#the ship is implied spiritually

[barghuest]

I made this so I can print it out as motivation for my final year in college so I thought I'd share

[grunckle]

On stars, guardians, and Rain World’s cosmology.

One aspect of Rain World lore that’s asked about quite a lot but normally never gets satisfying answers is the topic or Rain World’s space/universe/cosmology. Despite first impressions though, there’s a lot more it than meets the eye, so I thought I would compile most everything we know about it.

For one, to get it out of the way, Rain World isn’t on a planet, and its universe is fundamentally different from our own. This is something Joar has talked about on occasion.

He also said on an earlier dev log how Rain World functions more like a fantasy world where it doesn’t hold much relevance than a real sci-fi like planet.

“Oh, another thing - Rain World isn't a planet lol Cheesy Or I guess it might probably be on a planet, just as Lord of The Rings, Sex And The City, Zelda and Frankenstein's Monster are probably technically on a planet, but just as in those examples the planet aspect isn't really relevant at all. Rain World is more of a fantasy world or a dream world, not somewhere you can go in a space ship ~”

But even if it’s not incredibly relevant, it’s clear a lot of thought was put into Rain Worlds fictional cosmology, this was even mentioned by James.

So, that being said here's what we know about Rain World's cosmology in game.

The biggest indicator of Rain World's unique cosmology is that the Farm Arrays deep pink pearl just mentions celestial spheres, which are aspects of older cosmological models.

"This one is just plain text. I will read it to you. "On regards of the (by spiritual splendor eternally graced) people of the Congregation of Never Dwindling Righteousness, we Wish to congratulate (o so thankfully) this Facility on its Loyal and Relished services, and to Offer our Hopes and Aspirations that the Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory Cooperation may continue, for as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres and/or the Cooperation continues to be Fruitful and Mutually Satisfactory." ...May Not as long as the Stars stay fixed on their Celestial Spheres Grey Hand, Impure Blood, Inheritable Corruption, Parasites, or malfunction settle in Your establishment."

More subtly, there's also a mention of the ground colliding with the sky.

"If you leave a stone on the ground, and come back some time later, it's covered in dust. This happens everywhere, and over several lifetimes of creatures such as you, the ground slowly builds upwards. So why doesn't the ground collide with the sky? Because far down, under the very very old layers of the earth, the rock is being dissolved or removed. The entity which does this is known as the Void Sea."

You could chalk this line up to flowery language, but considering the presentation of the rest of the dialogue, it sounds more like an actual aspect of this world.

We know from the Chimney Canopy echo that the sun rises.

"From within my vessel of flesh, I would perch upon this spot to observe the rising of the sun."

And from the top of The Wall we can see the moon and stars (confirmed to be stars by Joar in the previous screenshot, instead of satellites or something else) , which are green!

So, what does this all mean? I think we can entail a few things with what they've given us.

For one, the mention of the ground colliding with the sky implies some sort of firmament, which isn't an unusual concept in the general realm of celestial spheres.

But on the topic of celestial spheres, the pearl actually isn't the only place we see the concept. Guardian halos are very similar to depictions of celestial spheres, and also astrological clocks.

You can make of this as you will, perhaps the astrological references being tied to guardians could hint at the nature of karma, but there isn't much to really delve into that idea.

For what it's worth, celestial spheres are also core concepts in Gnosticism, which Rain World is heavily inspired by. I explain it more in this post about Void Worms, but for a quick synopsis in Gnosticism there are seven planetary spheres, and an eighth above them; the planets and stars are fixed to their spheres. These things just further cement the fact that celestial spheres seem to be a key aspect of Rain World's cosmology, and it would also likely imply it's universe follows a geocentric model.

For a bit of a more out-there theory, people have pointed out how the view atop the wall stretches really far, going far beyond what we could see on a spherical planet like Earth, which has led some to theorize that the world is also flat.

But what is probably the most important aspect of Rain World's cosmology is the nature of dust. Dust builds up, and the bedrock of the world is eaten away at by the Void Sea. Civilizations rise and fall into the sea as new ones are built above it. Many, including myself, believe that the world exists in a sort of state of equilibrium. The world is dissolved from the bottom, then that falls back on the world as dust; even in the final moments of the game we see dust suspended in the void sea depths.

And hey, even void worms are described as being star-like.

"Oh, interesting. This is a diary entry of a pre-Iterator era laborer during the construction of the subterranean transit system south of here. In it they describe restless nights filled with disturbing dreams, where millions glowing stars move menacingly in the distance."

Cyclical, recursive, something else entirely? We can never really pin down the true nature of Rain World's cosmology, but the things we do get hint at something strange and unique. It's such an interesting aspect of the lore, and it seems like Videocult will continue to make mysterious cosmologies in their future projects...

