cock is suddenly pushing up against your soaking wet entrance, going to alleviate that twisting discomfort.  Your eyes roll back and your whole body goes limp as he slowly eases forward and breaks you open, fitting himself deep inside where you love to feel him most.  Your hands claw down the walls with a swell of bliss as he pulls out and then starts thrusting—and fuck, you love this.  You love the way he’s trapping you up against the corner and making you see stars at the same time, the way he’s supporting your weight but crushing down into you, too.  It makes you go boneless and want to riot simultaneously, groaning loud into the quiet abyss as he gives you what you both desperately needed.

One of his hands sinks down between your legs to play with your clit again, while a slick finger presses up against your ass and you gasp as he slowly penetrates you there, too.  Din’s hips work steady and powerful behind you, pushing you into the wall with every desperate thrust, using the arm shoved between your legs to support you as well as stimulate, and you just feel yourself move into a different place.  You don’t have a name for it but it feels like hyperspace.  Silence so loud it feels suppressing, faster than anything light can touch, nowhere and everywhere, hurtling towards something you can’t see but know lies in the distance.  You can tell he’s still fucking the tension out of his body, you can feel him working another wet finger inside you and stretching the virgin muscles back there, but every sensation begins to slowly blur together in a wicked uprising of ecstasy.

You don’t know where you are anymore, just that his fingers keep rubbing your clit and you think he's trying to ease a third into you when your destination abruptly arrives.

You nearly collapse when you cum, contracting so hard around his cock and fingers that you cry out unexpectedly—and because of the helmet, you think it’s just as unexpected for him.  He stops moving—everything stops moving besides you.  Your hips stutter backwards into his stationary body, dragging your clit back and forth against the tips of his unmoving fingers and fucking him as best you can.  It shatters white hot and goes straight through to your soul, wringing pleasure and wetness between your legs in waves.

Your knees are knocking against each other when Din pulls out, his cock still deliciously hard and now soaking wet with your cum, and then they just suddenly decide to give up without warning.  You don’t fall necessarily, but you do slowly slide down the wall like a slug and Din follows you to the floor instead of holding you up any longer.  His sternum moves quick and heavy against your back as he breathes and then suddenly the same switch at the base of his helmet is flicked, and sound bursts into existence all at once.

He’s panting.  Harsh breaths behind you that match the rapid pace of his chest, and the ambient noise of the rest of the hull.

“Can you hear me?”  He gasps, sounding fucking wrecked, and you nod the helmet against the wall while gravity and exhaustion and his beskar chestplate squishes you into it.  “P-Put up a fight if you want me t-to stop, p-please—” he rasps out, almost the entire thing air and so close to cumming, and then his knees lift just slightly and the blunt head of his cock presses against your other entrance.

And, if you wanted, you absolutely could.  He’s got you boxed into the corner but he’s not constricting your movements, he’s given you every ability to struggle.  You could easily throw an elbow back against his side, push against the wall to shove him away, smack at his arms or even just flail against his body in panic—you could do one or all of those things to signal him to stop and you know he’d do it immediately, he’s asking you to.  You could struggle.  If you wanted.

Instead, you just grab hold of the beskar strapped to his thigh and drop the helmet to your chest, nearly vibrating with the thrill and preparing yourself for it.  You know he’s gotta be inches away from orgasm, you know from the tone of his voice that he’s right there on the edge and it’s not like it’s going to last a long time.  Thanks to him, you also feel like you’re just as slick and wet back there as you are between your legs, stretched open by his fingers while you came all over him.  You want nothing more than to give this to him, to let him be the only person in the universe that knows how you feel this way.

When you pointedly do not put up a fight and even go so far as to arch your lower back for him in presentation, Din curses and his fingers begin jerking back and forth over your sensitive clit once more.  It might normally be too much for you, but your body is sparking with lust and quickly acclimates to the stimulation, learning to burn and ache for it, too.  Fuck, it feels so good, you tense and melt into it at the same time, letting him ease you back up to that peak once more.

He pushes up against the tight ring of skin and you can’t fucking explain it—his fingers keep rubbing your clit and he’s slowly pushing into your ass and—

“I—I think I’m—” you suddenly lift the helmet to gasp out in surprise, forgetting he can’t hear you, “ngh—D-Din, I think I’m gonna c—”

He’s just barely able to breach the tight entrance and fit the head inside before he freezes—and even though everything happens consecutively, it’s all so rapid that it feels simultaneous.

Your hips could go forward, but they don’t.  Your body decides to send you backwards into him, pushing him inside nearly halfway all at once as your muscles lock down and just fucking strangle his cock.  Your piercing scream gets trapped in the silence of his helmet as you cum once more—painfully, madly and with every fucking part of you for him.  There’s maybe one or two mind shattering pulses of ecstasy before the rest of your body catches up and starts convulsing, and by then Din is already gasping and fumbling behind you, suddenly realizing what’s happening without hearing the sound of your ragged warnings and then ripping himself away just in time.

He punches out your name when he cums like you just fucking snapped him in half—his body hunches and the beskar digs hard into your back as warmth starts splattering along your skin.  You crumple while he shoves his hips up against your spine, riding and working the orgasm out of himself while yours just fucking obliterates you.  You think you whine his name—or a curse word or something, but it gets strained and your lungs lose air every time his powerful armored body humps you into the wall of his ship.

Finally he eases up and you just lay there and listen to the ringing in your ears.  Blissfully empty, still pulsing from cumming so hard and feeling like your bones just decided to stop existing and the rest of you was okay with it since you were already on the floor anyways.  You feel him shudder and twitch behind you, letting go of that last bit of tension until he too allows gravity to slouch his heavy torso over onto you.

You both stay like that for a while, until your eyes close and your everything below your waist goes numb.  Eventually you feel him shift and your head bobbles as the helmet is slowly removed, but a large palm cradles your chin to stop your face from slamming into the wall in exhaustion once it’s off.  You just continue to melt into the paneling like you’re nothing more than goo of a human being while he trades it back to its rightful place on his shoulders and tucks his cock back into his pants, before wrapping his arms around you and lifting you both up.  The floor and metal walls, once feeling like you and them were one, suddenly decide to disappear entirely as you’re hauled up into Din’s powerful arms.

He slowly carries your naked, fucked senseless body over to the fresher, and you squint your eyes open over his shoulder to see… he’s still got his rifle slung around his back while his cum is dripping down yours.  Not a single thing on him is out of place and you’re, well… a mess is a word that works.  Limp and doll-like, carried like your weight is practically nothing to him after years of having the densest armor known to the galaxy strapped to his body.

Setting you down is a mess, too.  At some point you think he just gives up and decides to return you to your humble floor abode with a patience and care unexpected from someone who just defiled you so thoroughly.  You hear the fresher door open and the faucet squeak, before he turns back around and crouches to your level.

“Stay here,” Din tells you lowly, his modulated voice coming gentle and warm through the sounds of water raining down against metal.  You don’t feel his touch directly, but your hair moves away from your face.  “I’ll be right back, okay—just stay here.”

Can do.  Easy.  He waits until you murmur a soft mhm to him before he leaves the tiny compartment, and then you soon hear his heavy footsteps ascending the ladder to the cockpit.

***

You don’t think you fall asleep, but the powering up of the Crest’s thrusters make you realize your eyes were closed.  Opening them barely qualifies as a squint though; you look around to see steam slowly filling the fresher, the water already running hot and welcoming in the small room.

You know you need to shower but you’re so fucking exhausted, you feel like you can’t even move your body.  You also know you can just do the same exact thing in there as you’re doing in here, you just need to muster up the energy necessary to get inside it and then fall back asleep.  He set you down in the small little space outside the shower door and then got everything set up for you, you can at least stand up and take a few steps.

Unfortunately, you might pick just about the worst time possible to plant your hands on the ground and work to struggle upright on all fours like a newborn animal.  The steady rise through Nevarro’s atmosphere pushes gravity down harder than you’re expecting—is he trying to fly quickly or are you just that dead-limbed?—and then of course, by the time you do manage to fight it and successfully get on two wobbly legs to hold yourself up, the subtle shift of the hyperdrive kicking in nearly knocks you back down again.  You stumble and grab the walls, bracing yourself against them and looking down at your knees in exasperation.  Come on, work.  Move forward.  Come on.

You’re glad he’s not here to witness this monstrosity, honestly.  Just opening the door and taking a few steps into the fresher is a feat—while you’re not in any pain and he didn’t leave any marks on you, you just feel… steamrolled.  Ran over by a truck.  Only having the strength to keep your feet beneath you as you finally move under the water and close the door behind you.

Oh, but this is wonderful.  This was such a good idea, he’s so fucking smart.  The shower falls warm and lovely against your body, wetting your hair and immediately heating you down to your bones.  You don’t move really at all—you kinda just stand there and slouch, closing your eyes against the spray and slowly breathing the mist into your lungs.  It feels so nice—not really restorative even though you like that word, it would imply the water provides you with any energy whatsoever.  It just feels like a comfort, a relief and sedative for your already wildly fatigued body.

You haven’t been in here for more than a minute or two when knuckles tap gently against the metal walls of the fresher, before the natural bass of Din’s unmodulated voice murmurs from somewhere beyond it.  “Hey.  Keep your eyes closed.”

How did he know?  You figured you’d be way ahead of him.  You’re standing but slumped over, wanting nothing more than to just say fuck gravity and pass out right here.  The walls are too cold to lean against now that you’re all toasty from the heat and steam, so you’re just unconsciously swaying on your feet, trying to balance the precedence of sleeping versus not falling over.  You don’t even comprehend the sudden flip of the light switch overhead beyond the fact that it makes it easier to snooze without being so bright behind your eyelids.

The door eventually opens at the very same time you realize you never answered him, but you just commit to the silence at this point.  It’s easy, you like it.  Soon you feel warm hands touch your shoulders, slowly spinning you around while you follow and hang your head, your neck not wanting to support it any longer, and then suddenly a bare chest is pressing up against you and powerful arms are wrapping around your body, and you can just lean all of your weight into him while your head rests right here on his shoulder.

He holds you without moving for a long time, keeping you just like this—your ear pressed against his skin while water rains hot and comfortable down your back.  Knowing you’re facing one of the walls, you crack your heavy lids just the slightest bit and finally notice the tiny compartment is dim and shrouded—the only light source is a single one coming from somewhere in the hull beyond the partially closed doorway.  It’s dark and quiet and you can barely see anything besides the metallic fresher walls and unfocused droplets chasing each other down Din’s naked skin.  Just you and him, flowing water with a sheet metal backdrop.

You think you spend an eternity like that and yet you still find yourself wanting another when he finally shifts, reaching over you to grab a bar of his generic soap but making sure to use the arm whose shoulder you’re not currently resting against.

It glides slow and hypnotic down your back, dragging up over your sides and then back down the curve of your spine.  He’s so sturdy and he doesn’t say a word while he does it, lathering it along your body and rubbing it into your skin.  His bar of soap, not yours.  They started out almost the same since you picked them up at the same vendor, but there’s just a slightly bolder and sharper scent to his that you recognize.  How the bar is far larger than yours because of how often he’s gone away.

Your eyes droop and you feel the water trail over your lips, dripping down your chin and pooling the dip of his collarbone.  The only other time you two shared this fresher was terrifying and he’s rewriting the memories right now, whether consciously or not.  Hot water, not freezing cold.  Standing upright and supporting you.  Heart beating strong under your ear, taking care of you this time until you can care for yourself.

You… you just worry so much more now, it’s becoming an issue.  You didn’t realize how much until you nearly lost him, and you know in your heart that he’s just going to go away again.  Throw himself into more danger, tempt death as always, risk his life for mere credits while all you can provide in return is this.  Skin to skin contact.  Someone to hold.  Someone who knows him, who knows the way he struggles between reaching out for a softness that life has always denied him and clinging to what is rough and familiar.  Someone to remind him that there’s still gentle and forgiving things in this galaxy that won’t disappear when he’s gone, and that he can always come home to them, as long as he can manage to find his way back.