[fuckitwebhaal]

the dark urge

please do not come for me these are just my takes and opinions on the durge route, as someone who has run it through a few times and is pretty familiar with the lore in regards to the previous games. also massive spoilers below. like if you do not want any dark urge spoilers stop reading now.

The Dark Urge (henceforth referred to as DU), whether approached narratively as resisting or as succumbing, is more of a solidly fleshed out origin for a customizable player character compared to Tav. The reason for this is because the DU follows the precedent set by the previous Baldur's Gate games where the main player character is a Bhaalspawn. (If I recall correctly, that was also the intention for BG3, but it was scrapped and the origins split to allow for a fully customizable option).

I'm not going to get into the history of the Bhaalspawn, save to say this much: The protagonist of BG1 & 2, Gorion's Ward, is referenced on rare occasion throughout a DU playthrough and is implied to be dead. (Though they are never named as Abdel Adrian from the TTRPG canon, it is implied that it seems to be following a blend of canon from BG2 and the TTRPG canon). Bhaal, who had split his divine essence into his many children, relied on their deaths and a ritual so that he could return--in a physical sense--to the planes and reclaim his godhood as the Lord of Murder.

You, BG3 DU protag, are crafted purely from Bhaal's divine essence. This was confusing to me at first, because I had believed Bhaal incapable of having any more mortal children (due to not having a physical presence), but it is implied that Bhaal's spiritual and divine essence is strong enough to form you from himself, he is merely lacking the ritual that would return him to physicality. Which is where you come in. And, Orin, I guess.

Because you were crafted from Bhaal, it is implied that any cultural or genetic claim (such as half-elf, dragonborn, or whatever race you choose) is but Bhaal's mimicry of what those stereotypes should be. You're a killer, a Bhaalyn through and through, and you'll be the one to slay the world and slit your own throat on the carcasses left behind to bring about Bhaal's return. The only thing is, you got cocky. Confident. Comfortable. Careless. You got comfortable in your alliance with Gortash and Ketheric. Orin was jealous and wanted your blessing--your place as Bhaal's chosen--, so she struck you down, muddled your mind, and infected you with a mindflayer parasite. That's why you have no memory, and why you ended up on that ship.

So, here you are. You have no memories, but you have a rage and a disgrace and a vengeance you can't quite place. You've got an urge telling you to kill, kill, kill.

Pause. In previous games, the Bhaalspawn protagonist didn't have a "dark urge" that caused you to want to commit violence or murders outside of your control. (Not including Siege of Dragonspear (2016), which does include one uncontrollable murder. This DLC was released as a bridge between BG1 & 2 and came out after the pitches for BG3 had begun). It's implied that this is because of your pure divine creation--think Jesus. Think godspawn. God and mortal. That's what you are, murder incarnate.

The main crux of the DU run, then, becomes this: what do you want to do with this? There are a few paths laid out before you, but the narrative is pretty clear: you are a killer, and you'll always be a killer. This is where I first ran into my concerns with the DU; I was afraid it was going to be an edgelord-y, murderhobo-y playthrough that sacrificed story and companion mechanics for the sake of a bloody kill and edgy narration. I was pleasantly surprised to find that it wasn't the case, because the story unfurls really well no matter which way you go.

A friend of mine played the DU run totally evil; every bad option, every urge indulged, so I asked them what they thought of it. They said it "It definitely involved a lot more violence and death than [their Tav] run, but it's not like [they] murdered everyone [they] came across", and "It did feel a lot like someone very confused with themselves becoming very drunk with the power that comes with the urge".

I played my two DU playthroughs in two parallel ways. The first being Kyr; a DU who wanted to resist his urges and talked a good talk, had a good heart, but at every major moment, he failed to resist and ultimately succumbed back to Bhaal's embrace and became his Chosen.

My other playthrough is Nyris; a cynical, mistrustful bastard, he started out a little rocky, but growing with his companions caused him to reject the evil in his blood despite his other moral shortcomings; in the critical moments, he rejected Bhaal's influence and overcame.

How the DU presents to me, then, is this: nature v nurture. Which will win, which will overcome? By playing Kyr, it felt as though the nature was his driving force. It didn't matter how removed he was or how hard he tried to convince others that he could do better--how hard he could try to convince himself he could do better--he was already doomed by the narrative. Bhaal's manipulations drove him back home, and he didn't even realize that he'd been sucked back into the cult until it was far too late.

But, then, what about Nyris? To him, it felt like nurture. If you remove the cult from him, the indoctrination, what was left? A man struggling to make his own identity, but among those who reaffirmed it every chance that they could. He relied on his own strength and that of those around him to overcome, even if he was unsure, afraid, doubted. It feels like the nurture, or lack thereof, of Bhaal and the Bhaalist cult meant that he was free to grow and learn away from it.

It's something I find further supported in conversations with Jaheira and Minsc, who both talk about "their Bhaalspawn companion", otherwise known as Gorion's Ward from the first two games.

[ID: Minsc: "If Minsc did not inherit the flaming red hair of his mother, or the bushy red beard of his father, why would the spawn of Bhaal inherit his wickedness?"

Kyrran: "We should talk about nature versus nurture some day."

Minsc: "It is simple. As with all battles, the winner will be the one that carries the bigger sword."]

So, in my opinion, the personal arc of the DU and one that the player must engage with is the idea of nature versus nurture, and how your DU will cope with the revelations of their paths in light of the new memories and friendships that they have forged. That's not to say you can't always swing to one extreme; never indulge or always indulge, it's still digging into that nature versus nurture idea.

There is, also, the more overarching theme of BG3 in regards to breaking cycles of abuse, power, and control. If you lean into the idea of nature v nurture, and you realize that there were originally foster families involved in the upbringing of the DU (before said families were murdered, or the DU stolen away by the Bhaalist cult), you have to consider two things:

1.) Bhaal is comparable to both Shar and Vlaakith as gods that indoctrinate their religious followers, and

2.) Bhaal is comparable to Mystra and Cazador as those who take control of a severe power imbalance to inflict their will.

The narrative informs you, if you accept Bhaal's gift as Chosen, exactly the consequences that will fall upon you. It is the same as the consequences that are so heavily explained to you in regards to Shadowheart, Lae'zel, Gale, and Astarion.

[ID: *A gift from your god, your Father. An offering of his affection for you, or confirmation that he owns you.*]

[ID: *For a moment, the brine-pool of your brain clears. To die: to rest, to save the world from yourself. To accept, to become his prophet - in any disobedience, subject to his lash.*]

A lot of people say that the DU run is the "evil" playthrough, and it truly isn't. Just like any of the other decisions you make in this game in regards to your companion quest, it is a question of power and control. Power you give up by rejecting Bhaal is also control that he loses over you. Power you gain in accepting him, to exert over others, is also the control he will take. It's up to you how you will approach the DU, but I think it is shortsighted to say it is the "evil" playthrough if you are not fully engaging with the themes. You can make all of the good options that you can make with Tav--but you are fighting the narrative. The narrative has a plan for you. If you want to resist, you will have to fight for it.

[veetyuh]

I'm reminded of that "antishipping isn't purity culture because it isn't conservative christianity" post... And I think I've done some unpacking on why it triggers me so much.

I was an intersex child shoved into the role of a female, in a rural & conservative Christian environment. I've had not just purity culture shoved down my throat, but also the shame of not being able to meet the expectations put on women in that environment.

It's not just cover up, slut. That implies I had something to show off, to begin with. And men still want to ogle you and imagine what your body is like beneath that modest dress. So here, literal child. Have this shapewear to make your figure conform to that of a developing middle school female's under your clothes.

It's contradictory that way. You have to try to be unappealing to not 'tempt' men, but you still need to be appealing in the sense of conventional female attractiveness. Moreover, you must not think about men or sex at all. But you cannot be asexual — your parents demand grandchildren.

Antis do the same with their queer representation. It's the same contradictory expectations... They champion the idea of breaking societal norms through queerness (i.e. the idea of 'queer as in fuck you'), then demand that every nuclear family norm be met. Queer characters must be disruptive without actually disrupting anything. And the contradictions apply to fans, too — you're homophobic if you don't like a canon queer ship, and you're fetishistic if you like queer ships too much. (There are more, but I'd be stuck here forever if I listed them all. 😅)

There's also the obvious — fictional sins being as bad as things done in real life. There's Matthew 5, which includes so many popular verses about thought control that Christians use, and equates bad thought to bad doing.

27 “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ 28 But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart. 29 If your right eye causes you to stumble, gouge it out and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell. 30 And if your right hand causes you to stumble, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to go into hell.

And fuck if antis aren't cutting off their entire goddamn arm and gouging out both eyes.

It's not just purity culture they embody, though — it's the satanic panic, too. Good lord the amount of times my grandma wouldn't let me watch Ghost Hunters because she thought I was welcoming demons into the home, or her concern for me watching horror movies because I'd surely become more violent. It's the same shit, different horse.

On a more light-hearted note, they play the same game that Christian demoninations do, too. I was Baptist, and considered the Methodists okay. But the Catholics? No, keep that shit away from me. Why are you worshipping Mary? That's idolatry! How horrible, to openly spit in God's face. When I read antis' DNI lists rattling off forbidden, unredeemable fandoms, it feels the same way, haha.

But what really seals the deal for me is how they smile in your face and promise they're just looking out for you. Christians do that, too. "We want you to get better. We want to help you. You're on a dark path." While they break your bones to force you into their mold. You may not be hurting anyone on your dark path, but they'll convince you that you ARE. You're hurting yourself "spiritually," you're hurting the community, your family, by being an abomination to God. You're hurting everyone and yourself, you just need us to help you realize it. Antis feel the exact same. I block them pre-emptively because I cannot handle having that shit directed at me again.