Something sad tugs hard at your chest.  You want to tell him not to leave.  Again, again—you want nothing more than to beg him to stay.  You don’t have anything better to offer instead; if he asked you how it would work, how you imagine your lives would go if he wasn’t hunting quarry on a constant timetable, you’d be hard-pressed.  You don’t know.  But you know what you want to say, because it’s two words you shouldn’t say but always find yourself needing to say regardless.  

Don’t go.

But, instead of two words, you give him three.

Instead of asking him not to leave you again… in the haze and comfort of his arms, you think you just tell him that you love him.

And… you also don’t think the water falling down on the two of you is loud enough to cover it up this time.

It’s not ideal, you know.  You know.  From his point of view, he just got finished releasing all sorts of pent up tension on you, overwhelming your body with the strength and power of his in a way that normal people wouldn’t take as an expression of affection.  But you know him.  You know that he finds it much easier to express the things he feels in a physical way, which is why there’s a bar of soap against your back right now instead of his voice in your ear, telling you all the things you’ve always wanted to hear from him in return.  You know that sex is how this all began and it’s likely just the closest link between roughness and sweetness that he can really put his hands on, something that can fit him equally as well as it fits you.  Love is different, it’s thrilling and scary.  Even to someone like him, who lives everyday of his life surrounded by thrilling and scary things, who’s seen more bloodshed and suffering and pain than you can ever even imagine, you know that it’s scary.

Din doesn’t say anything back to your confession, and truthfully, not a single part of you was expecting him to.  It wasn’t said so he could say it back.  It just is.  Some things don’t need explanations, they just are.  You’re okay with that.

But, you eventually come to realize that he always waits until you’re just on the very edges of sleep, holding out until your blurry vision and fading consciousness can trick you into thinking you only imagined it.  You won’t ever figure out if it’s purposeful or if he just needs that long to find what he wants to say.

Another soft, lilting sentence in a language you wouldn’t be able to translate, even if you could pick out a single word.  It sounds so beautiful though, regardless of how mysterious and far away its meaning feels.  There’s something hidden underneath.  You ache to know what it is.

But you’re so tired.  You just whine softly against his shoulder, not being able to transform the thoughts into sentences anymore but hoping he understands regardless.  He can’t just resort to bearing his soul in Mando’a all the time now, especially when you’re always on the verge of sleep when he chooses to do so.

But at some point, his arms subtly tighten around you and the pressure is one of the only things that’s keeping you awake anymore.

“I won’t ever ask you to,” he says to you, the quietness of his baritone getting lost in the gentle spray and your looming slumber.  “I’m…  not allowed to ask.  I can’t.”

Your expression twitches just the slightest bit against his shoulder in confusion, wondering distantly what word or sentence you must’ve missed from before that would make him make sense.  Was that a translation?  Or a continuation?

But then your wet hair is slowly moved away from your nape and his head tilts down, face pressing into your neck and voice lowering until it’s nothing more than a breath against your skin, nothing more than a confession that he couldn’t ever say out loud with his full chest.  It’s a secret he only ever wants you to know, a truth he’s choosing to admit to even though you could ruin him with it.  You have no idea how much, you won’t know for a long time just how much power he’s giving you by telling you this one very simple thing.

“But whenever you want to look,” Din finally whispers, the only version of I love you too that a Mandalorian knows.  “You can.”

[that-disabled-radfem]

Happy back-to-school y’all

I’ve attended and worked at a couple of super liberal universities. I avoid the gender studies departments for obvious reasons and I still had a lecture in which the female prof gave a brief overview of TERFs and proclaimed her hatred of JKR. Being openly critical of gender ideology, the porn industry, kinks, and ‘sex work’ are the kind of things that can ruin your future in academia. Not to mention the fact that any speech or actions that could be labelled transphobic (ie. defining woman as adult human female) can get you a suspension according to many universities anti-hate-speech policies. 

So, here’s a list of small and smallish (small in terms of overt TERFery, some may require more effort than others) radical feminist actions you can take as a university student:

(this is a liberal arts perspective so if you’re a stem gal this may not apply. but also if you’re in stem maybe you can actually acknowledge that women are oppressed as a sex class without getting kicked out of school. idk)

(Note for TRAs hate reading this: One of the core actions of radical feminism is creating female networks. This is not so that we can brainwash people into being anti-trans. This is because female solidarity is necessary for creating class consciousness and overturning patriarchy. It is harder to subjugate the female sex when we stand together.)

Take classes with female profs. Multiple sections of a class? Pick the one taught by a woman. Have to chose an elective? Only look at electives offered by women. When classes have low numbers they get cancelled. When classes are super popular, universities are forced to consider promoting the faculty that teach them

Make relationships with these female profs. Go to office hours. Chat after class. Ask them about their research. Building female networks is sooooo important!

Actually fill in your end of year course feedback forms. Profs often need these when applying for tenure or applying for a job at another university so it is very important (especially with young and/or new profs) that you fill out these forms and give specific examples of how great these women are. Go off about what you love about them! Give her a brilliant review because you know the idiot boy in that class who won’t shut up even though he knows nothing is going to give her only negative feedback because he thinks any woman who leaves the house is a feminazi b*tch. 

(note: obviously don’t go praising any prof - female or male - who is blatantly racist, homophobic, etc.)

(Also if you have shitty male profs write down all the horrible things they have done and said and put it in these forms because once a shitty man gets tenure they are virtually untouchable)

(also also, leave a good review on rate my profs or whatever other thing students use to figure out if they want to take classes. idc if you copy paste your feedback from the formal review. rave about the class to your friends. do what you can to get good enrolment for that prof for reasons above.)

Participate in class. Talk over the male students. Say what you mean and mean it. Call out the boys when they say dumb shit

Write about women. If you have the option to make a text written by a woman your primary text in an essay, do it. Pick the female-centred option if you’re writing an exam-essay with multiple prompts. (Profs often look at what works on their syllabus are being written about/engaged with as a marker of whether to keep those texts the next time they teach the class. If there are badass women on your syllabus, write about them to keep them on the syllabus) Use female-written secondary sources whenever possible. 

(pro tip: many women in academia are more than happy to talk to you about their papers. expand your female networks by reaching out to article authors through email and asking them about their cool shit)

Get your essays published! Many departments have undergrad journals you can publish in. This will ensure more people read about the women you write about and will demonstrate to the department that people like learning about women

Consider trying to publish your undergrad essay with a legit peer-reviewed journal. If you can do it, your use of female-written secondary sources boosts the reputations of the women who wrote those secondary sources. Also this helps generally to increase scholarship about women’s writing!

Present your papers at conferences! Many schools have their own undergraduate/departmental conferences that you can present at. Push yourself by submitting to outside conferences. Bring attention to women’s works by presenting your papers. Take a space at a conference that would otherwise be reserved for mediocre men

Talk to your profs and/or your department and/or your university about mandating the inclusion of female works in classes if this isn’t something they do already

Sit next to other women in your classes. Talk to them. Make friends. Form study groups. Proofread each other’s essays. Give each other knowing looks when the boys are being dumb. Just interact with other women! Build those female networks!

Be generous with your compliments. A female classmate and I were talking to a prof after class and the classmate told me (out of the blue) that I always have such interesting things to say. I think about that whenever I’m lacking confidence about my academic skills. Compliment the women in your classes for speaking up, for sharing their opinions, for challenging your classmates/profs, for doing cool presentations, etc.

Talk to other women about sexist things going on on campus. Make everyone aware of the sexist profs. Complain about how there are many more tenured men than tenured women. Go on rate my professor and be explicit about how the sexist profs are sexist

Be active on campus and in societies. If a society has an all male executive or is male-dominated, any women who join that society make it less intimidating for more women to join. Run for executive positions! Bring in more women! 

(Pro tip: Many societies’ elections are super gameable. You can be eligible to vote in a society election sometimes just by being a student at that university — even without having done anything with the society before. Other societies might just require that you’ve taken a class in a particular department or attended a society event. (Check the society’s governing documents.) Use those female networks you’ve been building. If you can bring three or four random people to vote for you, that might be enough for you to win. Societies have trouble meeting quorum (the minimum number of people in attendance to do votes) so it is really super achievable to rig an election with a few friends. And don’t feel bad about this. The system is rigged against women so you have every right to exploit loopholes!)

(Also feel free to go vote “non-confidence”/“re-open election” if only shitty men are running. Too often people see that only candidates they don’t like are running and so they give up. But you can actually stop them getting elected)

Your campus may have a LGBTQIA+alphabetsoup society. That society definitely needs more L and B women representation. It may be tedious to argue with the nb straight dudes who insist that it’s fine to use “q***r” in the society’s posters and that attraction has nothing to do with genitals, but just imagine what could happen if we could make these sorts of societies actually safe spaces for same-sex attracted women and advocated for our concerns

Attend random societies’ election meetings. Get women elected and peace out. (or actually get involved but I’m trying to emphasize the lowest commitment option with this one)

Write for the campus newspaper. Write about what women are doing - women’s sports, cool society activities, whatever. Review female movies, books, tv shows, local theatre productions. Write about sexism on campus. We need more female by-lines and more stories about women

Get involved with your campus’s sexual assault & r*pe hotline/sexual assault survivor’s centre/whatever similar organization your campus has if you can. This is hard work and definitely not for everyone (pls take care of yourself first, especially if you are a survivor)

(If your campus doesn’t have an organization for supporting survivor’s of sexualized violence, start one! This is probably going to be a lot of hard work though, so don’t do it alone)

Talk to your student council about providing free menstrual hygiene products on campus if your campus doesn’t already do this. If your campus provides free condoms (which they probs do), use that as leverage (ie. ‘sex is optional, menstruation is not. so why do we have free condoms and no free pads?’)

If you’re an older student, get involved with younger students (orientation week and such activities are good for this). Show the freshman that you can be a successful and well-liked woman without shaving your legs, wearing heels, wearing make-up, etc. Mentor these young women. Offer to go for coffee or proofread essays. 

Come to class looking like a human being. Be visibly make-up less, unshaven, unfeminine, etc. to show off the many different ways of being a woman

Talk to the custodial staff and learn their names. (I know there are men who work in this profession, but it is dominated by low-income women) Say hi in the hallways, ask them about their lives, show them they’re appreciated

Be explicit with your language. When you are talking about sex-based oppression, say it. Don’t say ‘sex worker’ when you mean survivor of human trafficking. This tip is obviously a bit tricky in terms of overt TERFyness, so use your best judgement

That’s all from me for now! Feel free to add your suggestions and remember that feminism is about action

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tumblr 101

while there are lots of tips going around about tumblr etiquette and how not to be a dick if you’re new here, i thought it might also be helpful to share, like-- the basics of how tumblr works? if you’ve never used it before?

so here are some handy links to help get you started! most of these are from the tumblr help guide, which is a great resource.

tumblr functions:

tagging your posts

organizing with tags - one of the best tumblr features in my opinion is being able to tag your shit and then find it later on your own blog

lesser known tumblr features (check out the url tricks section!)

what’s the difference between primary and secondary blogs?

posting options:

drafts - yes, you can draft posts and come back to edit them later and post them whenever you’re ready. i also use this as a way to store things i want to be able to reference later without necessarily publishing the post so that i don’t have to crawl through my own likes to find things, but you do you!

queued posts - queued posts will go up automatically throughout the day based on your queue settings. some users have a tag they add to queued posts to make it easier to know what’s from their queue (usually with a ‘queue’ or ‘q’ pun wedged in there for fun), or will have different queue tags if they’re going to be inactive for some reason, etc.

customizing your tumblr:

how to pin a post

how to add a custom page

theme basics (how to enable custom themes)

custom html (this is how you ‘install’ most custom themes you’ll find on tumblr, by copying and pasting the provided code)

looking for themes? check out @theme-hunter, or their tags (#theme hunter, #themehunter). if you find a theme you like, i’d recommend checking to see if the maker reblogs theme recommendations, a lot of makers do!

do you want to install a theme that includes javascript but you’re getting an error? here’s a post about how to ask support to allow you to use js on your blog or your pages.

etc:

here’s a glossary of commonly-used tumblr terminology from staff

if you’re looking to enhance your experience, i strongly recommend @new-xkit-extension and/or XKit-Rewritten. i can’t live without some of the features they offer, like quick reblog and quick tags, truly life-changing.

if i think of anything else handy, i’ll be sure to come back and add it in!