Moreover, their insults feel the same. The childish "icky," the ad hominems. It's too reminiscent for me. Of my mom hating my icky facial hair and my classmates making fun of my masc traits when they thought I couldn't hear; you are a gross person!!1! Ew!!!

It's funny that antis are so often anti-kink, considering they're so fucking intent on giving me a golden shower and telling me it's rain. I hope they're careful not to choke on the homophobic, pedophilic pastor cock they're sucking.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Elements of Art

The elements of art are components or parts of a work of art that can be isolated and defined. They are the building blocks used to create a work of art.

LINE A mark with greater length than width. Lines can be horizontal, vertical, or diagonal; straight or curved; thick or thin.

Horizontal lines suggest a feeling of rest or repose because objects parallel to the earth are at rest. In landscape paintings, horizontal lines help give a sense of space. The lines delineate sections of the landscape, which recede into space. They also imply continuation of the landscape beyond the picture plane to the left and right.

Vertical lines often communicate a sense of height because they are perpendicular to the earth, extending upwards toward the sky. In a church interior painting, vertical lines may suggest spirituality, rising beyond human reach toward the heavens.

Horizontal and vertical lines used in combination communicate stability and solidity. Rectilinear forms with 90-degree angles are structurally stable. This stability suggests permanence and reliability.

Diagonal lines convey a feeling of movement. Objects in a diagonal position are unstable. Because they are neither vertical nor horizontal, they are either about to fall or are already in motion. The angles of a ship and rocks on the shore convey a feeling of movement or speed in a stormy harbor scene.

The curve of a line can convey energy. Soft, shallow curves recall the curves of the human body and often have a pleasing, sensual quality and a softening effect on the composition. The edge of a pool in a photograph may gently lead the eye to the sculptures on the horizon.

SHAPE A closed line. Shapes can be geometric, like squares and circles; or organic, like free-form or natural shapes. Shapes are flat and can express length and width.

FORM A three-dimensional shape expressing length, width, and depth. It is the basis of sculpture, furniture, and decorative arts. Balls, cylinders, boxes, and pyramids are forms. They can be seen from more than one side.

Geometric shapes and forms include mathematical, named shapes such as squares, rectangles, circles, cubes, spheres, and cones. Geometric shapes and forms are often man-made. However, many natural forms also have geometric shapes. Example, a cabinet decorated with designs of geometric shapes.

Organic shapes and forms are typically irregular or asymmetrical. Organic shapes are often found in nature, but man-made shapes can also imitate organic forms. Example, a wreath uses organic forms to simulate leaves and berries.

SPACE The area between and around objects. The space around objects is often called negative space; negative space has shape. Space can also refer to the feeling of depth.

Real space is three-dimensional; in visual art, when we create the feeling or illusion of depth, we call it space.

COLOR Light reflected off of objects. Color has 3 main characteristics:

Hue - the name of the color, such as red, green, blue, etc.

Value - how light or dark it is.

Intensity - how bright or dull it is.

White is pure light; black is the absence of light.

Primary colors are the only true colors (red, blue, and yellow). All other colors are mixes of primary colors.

Secondary colors are two primary colors mixed together (green, orange, violet).

Intermediate colors, sometimes called tertiary colors, are made by mixing a primary and secondary color together. Some examples of intermediate colors are yellow green, blue green, and blue violet.

Complementary colors are located directly across from each other on the color wheel (an arrangement of colors along a circular diagram to show how they are related to one another).

Complementary pairs contrast because they share no common colors. For example, red and green are complements, because green is made of blue and yellow.

When complementary colors are mixed together, they neutralize each other to make brown.

TEXTURE The surface quality that can be seen and felt. Textures can be rough or smooth, soft or hard. Textures do not always feel the way they look; for example, a drawing of a porcupine may look prickly, but if you touch the drawing, the paper is still smooth.

Texture depicted in two-dimensions. Artists use color, line, and shading to imply textures. In a painting, a man's robe may be painted to simulate silk. The ability to convincingly portray fabric of different types was one of the marks of a great painter during the 17th century.

Surface texture. The surface of a writing desk is metallic and hard. The hard surface is functional for an object that would have been used for writing. The smooth surface of a writing desk reflects light, adding sparkle to the piece of furniture.

Principles of Design

[clawbehavior]

we're five episodes into Shogun, which means we're halfway through the series and all the major plotlines have been introduced and the characters characterized. and i'm starting to notice things. 

namely, toranaga is becoming increasingly unlikeable. it started when he abandoned blackthorne to die after being saved by the man hours earlier, but it reached its peak with the return of the young heir's mother and the reveal that she's using the council against toranaga to protect her son. because then what is toranaga going to war for? we were told via the dead king's widow that toranaga needs to protect the young heir against the council, but clearly that's not true. so what's he doing? it bothered me that toranaga could be so kind to the young heir, playing with him and advising him, while neglecting his own son, whose insecurity around his father was so transparent that he was easily manipulated into starting a war. but then i wondered if toranaga was showing his true self (his third heart) to his son. that scene where he says "you categorize everyone as enemies and friends when you only have yourself" implies that he sees everyone as a potential enemy, which can only happen if his self-interests are at odds with everyone else's. seeing the end of episode five, i think toranaga is not what he seems. we know he can be duplicitous. he plays uncle and nephew against each other so easily, getting rid of the problem of their growing power by doing so. i think the falcon motif that's ever present in the show represents toranaga, flying against the sun so his prey can't see him until it's too late (episode one). he's fooling everyone, including his allies, which brings me to my next point. 

mariko's story is not going to end well. i didn't know why this was a limited series with no chance of a season two until we got her backstory. mariko is straight up suicidal, just looking for a purposeful/honorable way to do it. if blackthorne can see this within days of meeting her, across a huge cultural divide and despite language differences, then toranaga has clocked this about her too, which doesn't bode well for her life. the mariko-blackthorne-husband love triangle subplot serves a deeper function of revealing her psyche to us.  she can't let go of her feelings of injustice and dishonor from her family's deaths. (the flashback we get of her past shows her father's haunted expression because that's how she remembers the event, with horror rather than disgust for his actions.) this is why she tells blackthorne the truth about her family when ordered to by her husband, even though blackthorne tells her to lie and tell him something else because her husband won't know. mariko can't let go of what happened to her family (and her husband doesn't let her). she's been spiritually dead for ages and the return of her husband from the dead not only means she cheated, which someone with her honor code can't live with, it means she cannot be happy with blackthorne. her tragic past coupled with her strong feelings towards honor/dishonor makes her easy for toranaga to use, though it's unclear for what.

interestingly, mariko and blackthornes' opposing ideologies are why they survived and found each other. mariko resists quietly, inside her soul (the eightfold fence), turning to her Christian faith and becoming devout and learned in Portuguese to speak with the priests. this is how she ends up as blackthorne's translator, a position of power and later romance. blackthorne, in contrast, resists outwardly and every step of the way. that scene where toranaga tells him to give up because he's outnumbered and blackthorne replies "unless i win" captures his character perfectly. he's going to fight until the last second, which is why he survives the journey to Japan, and why he gets separated from his men and integrated into a foreign culture, and why he steers the ship to safety rather than being left behind to die. that stubbornness to live shows up as a tendency for breaking all the rules, the result of which is meeting mariko and unintentionally getting her to fall in love with him. it's so fascinating how their ideologies have set them apart from their own people and brought them together while indicating their incompatibility. 

the show does a good job of layering characters and keeping them consistent, so i have faith that they'll return to yabushige's scary character. him torturing a sailor to death in pursuit of an existential question in a way so barbaric that it scares even the villagers did an excellent job in setting the tone of the show in episode one and setting the show apart from other historic period dramas. so it's disappointing to see him turn into a conniving goofball. hopefully this is a short term thing. 

i haven't been so intrigued by the political machinations within a show in a long while, probably since GoT. can't wait to see how the rest of it plays out 

gif below courtesy of @yocalio. look at toranaga's face shadowed in the sunlight. we don't fully know him.

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Honestly I still think there was probably some cannibalism in the we are all starving and there are dead bodies around sort of way, and I’m interested to see if it will come up considering Aspen’s peoples’ spiritual beliefs, and how its implied the Texans inherited our distaste for it. I just think it would be interesting to see how both sides would react to it.

One thing that I've always found fascinating is just how rare it is for people to resort to cannibalism in times of famine. The vast majority of the time we let starvation and illness take us first. Occasionally you see it with extremely small groups put into sudden survival situations with acquaintances or strangers, but when nations or villages or tribes or large ships starve, they almost never eat each other for the purposes of survival. I don't know why.

Cannibalism wouldn't have had any effect on the Hylaran famine anyway. It might have bought a handful of people a few more days, but that famine was controlled from outside with the explicit purpose of killing a set number of people while leaving enough alive to keep the colony stable, like a Roman decimation done at a distance. If people lived loner than expected then they'd just have restricted the food for longer. It's possible that desperate people might eat their dead in such circumstances (although as stated, people almost never respond to famine that way in real life), but it wouldn't have affected the outcome and they'd know it wouldn't.