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Meet the new music boss, same as the old music boss

In his 2020 book MONOPOLIZED, David Dayen describes a curious and brutal dynamic of monopolies: they breed monopolies.

"Consumer welfare," the dominant strain of antitrust for the past 40 years, has treated monopolies as innocent until proven guilty.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/01/29/fractal-bullshit/#dayenu

Companies are allowed to merge with competitors and create vertical silos, so long as no one can prove that doing so has raised prices. The only acceptable proof are the mathematical models invented by pro-monopoly economists, who are the foremost builders of these models.

Strangely enough, these models always prove that the monopoly is good, actually: not harming "consumer welfare." All potential mergers will provably not result in increased prices. All post-merger price-increases are provably not due to the merger.

Anyone who challenges these interpretations is derided for their ignorance of how these models work. Modern antitrust is a priesthood, and whenever a monopoly question arises, they slaughter an ox and read the future in its guts, which only they can interpret.

And strangely enough, the ox guts always favor monopoly.

Now, not *all* price-fixing can be waved away as unrelated to market concentration. In some cases, different companies in a sector will literally conspire to set prices, putting it down on paper.

When that happens, you don't need to make a model to show that price rises can be attributed to market power: you have the receipts.

This happens all the time. The record labels documented their CD price-rigging in the 90s, leading to a $67.3m settlement in 2002.

In 2012, the Big Six publishers colluded with Apple to raise ebook prices. They also put it in writing.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_v._Apple_Inc.

In most of these cases, the price-fixing is only part of the story. What's actually going on is more complicated: a cartel of manufacturers are conspiring not merely to raise prices, but to fight the predatory practices of a monopolist somewhere else in the supply-chain.

With the labels, it was big box retailers like Walmart. With the publishers, it was Amazon. These monopolists had cornered significant customer-bases for the cartels' products, and the monopolists were squeezing their suppliers for all they were worth - literally.

Here's where it gets funky. Remember that monopolies are innocent until proven guilty, and it's impossible to prove them guilty. If six publishers' CEOs conspire to raise ebook prices, that's illegal. It's collusion.

If one of those six buys two of the others - if Random House buys Penguin and Simon & Schuster - then the former CEOs of those companies (now heads of divisions in a single company) can do *exactly* the same thing with little fear of legal reprisals.

Antitrust law rewards monopolies and punishes cartels, so members of cartels merge until they have monopolies.

Which brings me back to David Dayen and his book MONOPOLIZED. The industry Dayen analyzes to demonstrate this phenomenon is US health care.

In Dayen's telling, the first salvo was the mergers-to-monopoly in pharma, producing the Big Pharma giants we have today. These massive, consolidated firm started to lean on their customers, notably hospitals, price-gouging them on medicine.

Individual hospitals were powerless against this pressure: a single hospital that refuses to buy cancer meds at jacked-up prices doesn't get lower prices, it gets dead cancer patients.

But if hospitals teamed up to demand lower prices, that would be illegal price-rigging.

However, if the hospitals all merged into giant chains, they'd be able to push back in two directions. First, they could demand lower prices on drugs from Big Pharma, and second, they could pass on high prices to the insurance sector, which was still decentralized.

Again, the health insurers were not capable of pushing back as individual firms. When all the health care in a single ZIP code is provided by one chain of clinics, hospitals and ERs, an insurer can't declare them all out-of-network - not if it wants to keep its customers.

But once the insurers merged to monopoly, they not only got to push back against hospital price-gouging - they also got to charge higher premiums and deductibles, and they didn't have to worry about losing customers, because there was nowhere to go.

This is really a story of shit flowing downhill - pharma pushes hospitals who push insurers, who push...us. The patients and the front-line health-care workers, from custodians and cafeteria workers to nurses and MDs.

Monopoly breeds monopoly, with each sector of the supply chain concentrating to defend itself against the other sectors, and to exert market power over those sectors that aren't yet monopolized. The only part of the chain that can't organize are workers and customers.

Historically, workers organized in unions to push back against these leveraged assaults on their rights, but the US has all but prohibited unionization.

The public historically organized through politicians who fought for them, but unlimited corporate campaign contributions have made such fights a distant memory.

And so every sector starts to look like health-care: monopolized at every level except for labor and customers.

Writing in Wired today, Ron Knox from the antimonopoly Institue for Local Self-Reliance describes how this dynamic is playing out in music, where the new bosses are all the same as the old bosses.

https://www.wired.com/story/opinion-big-music-needs-to-be-broken-up-to-save-the-industry/

It's not merely the Big Three labels colluding to rip off artists, it's also the tech partners who control distribution, notably Spotify and Youtube.

To the extent that merged-up behemoths like UMG exercise their monopoly power to get more from these digital partners, those excess gains are stolen from the musicians who earned them.

For example, big labels do minimum payout deals with Spotify specifying that millions are owed to them each quarter - but then they accept lower per-stream royalties for their music on Spotify. The result is that massive sums of those guaranteed payouts are "unattributed."

Unattributed revenues are not owed to any artist, so the label gets to keep that money. It's flat-out wage-theft, and it demonstrates the bankruptcy of hoping that a change in monopolists will make lives better for their workforces.

All things being equal, UMG would like to shift as many dollars as possible off of Spotify's balance sheet onto its own. But UMG will not, on its own, hand a single penny of that to the artists whose work generated those dollars

Which is why Knox says we have to break up all these giants - the labels and the digital distribution monopolists, including Youtube and Spotify and Apple and Amazon.

But, Knox points out, that will not be enough.

Because it's not just recording and distribution that are monopolized - it's also performance venues and ticketing (Ticketmaster/Live Nation) and radio (Iheartradio/Liberty Media), whose monopolists are rapacious wage-stealers and fraudsters.

The market can't and won't fix this. Take live performance venues: the vast majority of these are expected to fail thanks to the covid shutdowns. The private sector has a plan to bail them out: former WME exec Marc Geiger raised a vast warchest to buy them for pennies.

He will consolidate them into...a monopolist to push back against the Ticketmaster/Live Nation monopoly. If he pulls it off, he may succeed in shifting many millions from Live Nation's balance-sheet to his own. He will not give any of it to performers if he doesn't have to.

Knox's (correct) conclusion is that we have to have antimonopoly enforcement across the entire supply chain, not just in one or two sectors - from social media to recording to payments to venues to streaming to radio, we have to break them up.

And that might just happen. Two high-profile Biden appointees, Tim Wu and Lina Khan, are on the absolute vanguard of the new antimonopoly movement. Amy Klobuchar's (flawed) antitrust bill goes further than any initiative in years.

And most of all, the musicians aren't alone here. The fight they're fighting is just a part of the fight we're all in: not just every kind of artist, but doctors and patients, cabbies and riders, farmers and eaters.

Our fights have different technical characteristics and different structural remedies particular to those characteristics, but they are, fundamentally, the same fight.

The fight against monopolies.

[impossiblelibrary]

Today's rant brought to you by: Queer Eye Japan, can we all just try to be as kind as they try to be?

After watching the Queer Eye Japan super short season, I wanted to google to see the overall reaction to the show, make sure that my western eyes were correct in seeing the care that was given to the culture. Were cultural taboos, other than being outwardly gay, crossed? So I find this article in the top results and other than the perspective, why tho? Tokyoesque.com had an article with a higher reading level, with surface level appreciation but at least better written.

I can't get over this hate article though. Unfounded, dumb, wrong and incorrect. Do not go forward unless you like that blistering kind of anger from me.

But the reasons just get weaker as the article extends: "Hurts the country it set out to save?" Looking for white savior much? They did not go to save Japan, they gave some free shit to like 4-5 people, think smaller.

Their culture guide wasn't gay enough.

You want to suggest any lgbt insta models or celebrities, use your platform to raises some up?

"There is a growing sexless culture in Japan for married and unmarried people, and it is perilous watching Queer Eye present this without any context behind what is driving this behavior."

Sexiness is what the fab 5 embrace, unfortunately and it was probably discussed behind the scenes of how much talking about sex was allowed or polite and the conversation of not having sex is closer to the tip of the tongue rather than the feeling of sexiness. The West is not the ones blasting that information. It is across multiple Japanese printed newspapers and online stories by now and the "context" is still being discussed and debated amongst Japanese. So I don't think any outsiders should be weighing in or "explaining" this phenomenon. We can repeat what we have been told but guessing at the reasons is not our place. The reasons illustrated by the author of the article seem lacking, a take but not the only one, but who am I to speak on that being in a sexual relationship with someone who pulls from that culture?

Kiko begins to lecture Yoko-san on how she “threw away her womanhood” (referring to a Japanese idiom, onna wo suteru) by going makeup-free and wearing drab, shapeless clothes.

The mistranslation by the subtitles fixed by this author was necessary information. But Kiko didn't lecture her on it, it was brought up by Yoko before any of them arrived, that was her theme, that was what she had decided to focus on. Meanwhile, if you watched Jonathan, he understood there was no time to spend on makeup and skincare so provided her a one instrument, 3 points of color on the skin to feel prettier. That and the entire episode being the 5 treating her like a woman on a date, not trying to hook her up, which is what they did in American eps.

"In teaching a Japanese woman, who already struggles to find time for herself, how to make an English recipe, Antoni is making great TV and nothing more."

So Antoni shouldn't have taught her apple pie because it's too exotic for a Japanese woman. (Can you smell the sexism?)

He didn't make an apple pie, altho Yoko did mention her mother made that for her when she was a kid. He made an apple tartine after going to a Japanese bakery who makes that all the time. Then highlighted the apples came from Fuji in true Japanese media fashion. Honey, American television doesn't usually highlight where the ingredients come from. A Japanese producer told him to do that. So all worries handled within the same ep. She got Japanese ingredients, had the recipe shown to her and then made it for her friends in her own house. Did the author actually watch this show or nah?

"beaten over the head with his western self-help logic. “You have to live for yourself,” he says."

The style of build up the 5 went for was confrontational but in a "I'm fighting for you" way. It's hard to describe, but the best I can say is, a person has multiple voices in their head, from parents, siblings, society, and maybe themselves. By being loud and obnoxious, American staples right there, they are adding one more voice. You deserve this, you are amazing, you are worth it. I know this is against most Japanese cultural modesty, but maybe it shouldn't be.

Sarcasm lies ahead:

Apparently: mispronunciation is microaggressions, not just someone who had a sucky school system. Yea okay, They're laughing at the language not at how stumbling these monolinguals are with visiting another country. Mmhm. Japanese don't say I love you and don't touch and that should stay that way instead of maybe, once in awhile, feeling like they can hug. Yeah, let's just ignore Yoko's break down that she had never hugged her lifelong friend after hugging strangers multiple times. Maid cafes are never sexualized in Japan ever, just don't go down that one street in Akihabara where the men are led off by the hand sheepishly blushing. Gag me. And Japanese men love to cry in front of their wives and would never break down once the wife leaves. I have never seen a Japanese movie showcase that move. Grr.