[leohttbriar]

there's something really young about b'elanna. like i don't want to say "innocent" because that implies way too much, but the timbre is there? from some combination of her honesty and rawness, she seems like a skinny and lonesome stowaway that just happens to be the best engineer on board, and the depth of her understanding of the ship is balanced by her newness with so much else.

the fact that she's asking for spiritual guidance to begin with is sweet. the fact that she's asking chakotay, whose spirituality she's already loudly explained and defended when chakotay hadn't been able to himself, is doubly sweet. it's like she knows, through chakotay, that these answers exist and she's asking for them now, whether or not she would under any other circumstance and whether or not she would believe them. and it's significant because this circumstance is: simply waiting for something mysterious to happen, acknowledging there is nothing left to do, accepting powerlessness. which is almost like the whole of the voyager journey. b'elanna seems like the least concerned (sort of) with the fact of being thousands of light years from home given that she has professed to have no home to return to. the maquis, she said, were her home. chakotay is there who represents that home she found. so in this moment she is young in her acceptance rather than cold, reaching out for the intangible like a kid reaching for a telescope to see a shore beyond the curve of the earth. i don't know. it's just so sweet.

[duchessdepolignaca03]

Pulling a @hgejfmw-hgejhsf and queuing this to post at midnight! Cause I actually have something to share! I’ve got about 1/4 of my @aroyallybigbangrwrb written, so I may actually hit my deadline! 😊

Without further ado, an excerpt from Odalisque, or where Prince Henry is promised to Prince Alex from birth to serve as his concubine, and spends eight years of his life in seclusion to preserve his virginity. I like to think of this fic as the happy ending spiritual cousin of Rule Britannia.

“You smell different,” Prince Alex declares, apropos of nothing as he sits next to Henry in the sunken garden of Kensington Palace.

Henry is in a foul mood.

The arrival of the Americans for their summer visit is always incredibly disruptive to Henry’s otherwise peaceful existence, and he had little sleep the night before after his Mama’s stern lecture about how Henry ought to conduct himself in front of the American Prince.

It’s not the first time his Mama has made an appeal to the “sweet and obedient creature that must be in there somewhere”. But there had been something particularly unhinged and hurtful about his Mama’s lecture the night before, implying that all the fault for their enmity lay in Henry’s obstinance and not in Prince Alex’s impertinence and general propensity to be an absolute knob. Henry’s Mama pleads for him to grow up, and open his eyes to the possibility that Prince Alexander has matured, and grown into a fine, handsome young man.

His Mama is utterly in denial about the fact that Prince Alex’s appalling manners are incongruous with his external appearance, which even Henry can admit is conventionally – if not strikingly – beautiful. But even more incongruous to his appealing visage is his smell – which Henry wasn’t going to comment on until Prince Alex’s complete lack of self-awareness led him to unfairly question Henry’s own hygiene.

“Yes, and you stink,” Henry declares, pretending to gag as he scoots away . “I heard unemployment is very high in your country – can you not devote the excess labour to the production of deodorant?”

No pressure tags for the greats @sparklepocalypse @priincebutt @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @taste-thewaste @onthewaytosomewhere @orchidscript @piratefalls @bitbybitwrites @sunnysideprince @zwiazdziarka @firenati0n @magicandarchery @thinkof-england @getmehighonmagic @nocoastposts @happiness-of-the-pursuit @wordsofhoneydew @bigassbowlingballhead @itsmaybitheway @suseagull04 @yrsonpurpose @inexplicablymine @ships-to-sail @cha-melodius @leaves-of-laurelin and of course, anyone else who wants to participate!

[weirdsociology]

Distractions (The Mandalorian, E)

Title: Distractions (6.6k)

Series: Part one of Creed, a non-linear series about Din Djarin and his favorite... distraction. 

Description: An artifact from the Mandalorian's past leads to trying something new - and remembering the past.

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, sex toys, fingering, mutual masturbation, dirty talk, oral sex, penetrative sex, implied violence, spit, a touch of size kink, light manhandling, very mild D/s in all directions because we love a switch in this house, no betas we die like men, canon what canon

Tropes: hurt/comfort, idiots with feelings, angst but it all works out in the end, the helmet stays on

Author's note: I blacked out, I don't know what happened, and frankly I'm embarrassed that the first fanfic I've written in 20 years is kind of fluffy and not significantly more insane. This little offering is canon timeline-agnostic; I just wanted to give our armored dumbass a happy ending. Please don't think this reflects my personality, I am spiritually covered in the blood of my enemies at all times. Also there is one small bit of truth from my personal life in here and I'll give you a hint: it wasn't flashbangs, it was bayonets. This one is for @tarabyte3 who got me excited about what fanfiction can do again.

***

Sometimes, it's hard to sleep in hyperspace. A ship this old doesn't have the automated circadian rhythm programs that dim the lights according to species preference, and all the daylight bulbs are second-hand, their blueness dimmed by repeated use. Darkness is in plentiful supply, but that's only half the equation of an artificial night. You do your best, careful to check the time reads on the navigational display, and adhere to a schedule as much as you can. It helps give structure to long periods of transit, and you know that ten years from now, your body and mind will thank you for being careful to guard their rest.