"I identify as many cultures."

So you're a Japanese man when it's convenient for you to get an article published? Are you nationally Japanese or just ethnically or culturally?

Homeland is an inherently racist word?

"After the Bush administration created the Department of Homeland Security after the 9/11 terrorist attacks, a Republican consultant and speechwriter Peggy Noonan urged, “the name Homeland Security grates on a lot of people, understandably. Homeland isn’t really an American word, it’s not something we used to say or say now.”

Yes, let's use a Washington Post article rather than a etymology professor. Yes, the google search results increased after 2001 Homeland Security was used but the word has been around since the 1660s and I've read multiple turn of the century lit on white people returning to their homeland, i.e. the town off the coast they were born in.

"But" is not disagreeing. I think the repeated offender for the author is the not acknowledging the makeover-ees feelings. But, that is how LGBT have decided to deal with the inner voices that invade from society. They are just that, not our own, they are the influence of society, and we can choose, we have to choose, to be influenced by someone, anyone else.

Karamo can't speak about being black when an Asian is speaking about being Asian, even though the Asian gay man was feeling alone. It's called relating bitches, and I'm done with people saying that is redirecting the conversation, it's extending the conversation. That's how we talk, the spotlight is shared, especially when someone's about to cry and doesn't want to be seen as crying, time to turn the spotlight.

The gay monk wasn't good enough, you should have invited the gay politician.

Yeah, causes I'm sure a politician has all the time in the world for a quick stint and cry. They picked a Japanese monk who travels to NY because they had a guest who travels to the West too. Did you want him to stop traveling back and forth? Did you want a pure, ethnic and cultural Japanese gay man who has no ties to the west to talk to this Western educated young man? Seriously?

This is just not how it works in Japan.

Being in a multi-cultural marriage between two rebels, discussions on facets of culture are plenty in my household. Culture should be respected enough to be considered but not held on a pedestal like we should never adjust or throw some things out. LGBT being quiet and private for instance. "Being seen" was Jonathan's advice, and a good one especially for a Japanese gay man that was called feminine since he was a kid. Some gay men can hide, but as Jonathan said, he couldn't hide what he was, he couldn't hide this. So fuck it. Don't hide. It's actually more dangerous for a feminine man to come off as anxious rather than gay and proud. It makes you more of a target if they think you won't fight back. Proud means, Imma throw hands too, bitch.

This is also from the civil rights playbook going back to Black America: never hold a protest or a fight without the cameras, without being seen. LGBT have found the more seen they are, in media, in the streets, the better off we are. When LGBT Americans were being "private" about our lifestyles, we died, a la 1980s. They won't care if you start dying off if they never saw you to begin with.

And hence why I think the author's real anger is from these 5 being seen dancing flamboyantly in Shibuya, in Harajuku, afforded the privilege of doing this safely because of their tourist status, cameras and very low violence rate in Tokyo, loud and obnoxiously. Honestly, they wouldn't have been invited or nominated if they didn't want that brash American-ness coming into their home, just for a taste, at least.

Here's my real anger, my own jealousy: Japan's queer community currently does not have marriage or adoption rights. US does, so we have progressed further. But we are also not that many years from being tied to cow fences with barbed wire, beaten with baseball bats and left for dead overnight. If things are so bad over there, maybe take a few pages from the civil right playbook we took so much time to perfect and produced by the Black Americans who fought first. But so far, I only hear loss of jobs and marriages, which we still have here too. Stop trying to divide us, we are one community, LGBT around the world and we are here to try to help. Take it or leave it, it's not like we're going to go organize your own Pride parade for you.

Rant over? I guess. Is this important enough to be put in the google results along with his. Hell no, anyone with half a mind can see he's reaching more than half the time. And any argument about: this wasn't covered! There are a shit ton of conversations that are not covered in the 45 min they have. They are not a civil rights show, it's a makeover show, doing their best in that direction anyway. Know what it is.

Next blog post, what research I would guess was happening behind the scenes for each of the 5? I'm pretty sure I saw Jonathan doing Japanese style makeup there...

[tswaney17]

I Do Bad Things with You - Part 2

Here it is, Part 2! This chapter I think is my favorite so far. I really hope you enjoy it. This update is dedicated to a certain birthday girl, @verifiefangirl​ 💙😘 Happy Birthday Memenator! Please let me know your thoughts. I love getting feedback. Constructive criticism is always welcome. 

I also forgot to give credit for Cassian’s nickname of Cash to @featherymalignancy​ in my last post. 💜

Trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, language, NSFW

Word Count: 2,939

It had been a week since the robbery. Since her entire perspective of life changed because of one decision an ex-boyfriend made. The entire incident pissed her off to no end. What right did Azriel have to make her some sort of target? She was furious at the man she used to call her love.

Which is how Elain found herself on the sidewalk out-front of Knight Security, the company Azriel was the CEO of.

She had researched all week on the organization, on Az himself. There wasn’t much on him. No social media, no good internet pictures. He was in the background of a few of Mor’s Instagram photos, but they were all blurry. She couldn’t see well enough to know what he looked like now other than being larger than in high school. She did find a recently published article that had his name listed as Velaris’ most eligible bachelor. No picture, of course.

The company, on the other hand, was apparently very reputable. Providing some of the best security advances for the home, personal, and technological in the country. They even had a list of charities, both local and nationally, that they donated hundreds of thousands of dollars to.

What better way to hide illegal acts than behind one of the most reputable companies in the nation, as well as Velaris’ most eligible bachelor, she had thought to herself.

Staring at the large building in-front of her now, she was beginning to question whether this was a good idea or not. Taking a steadying breath, Elain climbed up the steps and entered the fifteen-story building.

The first thing she saw was the security check point. Patrons and employees were herded through metal detectors with security guards, yet the employees appeared to have a badge they could swipe in with. She stood in line until the security guard beckoned her forward. Dropping her phone, keys, and wallet into the tray, Elain easily stepped through the detector.

“Where are you headed?” the security personnel asked.

She picked up her phone and wallet, stuffing them both into her back pockets and shoved her keys into her front one. “I have an interview for an intern assistant to the CEO.” She was surprised how easily the lie came to her, especially considering she made it up on the spot, not exactly thinking through how she was going to get up to his office undetected.

“HR is on floor fourteen,” he said, indicating to the set of elevators.

“They actually said that somebody would meet me by the CEO’s office.”

The guard raised a brow at her.

Shit—could he see the lie?

But he only nodded. “The CEO floor is fifteen. You’ll probably be looking for Nuala, the assistant.”

“Yes, that was her name, thank you.” Elain headed off towards the elevators, feeling the guard watch her walk away. Pressing the button, she tucked her hair behind her ear, tapping her foot in show of nervousness for said interview. When the elevator pinged, she climbed inside, glancing one last time at the guard who was watching her. Luckily, he seemed to have bought her lie and was back facing the security checkpoint. When the doors closed shut, Elain let out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding.

The elevator rose smoothly. But as she climbed higher, the nerves of seeing Azriel for the first time began to flutter in her stomach. “This is such a bad idea,” she whispered to herself before the doors opened. Elain stepped out into a highly modernized reception area. White tiled floors with a dark, mahogany reception desk dominated the area. On the right was a waiting area with a black, leather couch, two arm chairs, and a glass coffee table. The table had gold accents to match the decorative pieces on the walls.

Slowly, she approached the front desk. Behind sat a dark-skinned woman with sleek black hair and blunt bangs. Elain quickly took in her features on her face, slightly uptilted eyes, an angular nose, full lips. The woman was truly stunning.

“Hello,” she smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Um, hi. I need to see Azriel?” It came out more as a question.

Her brow furrowed. “Did you have an appointment?”

Clearly, she wasn’t expecting anyone to see him. “Uh, no. I don’t.”

Her lips pursed and she clicked on her keyboard. “Unfortunately, Azriel isn’t available. I can book you an appointment for next month if you would like?”

Deflated, Elain shook her head. “No, uh, no, that won’t be necessary.” Stepping back, she headed towards the elevator when a thought struck her. If her name was recognizable by the robbers…

Turning around, she walked back over to the reception desk, leaning over to rest her forearms on the top. “My name is Elain Archeron and I need to speak with Azriel, right now.”  

The woman’s—Nuala according to the guard and confirmed by her nametag—eyes widened.

She was right. Her name was recognizable here.

Nuala picked up the phone, but Elain’s hand shot out, fingers pressing down on the receiver. “I do not wish for him to know that I am here until I walk into his office.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“You may follow me in there and escort me out if he so chooses. But I wish to announce my presence myself,” she explained.

With a curt nod, Nuala rose to her feet. “Right this way,” she said leading her down the hallway.

Elain walked behind her. She was truly beautiful and probably could’ve been a super model had she been three to five inches taller. Long legs, a slender body, hair the color of raven’s wings. Everything about her screamed wealth, beauty, grace. Elain felt infinitely inferior with her short stature and frumpy clothing style. Even her nicest, flowing dresses didn’t compare to the sleek white number that Nuala was currently sporting. She felt her shoulders curve inward in self-consciousness.

When they reached the door to the office, Nuala opened the door, allowing her to step inside first.

At the first glance, Elain found the office decorated the same as the reception area, but her eyes were drawn to the man staring down at the papers on his desk like they personally offended him. His dark hair was longer than how he wore it in high school—she could run her hands through it now. His shoulders were much larger now too, but aside from that, everything else was hidden behind his desk.

She opened her mouth, to say what, she didn’t know. Pushing down the butterflies trying to claw their way out of her stomach, she settled on, “Hello, Azriel.”

His head snapped up, eyes widening and mouth popping open in surprise.

She took satisfaction in being able to surprise him still.

His jaw snapped shut and he leaned back, a mask of cocky indifference plastered on his face as his eyes roved over her. “Elain Archeron. What a surprise.” His eyes flicked to the woman behind her. “Thank you, Nuala, that will be all,” he said dismissing the receptionist. He waited till the door clicked shut behind her before continuing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked, standing up from his chair behind his desk.

But she ignored the question, slipping her hands into her back pockets and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. The view of Velaris was spectacular from up here. She could only imagine how it would look at night, with the stars shinning above and the glittering city below. She could feel his gaze on her, still waiting for an answer from her. She wasn’t about to let him think he had control over her—over the situation at hand—so, she let him stew a little bit longer.

Finally, she turned to face him, arms crossing over her chest.

The silence that settled between them was tense. There was no other way to put it.

His eyes raked over her body, taking in the sensuous curves she received as she grew into womanhood.

She allowed herself to do the same, observing his massive frame that was leaning back against his desk. His own thick arms crossed; one ankle hooked over the other. He wore a full suit; she had never seen him wear a suit before. Even when they went to prom senior year, he wore black jeans and a button up. The suit and tie he had on now made her mouth go dry. Elain bit down on her lip, trying to rein in the warmth that pooled low in her belly.

The arrogant smirk on his face told her that he knew exactly what she was thinking. Exactly what he made her feel. The thought pissed her off even more and before she knew what she was doing, she stalked up to the man she once loved and slapped him across the face.

Azriel rocked back with the force of her slap, the desk behind him groaning under his weight. His eyes grew wide, hand coming up to touch the red print on his face. The shock on his face was quickly replaced by something darker. Colder.

Her palm stung, but she didn’t give him any inch. It might have been the most reckless thing she’d ever done, but Elain wasn’t about to back down from the man in front of her. “Let me tell you exactly why I am here,” she began poking him in the chest with a manicured nail. “Last week, the bank I worked part-time at was robbed at gun point.”

His eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t interrupt.

“After pointing their rifles and slapping the shit out of me, one of them saw my name and said the most interesting thing to me. They said, ‘Please tell Mr. Knight we apologize for harming you. We didn’t realize it was you.’ Now perhaps you’d like to explain to me why they would say that. Because I just can’t begin to fathom what Cash told me.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly did Cash tell you?”