The Mandalorian, by contrast, doesn't have a diurnal cycle as far as you've been able to tell. His sleep patterns are pure anarchy, having nothing to do with mood or physical need. Sometimes he'll spend a week getting no more rest than a few brief, truncated minutes on the ground after trekking in harsh terrain. Sometimes you'll go looking for him after a quiet stretch in flight and he'll be in the bed he calls his rack, completely dormant for the next fourteen standard hours. You don't know how he does it. He lives like someone who fully expects to die before their body has enough years to register protest - which on the one hand makes you anxious, and on the other you find it hard to blame him for.

Still, despite all your attendance to regularity, there are nights - times - when you can't sleep. Especially when you are headed past the Outer Rim, and the length of travel means nothing to do except read and watch holovideos you've already seen and eat stale food and exercise in cramped, artificial repetition. Nothing new to look at, nothing new to do.

Which is how you end up awake at this hour, dressed in nothing but your bandeau and shorts with goosebumps pebbling your legs as you lean over one of the big crates in the cargo bay. You're digging through the thermoplastic case that holds the Mandalorian's personal possessions, looking for one of the old holonovels you're sure he has stowed, when you find it. A smooth, round black cylinder with a cap on each end. At first, you suspect it's yet another esoteric firearm - but then why isn't it in the weapons locker above?

Curious, you gingerly remove the cap from one end. Life on the ship has taught you to be cautious about any unfamiliar object. You don't know if it's normal Mandalorian living style to have to shove aside a mountain of electronic flashbangs when looking for clean blankets, but it's certainly normal for this one.

What's inside isn't like any weapon you've ever seen. The cylinder is filled with something soft and yielding, silicone or plastisilk you think, and it gives disconcertingly when you brush a thumb over it. There's a small bore in the middle about the diameter of your finger, but the polymer feels like it would stretch. It's textured near where the cap would fit, small ridges inside and a gentle flowering of protuberances around the borehole. Almost like -

You stand up, unsure whether to blush or laugh, and snap the cap back on. You've certainly found something new this time; something that might help break the monotony of space travel if you approach the topic - and Mando - correctly. If you're right there should be something else nearby, something that would make this a little more... usable.

There is. A discreet bottle, neatly wrapped in plain paper.

You take cylinder and bottle and step out in the corridor from the bay, checking the location of your fellow crew. Mando is not in his rack or the lockers, which means he's in the cockpit. The Child is in his usual nest. It's late, and the kid should be asleep for a long while yet. You jam the - the toy, you suppose - and the bottle into one hand and climb your way up the ladder, half appalled at your boldness and half delighted at the thought of making your Mandalorian squirm for once. You're secretly hoping to catch him out, tease him with the evidence of his private sexual habits, a friendly nip around the edges of his Creed. 

"Look what I found," you say as you approach the pilot's chair. His head is turned away from you, bent over something in the navcomp, his long legs in front of him as stretched out as they can be in the small space. He hums an acknowledgement and takes a moment to finish entering something before he looks over his shoulder. You offer the cylinder to him flat across your palms, like a knight offering a loyal blade, which you hope is both funny and at least a little charming.

It doesn't work. He's still looking at you. You wave it in front of him instead, resisting the urge to waggle your eyebrows. The helmet drops to consider the cylinder, then you. "I'd forgotten I had that. Where did you find it?"

You stop, hands still outstretched. "Forgot-- your crate in the cargo bay, but... is this what I think it is?"

Mando can't raise his own eyebrows at you, but his chin twitches upward in the way you've learned to interpret is the same thing. "Do you think it's a cock sleeve? Because it is."

"Is that what you call it?"

"I've always been less concerned about what to call it than how to use it," he says. He's fully turned to face you now. The conversation is not going as you imagined. You flush and he gives you an appraising look, taking in your half-undressed state.

"Isn't that... Against your Creed?" How does he do this. How does he always turn the tables. How is it you're the one quailing under the calm scrutiny of his helmet. You'd meant this as a good-natured ribbing, not a come-on, but suddenly you're picturing what you were decidedly not thinking about earlier - Mando, years ago, alone in his rack or fresh from a hunt, with his beskar still on and his arming jacket rucked up, screwing the toy down onto himself with his fist. The thought makes heat pool between your legs. It also makes you a little melancholy. Suddenly you want to fuck him and hold him in equal measure.

"You weren't always here, you know," he says calmly, honest and unembarrassed as he is shockingly honest and unembarrassed about everything to do with sex. He reaches for you, captures your wrists, pulls you further into the cockpit and down into his lap. You thrill as always at his casual possessiveness, his desire to be close. At the breadth of his shoulders under your hands. "The Creed isn't against pleasure, only distraction. Sometimes it's more distracting to make your body suffer than to give it what it wants."