Elain stuck up her nose, though he was a full foot taller than her at 6’4”. “He told me enough. To know what you do, who you worked for or who now works for you.”

He shook his head, thumb and forefinger coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fuck Cash,” he murmured more to himself. His eyes found hers again. “What exactly do you want me to explain, Elain?”

“I want you to tell me the truth. I want to hear it from your mouth.”

He sighed, shaking his head again. “Me saying it won’t change the feelings you clearly have about it.”

“Say it anyways,” she demanded.

“Jesus, fuck Elain. Fine! You want to hear it from me? I’m a mobster! I run an organized crime syndicate behind my very successful company. I’ve got money in offshore accounts, I control everything that happens in this city, and I end people who get in my way,” he spat, voice hard.

Though she knew what Cash said, believed what he had told her, there was some part of Elain that wanted it to be a lie. Because believing that the boy she loved was some killing mobster was a reality she didn’t want to face.

But here it was. The ugly truth laid out for her in plain and simple terms.

Elain stepped back as if she were struck. The words harder for her to hear coming from him. If one thing was clear, it was that she had no idea who the man that stood in front of her truly was. Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them away. “What happened to you?” she whispered.

Anger flashed in his eyes at the judgmental tone. “I grew the fuck up Elain. It sounds like you have more growing up to do yourself.”

Uncontrollable rage crossed her features and Elain moved to strike him again, but this time, he was ready, catching her by the wrist mere inches from his face. “You caught me off guard the first time but that won’t happen again,” he practically snarled.

Her sleeve slipped up to her shoulder, revealing the purple fingerprint bruises on her bicep. His gaze turned lethal. “Did they do that to you?” he asked, voice quiet but laced with venom.

She ripped her arm from his grasp. “You had no right to put me on that list,” she said, avoiding his question.

“You do realize that that list might’ve just saved your life?”

“That list put a fucking target on my back!” she screamed.

Azriel simply crossed his arms again, leaning back against his desk again and raised a brow. “You finished?”

She shoved against his chest.

He didn’t budge.

She shoved again and again. “Take me off the list,” she repeated stepping back.

“No.”

“No?” she demanded,

“No. I won’t take you off the list.”

She blinked at him, confusion, anger, and annoyance dancing behind her doe-eyes. “Why the fuck not?”

Despite everything they said, he chuckled, head cocking to the side, his hair sliding along his forehead. “You know, you didn’t cuss nearly this much when we were together.”

Now it was her turn to raise a brow. “Are you seriously making a joke right now? You’re kidding me, right?”

He leaned back onto his hands. “I’m just surprised. You used to blush when I would catch you saying ‘shit.’”

“Yeah, well things change,” she snapped.

“Clearly,” he nodded towards her form.

She sighed, thumb pressing between the furrow of her brows. She was getting a migraine from this conversation. “Just take me off the list.”

“You know your sisters don’t have a problem being on that list.”

She looked up at him at that. “I highly doubt that.”

He just shrugged.

“So, you’re telling me that when you told them they were on a ‘do not harm’ list or whatever you call it, my sister, Nesta, did not rip your balls off and feed them to you. Because I sure as hell don’t.”

The man before her had the decency to blush. “You sound so much like your sister now,” he responded but it came out more of a whisper.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said simply.

He sighed. “Have I said specifically to them that they are on a list, no. But I’m sure they know they have some protections in place. They are married to my brothers and all.”

“Yeah, they’re married to your brothers. Therefore, the protection you had placed on Rhys and Cash are extended to them.” Why couldn’t he see the difference? “Take me off the list.”

“Jesus, Elain. No, the answer is still no.”

She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted grab him and shake him until he saw her reasoning. “Why?” she asked, voice strangled in her throat. She was near tears at this point, her frustration reaching its breaking point.

He must’ve heard the change in her voice because his face softened. “It’s to protect you, Ellie.”

Her eyes hardened. “Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that anymore,” she snapped.

“Cash and Rhys call you that,” he countered.

“Cash and Rhys didn’t break my heart ten fucking years ago!”

He stopped, blinking at her. Several emotions passed over his face, but she couldn’t seem to place them fast enough.

The silence between seemed to stretch for an eternity.

Elain took a deep breath, trying to compose herself. To compose her emotions that threatened to swallow her. When she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to make decisions about my life. It’s been ten years, Azriel, since we were together. Nobody would make that connection to me, even through your brother’s marriage to my sisters. Nobody would even think to use me against you. Please take me off the list.”

He crossed his arms again. “I’m sorry Elain, but my answer remains the same. Taking you off now would rouse suspicion.”

Silver lined her eyes and she let out a frustrated groan, pulling at her hair. “The boy I loved in high school would’ve never made a decision about my life. He let me choose for myself,” she spat. Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and strode for the door.

“I’m not the same boy you knew in high school, Elain,” he called out.

Pausing, hand on the door, she turned and looked back at him, his mouth parting when he saw the tears running down her face. “I don’t believe you. You’re just too scared to let him see the monster you’ve become.”

Her words hit their mark and she watched as the big, powerful mob-boss flinched.

Physically flinched.

She didn’t let him reply as she open the door and headed out towards the lobby to the elevator. When she clicked the button inside the elevator for the ground floor, she saw him standing just outside of his office door, watching her as the doors slid shut.

Only when she was safely confined to the elevator did she let out the sob she had been choking down. The first time she had seen Azriel in ten years and she slapped him. They never fought when they were together except for that day when he broke up with her after graduation. He was always so attentive to her. Kind to her.

But what she saw in that office was not the same person she knew. And she had a sinking feeling that that conversation was far from over.

~~~~~

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[dontmindmyshadowhunting]

To never being parted - Part 2 Chap 4 - The Birthday Party

This is the Chapter 4 of the mini sequel to my flower cards inspired Kitty Fan Fic “Am I Forgotten?”

AO3 Link here.

****

As it turned out, Jace absolutely loved his surprise. He jumped in the pop-out cake to hug Kit, who pushed him away, and they ended up rolling and wrestling amidst the vanilla buttercream, with a crowd of onlookers cheering. The most enthusiastic was Mina, who shrieked with delight during the entire fight.

They both had to change after that, which was a relief. Tessa had to hastily recover Kit’s dress from Mina, who had undertaken to lick the fabric drenched in vanilla frosting.

The party was as decadent as any party organized by Magnus Bane could be. Dark blue velvet banners hung from the ceiling, stitched with the design of stars which seemed to shine, as if the guests were standing under the night sky. Candles glowed from every surface. Magnus had magicked up a small playground for the kids in one corner of the room, far from the chocolate fountains.

Kit carried Mina around on his shoulders for two solid hours before she finally asked him to put him down. When he did, she whispered in his ear. “When I am older, I am going to marry that tall and handsome Centurion bodyguard who has been following us everywhere… He takes such good care of my big brother.” Kit felt all the blood drain from his face.

****

The dinner table was covered with food from all around the world but Kit settled for a burger. He noticed that Julian had made the same choice although he saw him slip his lettuce to King Kieran, who had decided to make an appearance for Jace’s birthday party. He was seated between Mark and Cristina, and both were trying to get him to taste Mexican food. He shot Julian a grateful look.  

“So, has Ty been sleeping in front of your bedroom, as he used to in Los Angeles? That was so cute!” Cristina asked Kit, in a cheerful voice.

“Of course not”, Kit replied. “He is absolutely welcome to my bed now.”

Everyone around the table froze before turning to look at him. Shit. Did he say that out loud?  

Kit moved his gaze towards the only person whose opinion mattered in the case.

Ty, who was seated next to Dru and Jaime Rosales, was staring at him open-mouthed, his cheeks flushed. Oh well, thought Kit. I am not taking it back anyway. If I said I was joking, Ty would take it literally. And we wouldn’t want that now, would we?

Kit shrugged and went back to eating his burger.

****

After dinner, there was a cluster of girls around Lily Chen, who was seated on a chair flaunting the Hot Shadowhunters calendar, as if it was the best book of the year.

She had decided to publish a first edition, as an experiment, in an attempt to boost the Clave’s revenues. Alec had been reluctant at first, but even he couldn’t deny the incredible success of the calendar after only a few weeks of sales. It had been sold to both Shadowhunters and Downworlders, entire stalls being dedicated to it in several Shadow Markets around the world.

King Kieran himself had bought several to add to his collection which included kitten and mundane firefighters calendars.

“So, of course we have Jace for the month of January. That one - and Mark Blackthorn’s - were the easiest pictures to obtain,” Lily explained as she enthralled her audience by flipping through the pages of the calendar.

On the front page, Jace was almost entirely naked, a well positioned sword covering his most intimate parts. Mark was just as barely dressed, poetically covered in roses and thorns.

“I had to negotiate with Magnus for Alec’s picture but as it turns out, I am quite happy with what he provided.” Magnus winked. In the picture, Alec was half naked, his muscles flexed as he was pulling an arrow to his bow. His skin was covered with black marks which stood in stark contrast with his white skin.

“Here we have Jem. Although he is officially retired from the Clave, we couldn’t do this without him. He is much too popular with the Shadow Markets’ crowd. He is only half naked of course, but compared to what people used to see of him when he was a Silent Brother, this looks like porn.” Most of the girls giggled.

“This is Simon, it was easy enough to obtain a picture of him. I just had to offer him a limited edition of a light-saver…”

“A lightsaber,” Isabelle corrected.

“Whatever. The most difficult one to obtain was Julian Blackthorn’s, of course,” Lily continued. “I had to hire a professional photographer…”

“You mean a paparazzi,” Emma interrupted.

“Emma almost broke his arm…”

“He was lurking behind a rock, taking pictures of Julian while he was surfing…”

“But apparently you both found an arrangement.”

Emma stared off into space. “He does have talent. He took amazing pictures of Julian on his surfboard… I made an album of them. He’s going to be our wedding’s photographer. Free of charge.”

“That’s my girl,” Julian said, raising his hand for a high five, though not moving his gaze from Tavvy.

Lily turned to Kit and Ty, then, pointing two fingers at her eyes and at them. “Now that you have come of age, I have got my eyes on you boys.”

Ty looked terrified but Kit only shrugged.

****

Kit danced with a lot of people. Mina, mostly, but also Clary, Isabelle, Emma, Dru, Aline and even Lily, who kept giving him a variety of nicknames. Mostly food-related. When he waltzed with Tessa, everyone stopped to observe their graceful twirls, and they were given a round of applause. Kit had to admit he was quite smug about it. Not a single dance with Ty though, who had mostly been hiding in a corner with his headphones on, his arms crossed, though a friend of Dru’s kept talking animatedly to him. He didn’t seem to notice.

After a dozen dances, Kit was exhausted and parched. As he moved towards the buffet to get something to drink, Emma and Cristina appeared out of nowhere to stand in his path, their faces alight with excitement. Kit had noticed that when Emma was not glued to Julian’s side, she was always running around with Cristina and Mark, like an iconic trio of besties.

“Welcome to the club,” they said in unison. Had they rehearsed that?

“What club?”

“The club of fearless warriors who decided to take the hazardous path of dating Blackthorn men,” Emma replied with an ominous voice.

“One word of advice,” Cristina said. “Get as much sleep as you can, while you can.”

“What?” Kit was puzzled.

“Hmmm, how to explain…” Emma put one finger on her mouth, her expression thoughtful. “Have you ever wondered why there are so many of them?”

“The Blackthorns you mean? Er- because they like kids?” Kit answered.

“True enough,” Emma replied, winking at him.

“What else is there?” Kit asked, as he had the feeling he was missing something.

Emma and Cristina burst into fits of laughter, clutching each other for support.

Kit shrugged and considered it as his cue to leave. Ty had already left the party an hour ago and Kit was wondering whether he should stop by his room to watch him sleep. Just a little peek. Ok, no, that was creepy.

As he was heading towards the door to leave the party inconspicuously, Kit was stopped mid-flight by a hand grasping his shoulder.

“Not so fast, Kit Herondale.”

Kit turned to meet Julian’s blue-green eyes. He was a different version of the Julian he had known.

The shape of his face was sharper, his features more chiseled and his luscious Blackthorn waves longer. There were no longer circles under his eyes and Kit had noticed that he had stopped biting his fingernails. He seemed happier, more rested. Almost… glowing.

Kit had to admit he was stunning. But I am already head over heels in love with his brother, Kit was reminded.

According to Jace, Julian had been a close and trusted advisor of Alec for the past few years, the Consul relying on him for war strategy and delicate political matters.

During the time he had spent in Los Angeles, Kit had witnessed how dangerous Julian’s sharp mind could be when he decided to use it. How deadly. And that was tired, restless Julian. Glowing Julian… their enemies would never know what had hit them.

Julian’s gaze moved to Kit’s chest, where the Blackthorn locket was resting.

“I see that Ty has given you his and Livvy’s pendant. I trust that you know what this means.”

His blue-green eyes were now boring into Kit’s, and Kit could not help but feel exposed, as if Julian was not looking into his eyes but straight into his head, accessing his mind.

“I do. This is it, for Ty. I am it . First and last. There won’t ever be anyone else for him.”

“What about you?” Julian’s gaze was still burning holes through Kit’s eyes.

Kit sighed. “You know what they say. Herondales love but once.”

“And you just realized that, where you are concerned, this is true?”

“No, Julian. I had already realized that three years ago.”

Kit turned to move, but Julian caught him by the arm.

“You already know what I am going to say next, don’t you?”

“Julian, I have witnessed what you were capable of in order to protect your family. I’d rather be facing the nine Princes of Hell.”

“Good,” was all Julian said, letting him go.

****

Tagging @darkkitai

[welllpthisishappening]

Welllp These Are Books: the March 2021 Edition

There aren’t even any pictures! Except in that one book where there were pictures! It was weird! This was a weird book month! Back at it again with thoughts and opinions about a whole mess of books that no one explicitly asked for, but I’ve got lots of thoughts and opinions and they only count if I share them on the internet. Seriously, someone let me go to a baseball game soon. Obligatory warning for spoilers and vaguely unhinged rants under the cut. As always, feel free to come tell me what else I should be reading at literally any time ever.

Best Book of the Month Honors Goes to This Book, Even Though They Called It Halftime at a Hockey Game. A Hockey Game!

The Dating Plan by Sara Desai

Daisy Patel is a software engineer who understands lists and logic better than bosses and boyfriends. With her life all planned out, and no interest in love, the one thing she can't give her family is the marriage they expect. Left with few options, she asks her childhood crush to be her decoy fiancé. Liam Murphy is a venture capitalist with something to prove. When he learns that his inheritance is contingent on being married, he realizes his best friend's little sister has the perfect solution to his problem. A marriage of convenience will get Daisy's matchmaking relatives off her back and fulfill the terms of his late grandfather's will. If only he hadn’t broken her tender teenage heart nine years ago… Sparks fly when Daisy and Liam go on a series of dates to legitimize their fake relationship. Too late, they realize that very little is convenient about their arrangement. History and chemistry aren't about to follow the rules of this engagement.

— Ok, it’s important to know that I really did love this book. It hit all my trope-wants. Childhood friends, incredibly stupid misunderstandings, pining, seriously God the pining, fake engagement, BANTER. It was all going great. I was occasionally swooning. They kept making out! And then! THEN. They went to a hockey game. On a date. A fake date. Cool, cool, cool. All tropes, all the time right? Not so fast, internet! Because these self-proclaimed Sharks SUPER FANS referred to intermission as “halftime was coming up.” Halftime! At a hockey game! That’s—that’s not how hockey works! If this hadn’t been “traditionally” published, I probably could have let it slide. But that was not the case. This was a “real” book with, I can only assume, real editors. All of whom saw the words halftime and hockey near each other and we’re like YEAH, PRINT THAT SHIT. I read that at nearly one in the morning and seriously considered waking Justin up to be like CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS IS IN A REAL BOOK? Anyway, it was still real cute. Everyone lived happily ever after. It made want to eat samosas.

This Book Had Pictures, It Was Weird

Clean Sweep by Ilona Andrews

On the outside, Dina Demille is the epitome of normal. She runs a quaint Victorian Bed and Breakfast in a small Texas town, owns a Shih Tzu named Beast, and is a perfect neighbor, whose biggest problem should be what to serve her guests for breakfast. But Dina is...different:  Her broom is a deadly weapon; her Inn is magic and thinks for itself. Meant to be a lodging for otherworldly visitors, the only permanent guest is a retired Galactic aristocrat who can’t leave the grounds because she’s responsible for the deaths of millions and someone might shoot her on sight. Under the circumstances, "normal" is a bit of a stretch for Dina.

And now, something with wicked claws and deepwater teeth has begun to hunt at night...Feeling responsible for her neighbors, Dina decides to get involved. Before long, she has to juggle dealing with the annoyingly attractive, ex-military, new neighbor, Sean Evans—an alpha-strain werewolf—and the equally arresting cosmic vampire soldier, Arland, while trying to keep her inn and its guests safe. But the enemy she’s facing is unlike anything she’s ever encountered before. It’s smart, vicious, and lethal, and putting herself between this creature and her neighbors might just cost her everything.

— So, Ilona Andrews is a name that keeps coming up because when I borrow a book from the library I have to go through Kindle and Amazon is like...here are some other absurd fantasy romances you’d enjoy. Also, one of her other series had been recc’ed to me. Only problem? The first book in that series is the only book in that series not available at my library. So, I was like, ok, I’ll start this one instead. It was...weird. Honestly, it felt like I’d been dropped in the middle of the story and the narrator was like, well why don’t you already know what’s going on? In theory the world building was cool. (I was not expecting alien werewolves, lemme tell you that!) But also it all felt very rushed and the end just sorta happened.

In Which I Continue to Love “Same Verse” Books & No One Else Had Sex in the Port Jeff High School Dugout. For Which I Was Grateful

Love Her or Lose Her by Tessa Bailey

Rosie and Dominic Vega are the perfect couple: high school sweethearts, best friends, madly in love. Well, they used to be anyway. Now Rosie’s lucky to get a caveman grunt from the ex-soldier every time she walks in the door. Dom is faithful and a great provider, but the man she fell in love with ten years ago is nowhere to be found. When her girlfriends encourage Rosie to demand more out of life and pursue her dream of opening a restaurant, she decides to demand more out of love, too. Three words: marriage boot camp.

Never in a million years did Rosie believe her stoic, too-manly-to-emote husband would actually agree to relationship rehab with a weed-smoking hippie. Dom talking about feelings? Sitting on pillows? Communing with nature? Learning love languages? Nope. But to her surprise, he’s all in, and it forces her to admit her own role in their cracked foundation. As they complete one ridiculous—yet surprisingly helpful—assignment after another, their remodeled relationship gets stronger than ever. Except just as they’re getting back on track, Rosie discovers Dom has a secret... and it could demolish everything.

— Listen, one of my absolutely favorite tropes that I do not think gets enough love in the world is COMMITTED LONG-LASTING RELATIONSHIPS. And, like, ok, sure the premise of this was that they were separating in that long-lasting relationship. But no one really believed that, did they? Rosie and Dominic were real cute and their banter was good and I wasn’t totally skeeved out when they literally fucked on the kitchen floor. So, I think that’s saying something. Also, also! I seriously appreciated the realism of this book because no one on Long Island would ever call Manhattan Manhattan. It’s the city. Every other borough gets a name, but Manhattan is just the city and I nearly cheered when they said that. But also, no one’s taking a cab from Port Jeff to the Meatpacking District. You know what that would cost? God.

Tools of Engagement by Tessa Bailey

Hair, makeup, clothing, decor... everything in Bethany Castle's world is organized, planned, and styled to perfection. Which is why the homes she designs for her family's real estate business are the most coveted in town. The only thing not perfect? Her track record with men. She's on a dating hiatus and after helping her friends achieve their dreams, Bethany finally has time to focus on her own: flip a house, from framework to furnishings, all by herself. Except her older brother runs the company and refuses to take her seriously.

When a television producer gets wind of the Castle sibling rivalry, they’re invited on Flip Off, a competition to see who can do the best renovation. Bethany wants bragging rights, but she needs a crew and the only member of her brother's construction team willing to jump ship is Wes Daniels, the new guy in town. His Texas drawl and handsome face got under Bethany's skin on day one, and the last thing she needs is some cocky young cowboy in her way.

As the race to renovate heats up, Wes and Bethany are forced into close quarters, trading barbs and biting banter as they remodel the ugliest house on the block. It's a labor of love, hate, and everything in between, and soon sparks are flying. But Bethany's perfectly structured life is one kiss away from going up in smoke and she knows falling for a guy like Wes would be a flipping disaster.

— It should first be noted that in the three books of this series, I could not and cannot understand why Bethany’s brother was such a monumental dick. He was just...he was a dick. His marriage was awful. How long was his wife pregnant without him knowing???? I digress. This continued to be cute, Bethany was a legit heroine as far as those rom-com things go, Wes was very Texas and that got a little over the top, but they had sex in a bed like normal people so that helped. Oh, except that one time on the construction site. Whatever, this book was cute. This whole series was cute, really, and I was a big fan of the happy little wrap-everything-up with a bow ending.

Romance That Happens In Point Two Seconds Is...Unbelievable

Too Hot to Handle by Tessa Bailey

The road trip was definitely a bad idea. Having already flambéed her culinary career beyond recognition, Rita Clarkson is now stranded in God-Knows-Where, New Mexico, with a busted-ass car and her three temperamental siblings, who she hasn't seen in years. When rescue shows up---six-feet-plus of hot, charming sex on a motorcycle---Rita's pretty certain she's gone from the frying pan right into the fire . . . Jasper Ellis has a bad boy reputation in this town, and he loathes it. The moment he sees Rita, though, Jasper knows he's about to be sorely tempted. There's something real between them. Something raw. And Jasper has only a few days to show Rita that he isn't just for tonight---he's forever.

— For as much as I loved the Port Jeff series by my new pal Tessa, this one was...oof. Too much, guys. Too much. Fucking in trucks. Fucking in back offices. The whole book lasted, like, three days. And keep in mind this is coming from someone who has written like two million words about Killian Jones, self-loathing champ 250 years running, but Jasper’s self-loathing was a little over the top. Like, let’s not objectify dudes, but also...I don’t know guys. Maybe the other books in the series are better? I was mostly just annoyed by Rita.

What the Hell Happened at the End of This Book?? Seriously, I Have No Idea

The Queen’s Assassin by Melissa de la Cruz

Caledon Holt is the kingdom's deadliest weapon. No one alive can best him in speed, strength, or brains, which is why he's the Hearthstone Guild's most dangerous member. Cal is also the Queen's Assassin, bound to her by magic and unable to leave her service until the task she's set for him is fulfilled. Shadow of the Honey Glade has been training all her life to join the Guild, hoping that one day she'll become an assassin as feared and revered as Cal. But Shadow's mother and aunts expect her to serve the crown as a lady of the Renovian Court. When a surprise attack brings Shadow and Cal together, they're forced to team up as assassin and apprentice. Even though Shadow's life belongs to the court and Cal's belongs to the queen, they cannot deny their attraction to each other. But now, with war on the horizon and true love at risk, Shadow and Cal will uncover a shocking web of lies that will change their paths forever.

—WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED AT THE END OF THIS BOOK??? I figured out the so-called twist like...two chapters in. Fine, ok, whatever. It’s YA, this is not rocket science and I was interested enough in Cale and Shadow to see how it all played out. Only it didn’t really play out! Because the whole end was just this like four chapter retcon of basically EVERYTHING ELSE THAT HAPPENED and I genuinely could not believe it was happening. It didn’t make sense?!? Like with the plot? Also, spoiler, good thing Shadow and the other king haven’t consummated their marriage yet since she and Cale totally fucked after her wedding? What is YA? Why is Amazon telling me this is a Teacher’s Pick? Why hasn’t my hold come through on the sequel yet so I know what happens next?

Low-Stakes Romance Was Real Boring and All The People Were Boring In It

The Ten Rules for Faking It by Sophie Sullivan

As birthdays go, this year’s for radio producer Everly Dean hit rock-bottom. Worse than the “tonsillectomy birthday.” Worse than the birthday her parents decided to split (the first time). But catching your boyfriend cheating on you with his assistant? Even clichés sting. But this is Everly’s year! She won’t let her anxiety hold her back. She’ll pitch her podcast idea to her boss. There’s just one problem. Her boss, Chris, is very cute. (Of course). Also, he's extremely distant (which means he hates her, right? Or is that the anxiety talking)? And, Stacey the DJ didn’t mute the mic during Everly’s rant about Simon the Snake (syn: Cheating Ex). That’s three problems. Suddenly, people are lining up to date her, Bachelorette-style, fans are voting (Reminder: never leave house again), and her interest in Chris might be a two-way street. It’s a lot for a woman who could gold medal in people-avoidance. She’s going to have to fake it ‘till she makes it to get through all of this. Perhaps she’ll make a list: The Ten Rules for Faking It. 

— I am a broken record. Shouting. From the highest hilltop. Just because you think someone is cute when you’re technically not supposed to be dating them does not mean you get to be anything less than nice around them! It’s not cute! And part two, which often goes with part one: rom com dudes have GOT to stop lying or hiding or otherwise avoiding telling people who they really are. It’s a convoluted, passably lazy way of writing and dropping a third-act bomb on the story. Don’t do it. Stop doing it. We’ve moved past the need for hidden identities. Unless he’s, like, a spy or something. Um...this was a weird book. I know Everly had anxiety and that became a PLOT POINT, patent pending, but she was also not super relatable? Which is crazy considering my very real, rather undiagnosed anxiety. Chris was boring. The whole plot, as this title suggests, was very low stakes and no one actually  seemed to remember that their jobs were ever on the line? Did Everly and Chris have a conversation before they decided they liked each other? Who can say, really.

Shipped by Angie Hockman

Between taking night classes for her MBA and her demanding day job at a cruise line, marketing manager Henley Evans barely has time for herself, let alone family, friends, or dating. But when she’s shortlisted for the promotion of her dreams, all her sacrifices finally seem worth it. The only problem? Graeme Crawford-Collins, the remote social media manager and the bane of her existence, is also up for the position. Although they’ve never met in person, their epic email battles are the stuff of office legend. Their boss tasks each of them with drafting a proposal on how to boost bookings in the Galápagos—best proposal wins the promotion. There’s just one catch: they have to go on a company cruise to the Galápagos Islands...together. But when the two meet on the ship, Henley is shocked to discover that the real Graeme is nothing like she imagined. As they explore the Islands together, she soon finds the line between loathing and liking thinner than a postcard. With her career dreams in her sights and a growing attraction to the competition, Henley begins questioning her life choices. Because what’s the point of working all the time if you never actually live?

— YOU NEED TO HAVE A CONVERSATION WITH SOMEONE TO DECIDE YOU LIKE THEM. AUTHORS REALLY REALLY NEED TO LEARN HOW TO BUILD ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS. IF THEY ONLY LIKE EACH OTHER BECAUSE THEY KISS WELL IT’S NOT A GOOD RELATIONSHIP. AND THIS IS COMING FROM ME. Back at it again with the annoying so-called heroine who was just...occasionally real mean to Graem for no reason at all? Also her name was Henley. Which is not a great reason to dislike her, but here we are.

Apparently I Read These Books Out Of Order. Who Knew?

Pride, Prejudice and Other Flavors by Sonali Dev

It is a truth universally acknowledged that only in an overachieving Indian American family can a genius daughter be considered a black sheep.

Dr. Trisha Raje is San Francisco’s most acclaimed neurosurgeon. But that’s not enough for the Rajes, her influential immigrant family who’s achieved power by making its own non-negotiable rules:

·       Never trust an outsider

·       Never do anything to jeopardize your brother’s political aspirations

·       And never, ever, defy your family

Trisha is guilty of breaking all three rules. But now she has a chance to redeem herself. So long as she doesn’t repeat old mistakes.

Up-and-coming chef DJ Caine has known people like Trisha before, people who judge him by his rough beginnings and place pedigree above character. He needs the lucrative job the Rajes offer, but he values his pride too much to indulge Trisha’s arrogance. And then he discovers that she’s the only surgeon who can save his sister’s life.

As the two clash, their assumptions crumble like the spun sugar on one of DJ’s stunning desserts. But before a future can be savored there’s a past to be reckoned with...

A family trying to build home in a new land.

A man who has never felt at home anywhere.

And a choice to be made between the two.

— Surprise, apparently this was the first book in the series. I did not know. It didn’t affect my enjoyment of the Persuasion version in this same ‘verse, which is also strange because I liked the Persuasion one way better. There was a lot of medical in this. And not super uplifting medical, either. This was like...oh the Jane character (I guess???) has cancer and either she’s going to go blind after having a surgery (also she was an artist, so you see how this was a problem) or she’s just going to decide to die. Wait, what? That came out of left field, really. Also DJ and Trisha were not nice to each other. Like, I know this is Pride and Prejudice so there has to be some of that at the start, but it wasn’t like Trisha ever really went through the Darcy-required time at Pemberly. She just decided she liked DJ and told him and it was as awkward as Jane Austen intended it, but then we got more medical and everything was cool. It felt very rushed and shoehorned into a modern setting and the Persuasion one was better. You can’t have Darcy’s growth without the Pemberly stuff. You just can’t.

In Which I Didn’t Like a Nickname??? Is the World Ending??

Crazy Stupid Bromance by Lyssa Kay Adams

Alexis Carlisle and her cat café, ToeBeans, have shot to fame after she came forward as a victim of a celebrity chef’s sexual harassment. When a new customer approaches to confide in her, the last thing Alexis expects is for the woman to claim they’re sisters. Unsure what to do, Alexis turns to the only man she trusts—her best friend, Noah Logan.   Computer genius Noah left his rebellious teenage hacker past behind to become a computer security expert. Now he only uses his old skills for the right cause. But Noah’s got a secret: He’s madly in love with Alexis. When she asks for his help, he wonders if the timing will ever be right to confess his crush.   Noah’s pals in The Bromance Book Club are more than willing to share their beloved “manuals” to help him go from bud to boyfriend. But he must decide if telling the truth is worth risking the best friendship he’s ever had.

— If Noah was going to call her Lexa, then her name should have been Alexa and not Alexis. That’s it and that’s all. Also, the story was n u t s. Estranged dads and kidney failure and they got together so fast in this book. Which usually is cool by me, but I really could not get over the nickname and the estranged family was mean to Alexis. Lexa. HER NAME SHOULD HAVE BEEN ALEXA, IT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. Also Noah was a former hacker? The estranged family accused him corporate espionage or something? A lot happened in this book, guys. Her name should have been Alexa.

Dumb Brother Was Dumb™ Everyone Else Was Real Cute

The Off Limits Rule by Sarah Adams

I have found rock bottom. It's here, moving in with my older brother because I'm too broke to afford to live on my own. It's okay though, because we've always been close and I think I'm going to have fun living with him again.

 That is until I meet Cooper...

 Turns out, my brother has very strong opinions on the idea of me dating his best friend and is dead set against it. According to him, Cooper is everything I should stay away from: flirtatious, adventurous, non-committal, and freaking hot. (I added that last part because I feel like you need the whole picture.) My brother is right--I should stay away from Cooper James and his pretty blue eyes. He's the opposite of what I need right now.

 Nah--who am I kidding? I'm going for it.

— This was cute, mostly mindless fluff. Hit some trope high points, including, obviously, best friends sister. Only the brother in question was a Neanderthal and I really thought people were going to make out more while said brother was on his business trip. I got it for free off Amazon. Which I think should explain a lot. Like, story-wise. Sorry, free Amazon books. Don’t be insulted.

Prose, Prose, Prose, Please Someone Have a Conversation

Trick by Natalia Jaster

In the Kingdom of Spring, Poet is renowned. He's young and pretty, a lover of men and women. He performs for the court, kisses like a scoundrel, and mocks with a silver tongue. Yet allow him this: It's only the most cunning and manipulative soul who can play the fool. For beyond the castle walls, Poet guards a secret. One the Crown would shackle him for. One that he'll risk everything to protect. Alas, it will take more than clever words to deceive Princess Briar. Convinced that he's juggling lies as well as verse, this righteous nuisance of a girl is determined to expose him. But not all falsehoods are fiendish. Poet's secret is delicate, binding the jester and princess in an unlikely alliance—and kindling a breathless attraction, as alluring as it is forbidden.

— The purplest of prose. Mauve prose. Royal purple prose. Lavender prose. There was so much writing here. So much. Too much, some might say. I say. Actually. If we want to get specific. And that was a shame, really, because when Briar and Poet actually had a conversation, they were interesting to read about. Also, the world building here? Yeeeesh. The so-called, wait for it, FOOL TRADE played a prominent role and that was...super cringe. Super Cringe. That being said, I asked Justin what I should read next and he thought it was funny that a book was just called...

Dare by Natalia Jaster

In the Kingdom of Summer, they say she's wild. Locked in a cage by the sea, Flare dreams of escape. She dreams of a lost world, known only in legends. The island is calling to her. And she won't let anyone keep her from it. Especially not him. They say he's cruel. Jeryn has crossed the ocean for the Trade, to bargain for those fierce, imprisoned creatures that make his skin crawl. By law, they're subjects meant for experimentation. And easy to despise. One girl in particular. But on the cusp of transport, the tide rages. That hidden island awaits. Stranded, the prince and prisoner must fight to survive. In a mysterious rainforest, they must band together...if they don't slay one another first. Or become something more to each other.  Something just as dangerous.

— This was Justin’s fault. He could not believe this book was just called Dare. It should have been called “We’re going to weirdly force what is basically slavery into this story and then a prince is going to fall in love with an escaped slave and we’re also going to call that ROMANCE.” y i k e s. Remember that one story that took place over three days? This was the complete opposite. Years! They were shipwrecked for years! They got saved, spoilers, the DAY they started having sex. What are the odds, right?? And then MORE YEARS passed. Multiple years! Five years! They couldn’t actually be together because of that aforementioned slave trade. What the shit, man? Natalia, ya gotta be kidding me with this. The internet claimed Trick was good and a solid follow to reading ACOTAR and that there was this whole verse and it was also good. The internet was wrong.

Nothing Happened, Everything Happened, I...Hated It

Graceling by Kristin Cashore

Kristin Cashore’s bestselling, award-winning fantasy Graceling tells the story of the vulnerable-yet-strong Katsa, a smart, beautiful teenager who lives in a world where selected people are given a Grace, a special talent that can be anything from dancing to swimming. Katsa’s is killing. As the king’s niece, she is forced to use her extreme skills as his thug. Along the way, Katsa must learn to decipher the true nature of her Grace… and how to put it to good use. A thrilling, action-packed fantasy adventure (and steamy romance!) that will resonate deeply with adolescents trying to find their way in the world.

— I can’t believe this was a book. Katsa was so annoying! Like, listen, I know her life was sad. And she was a pawn being used against her will. Blah, blah, blah. Whatever. The tone of the whole book was so strangely formal and Poe was strangely in love with Katsa? Who obviously didn’t want to get married because she was WOMAN HEAR ME ROAR. Or kill people, as the case may be. Only she wanted to make out with Poe? Only ONLY they didn’t even really get together at the end? I could not believe the end of this book. I nearly threw my Kindle across the room. Once again, no apologies for spoilers because do not read this book, but HE WAS BLIND? Katsa had to leave him behind to save his cousin and he just ENDED UP BEING BLIND? AND THEY NEVER GOT TOGETHER REALLY?? What the fuck? Seriously. Steamy romance, my ass. Nothing happened. The villain got defeated in point two seconds. There are other books in this universe? No, thanks.

[warriorsredux]

RE: Feedback for the Redux.

(I wanted to give you really in-depth feedback. Unfortunately, it ended up being way longer than I anticipated. I figured it would be easier to send this as a submission rather than breaking it up into a million smaller asks. I hope that’s all right!)

Note: I put this under a readmore to save space, but I have read it all and thoroughly agree with it. Thank you so much for the feedback, man!

Before I get into the nitty-gritty, I want to briefly talk about my personal relationship with Warriors - not because I want to talk about myself necessarily, but because I want to provide some relevant context. You see, I was first introduced to these books in 2004, about when I was nine years old. You could argue, in some ways, that these books defined a large part of my childhood, and were extremely influential into my teenage years and early adulthood. When I wasn’t fantasizing about colonies of talking feral cats, I was gleefully writing fanfics and roleplaying online. Those were my first tentative forays into writing, and would ultimately set me on the path to refine and hone those skills in the years to come. I was obsessed with the mythology and lore of this world, with the sprawling cast of characters, with the steady publication of new entries into the series.

Now, kids tend to not have the best critical thinking skills. Which is why it took until my late teenage years to realize that my cherished books were really, really not that great. The mythology and lore that I’d praised were starved of any creativity, steeped in the cliches of the fantasy genre, and prone to collapsing under their own weight when subjected to even the smallest amount of scrutiny. The characters that I adored? They were blighted with similar cliches, lacking in any sort of growth or development or depth; sustained only by archetypes and whatever retcons the authors thought would sell the most books, either through hype, drama, or fanservice. Exacerbating all of this was the publisher’s insistence on milking the franchise for whatever profit nostalgia could still yield. They weren’t writing more books because they had new, interesting ideas they wanted to explore - they did it because this series was (and still is) fucking lucrative. As I thought about these things more critically, and became more informed on social issues, it became impossible to unsee the uglier aspects of the franchise - the ableism, the queerbaiting and lack of representation, the depiction of minors and adults (Dustpelt and Ferncloud, Thistleclaw and Spottedleaf) having romantic or sexual relationships, the blind nationalism and eugenics/persecution of minorities (non-Clanborn cats) and characters of mixed descent (half-Clan cats). People far more informed and far more eloquent than myself have discussed those issues in-depth elsewhere, but suffice to say, I was understandably upset by these things. No amount of nostalgia could blind me to those flaws.

And yet, for some reason, I never really stopped loving Warriors. Or put more accurately - I never stopped loving the potential of Warriors. That was the thing that I kept coming back to. The wasted potential of a series depicting the lives of feral cats, and their brutal struggle to survive in the wilderness, all the while deeply immersed in their own complex societies and cultures. It became painfully clear to me that the thing I loved about Warriors was the sandbox nature of the franchise, and all the ways fans were able to explore that untapped potential. With that realization now achieved, Warriors slipped into the back of my mind, accruing cobwebs as the years passed. Occasionally those dormant thoughts stirred whenever I saw a piece of fanart on my dashboard, or I passed a new release while browsing the local Barnes & Noble. Sometimes I even entertained the fleeting thought of writing AU fics again. But by and large, Warriors had been retired from my thoughts.

And then, in 2017, I found the Redux.

While writing this segment I had several false starts, in no small part because I didn’t know what to talk about first. It was like someone had gone through my thoughts with a steel-toothed comb, and took every disappointment, every what if, and turned it into a reality. Holy shit, look at this blog! Look at the meta commentary! Look at all of the worldbuilding! I could clearly see just how much passion and attention to detail was put into developing the plot and the characters. How many hundreds of hours went into correcting the broken genetics of the canon characters. Suddenly, the Clans had culture - real, living, breathing culture! There was a pantheon of deities and demigods. A deliberate intention behind the naming tradition beyond slapping two words together because they sounded pretty or made for a trite pun. This. This was the story Warriors should have been. This lone blog managed to conceive an original lore for the Clans, while further developing the canon plots beyond their base elements. What three authors failed to do, one person achieved on their own.

You made forgettable characters interesting. And you made interesting characters unforgettable.

I lived for every scrap of content you created - the asks, the deconstructions, the amendment posts, the art, even the fucking shitposts (because they were just genuinely wholesome and funny). The Redux wasn’t just a source of entertainment, either - it introduced me to the idea of writing an AU that was sustained by meta-analysis, and grounded in critical reception of the series’ flaws (both technical and social). Your work eventually inspired me to create my own Redux-style worldbuilding/AU blog for a series that has similar issues to canon Warriors.

The Redux deserves all the praise it gets, and you should be extremely proud of what you’ve accomplished. Even if the Third Arc wasn’t finished or the Fourth started, it was still a helluva ride, one that I’m so glad I got to participate in.

But, of course, you asked for feedback, so I can’t spend the entirety of this post throwing roses at your feet. So, onto the constructive feedback.

I think a lot of my thoughts are going to echo what other people have previously said, but for me, the biggest setbacks in the Redux were the following:

[1] Pacing. This is going to sound weird, but this isn’t a criticism of the Redux’s length. Rather, it’s more about how that time was spent. While I really like how you adjusted aspects of the Redux’s plot in order to still tangentially align with the books’, it sometimes felt like the chapters were there just to connect points A and B. I knew this was a retelling of the original series, so I already had a vague idea of what the general storybeats would be. What appealed to me was how the story would get to those points. Let me give you an example: in Arc 1, we’re told in chapter 10 that Murkpelt is roaming the territories, and poses a threat to the Clans. Immediately in chapter 11 we’re taken to the scene where Firepaw finds her while escorting Spottedleaf. We’re told about ThunderClan’s efforts to track her prior, and about the looming tension in the wake of this invisible threat. But that’s the thing - we’re told that by the narration in just a paragraph or two. We’re not shown what that looks like. The setup is supposed to be everyone being on edge, but Bluestar’s lounging by the stump when the scene begins. It’s a little dissonant, and it has the unfortunate problem of contradicting the narration. It would’ve been so cool to see a chapter or two where Firepaw’s still trying to immerse himself into Clan life, and his questions are met with terse answers or impatience. Undercut his (and the reader’s) learning with other characters being brusque with him, or short-tempered, or something. And then that could lead into Greypaw or Ravenpaw consoling him and explaining why the situation is so serious. Then Firepaw could ask something like, “Have there ever been instances like this before with rogues?” Which could organically lead to a conversation where Greypaw or Ravenpaw bring up relevant lore/worldbuilding. It’s little stuff like that which would’ve helped with immersion and pacing. I think it would have balanced the two out, by providing pseudo-downtime where the audience experiences the world as the characters do. (If that makes sense.) Or, to provide another example: we never get to see Tres Idiots mentoring Snowpaw. In chapters 5 and 6 of Arc 3, we see Raventhroat struggling to develop a signing system he can use with his apprentice; and then, after a few chapters he’s perfectly narrating the Bright-Eyed Crow to Snowpaw. I think that showing us scenes where the two were actually working out the kinks would have done more to develop Raventhroat’s character arc. He went from being a meek, timid apprentice to an eloquent warrior, and him becoming a mentor is supposed to be a definite part of that journey. It would’ve have been so cool to have plot-relevant scenes broken up by smaller ones where we watch Raventhroat gain confidence through each small success he makes with his apprentice. I’m not sure if I’m conveying exactly what I want to say, but I guess the TL;DR would be something like - I would’ve gladly welcomed either more chapters, or longer ones, if it meant we got more scenes like this.

[2] Utilization of the worldbuilding. You mentioned this already in response to another ask, but if you could go back and change anything, it would be incorporating more lore/adhering the Redux to its lore more strongly. Your worldbuilding is perhaps the strongest part of the Redux by far. You gave us a conlang, traditions, folk stories, Clan stereotypes - so much fascinating material - but it feels like its integration was based solely on whether or not it was relevant to the plot at hand. Unless there was a reason why it was brought up, then we’d never get to see a ThunderClan cat freaking out near a ShadowClan seer and refusing to approach them at a Gathering. Or listen to Mistfoot share a poem with Greystripe and Fireheart (after being goaded into it by Silverstream). Or watch as Redtail politely interrupts the elders and asks for their opinion on an important matter. Or listen to the Clan getting together after a loved one dies and share stories about their life. Or watch as Sandpaw/Dustpaw use their age and seniority over Firepaw to terrorize him with stories of Yrrun and Terror. On one hand, I absolutely understand why a lot of lore was relegated exclusively to the Amendment section - it’s important to strike a balance between what’s interesting versus what’s relevant. You don’t wanna just throw worldbuilding trivia at the audience apropos of nothing. On the other hand, I really wish I’d seen a much larger integration of your worldbuilding into the story, because it’s so fascinating and so god damn good.

[3] Utilization of the characters. One of the things you tweaked, that I absolutely loved, was choosing to introduce Silverpaw in Arc 1 at a Gathering. Not only does it create a realistic basis for her friendship with Tres Idiots, but it fixes the canon’s issue of her saving Greystripe out of nowhere and then developing a relationship on that alone. That was fucking great! Same thing with Rainpath - it was so awesome for Fireheart to get a friend in another Clan (ShadowClan, of all Clans). It broke the mold, and their interactions were just delightful. But outside of those examples, sometimes it kinda felt like the side characters didn’t really exist? I remember an old piece of writing advice, but I can’t recall who it’s attributed to: “Treat your side characters like they think they’re the main characters.” Because they absolutely are. I might be some passing stranger in another person’s life, barely a blip on their radar, but I have my own vibrant story. Everyone does. In the Redux, it sometimes felt like minor or side characters weren’t living their own lives outside of their interactions with Fireheart and his friends. Mousefur’s the most fluent speaker of Fang in ThunderClan? Cool. How did she learn that skill? Who taught her? Does she have a friend in WindClan who’s been teaching her new words at Gatherings, or whenever they happen to cross paths while on border patrols near Four Trees? Not only is that character trivia interesting, but it could provide foreshadowing/become relevant later on. When the Clans meet to discuss how to deal with the dogs in Arc 3, perhaps someone suggests having their most fluent Fang speakers act as interpreters/diplomats, and try to broker some sort of peace/understanding with the dogs. Things like that. Basically, it would’ve been nice if Fireheart’s life intersected more with the goings-on of his Clanmates, or if his own goals/agenda were sometimes inconvenienced by the goals/agenda of others.

I think those are my major criticisms. More integration of lore, a slower/steadier pace that accommodates showing over telling, and finding ways to have the personal lives of minor characters interact with the story. Maybe adding in some additional subplots that are congruent with the main plots, and occur simultaneously, in order to keep chapters busy. That sort of thing. I hope what I provided wasn’t overwhelming in any way, and ends up being useful for either the Redux or any of your other writing projects.

As an aside, thank you. For creating this humble niche community within an even larger fandom. For asking for feedback from your readers. For being someone who makes mistakes, but eventually endeavors to learn from them, and ultimately, become a better person. I know this sounds kinda sappy, but I really do mean it. <3

(For the record I wrote this at like five in the morning, so if there are any grammatical errors I’ll be kicking myself in the ass for those.)