"Like me?" you ask. It's a joke that once would have stung, an echo of your first night together - you are nothing to me but a distraction from my work - but it's an old wound, long since rubbed over by the smooth edges of time and shared affection.

An amused huff through the modulator. "Like you," he agrees, and though the helmet dampers every inflection you now know, where once you only imagined, the statement is fond.

***

You'd been traveling together for months, a reluctant passenger paired with an unhappy custodian. It had been weeks since the first time the tension between you rose to the breaking point, pulling his hands to you like a gravity well. You were now fucking the Mandalorian regularly, enthusiastically, and, at least to you, inadequately. Regardless of how well you took him, how perfectly he fit when he slicked and stretched his way into you, your heart hammered the same rhythm: no room, no room. His attitude toward you had made that abundantly clear. There was no room for you in his life, on his ship, in his Creed. You were his... distraction. That's all.

You mostly ignored it. When you were working or hunting, you barely thought about it. You pushed the thought down and stored it away to keep from slicing yourself on its sharp edges. But there were moments when it pressed forward again, tumbling out of the drawer of your heart in disarray. The Mandalorian was behind you or over you or under you and you were crying out the name you knew him by even as your blood rushed in your ears demanding more. Not more sex, not more of the heavy punch of his hips against you or the feeling of his hands in your hair, but more of him. You wanted him. You wanted everything.

You wanted to know what it kriffing meant when he called you his distraction.

And sometimes, after you had been fucked within an inch of your life and left lying on your bunk or still pressed against the weapons locker, it hurt a breathtaking amount.

You were pretty sure the Mandalorian was not unaware of how he affected you. Beyond that first epithet which became routine, he was not intentionally cruel. Away from the heat that flared between you and his resentment at his own inability to ignore it, he was considerate and distant and respectful. Unfailingly polite. You loathed every moment of it with a growing bitterness that threatened to replace food and sleep. It reminded you of the time you'd run into a recruiter after she’d turned you down for a job. Sorry kid, you had your chance to convince me and you blew it. Except Mando, being Mando, had never given you a chance at all.

It was worse when you fucked. For weeks, you had resolved over and over to put an end to his careful handling of you. Better an angry rebuttal or cold silence than... whatever this pitiful halfway connection was. Next time he approached you with that weight in his step or crowded you into a corner, too close, you would force his hand. You knew that was the time to do it, when you had his full attention and the bargaining chip of your body. You'd seize his wandering gaze and stare into the helmet: "Why do you call me a distraction?"

You had told yourself this a dozen times. But his practiced fingers were already slipping inside you and all you could do was whine as his modulated voice, sounding not quite human, breathed a word that meant nothing to you in your ear: Mesh'la, mesh'la, mesh'la.

***

You had entreated him to show you how he used it, before you joined his crew. Before, as he drily puts it while running a gloved hand up your thigh and teasing along the waistband of your shorts, he had a far superior array of options. Now you're mostly naked in the dim light, seated between his spread legs, his helmet tipped against the headrest as he leans back. You're watching the arched column of his throat, watching his gloved fingers wrapped around the cylinder and most of all, watching his thick cock disappear into the plush expanse of the toy. He's hard but not fully erect, probably because you refused to touch him until you got to see him touch himself. Not that you needed to threaten - you both know that Din, and it's Din now, in the privacy of the cockpit with both of you partially undressed and warmth radiating from him, will deny you nothing where his body is concerned. Except, of course, his face.

His cock is stirring to full attention, and you suspect it has more to do with your rapt gaze on him than his own ministrations. It's a novelty for you to watch him for once. The way you two fuck, he normally has the better view, pulling back to see your cunt swallow his length and hear you moan in gratitude. He likes to watch you touch yourself while you're speared on him, chasing your own orgasm as you clench. He likes to see your thighs tremble when you ride him, and your face when he makes you come too much. "One more, mesh'la, one more for me, let me see you," he'll croon, as one hand worships your sore clit and the other bats away your arm as you try to bury your face in the crook of your elbow. Din likes to watch anything that shows him how good he makes you feel.

Your Mandalorian might be on to something, you decide. Watching certainly has its appeal. You can hear the soft slide of the toy, see the tension in his forearms and his stomach even through his tunic, his breath through the helmet fast but even. He looks gorgeous like this, a warrior half-undone for your enjoyment. You slide the palms of your hands up his thighs and run them lightly along the bare skin peeking through where he's partially shucked himself of armor and clothing. His breathing alters a little, hitching as your skin makes contact with his.

"How does it feel?" you ask, watching the steady rise and fall of the cylinder. You idly trace a finger up his groin and along the sensitive skin just under his sack. He hisses, and you twitch in response to the noise you know so well, your cunt giving a little spasm as if to remind you of its needs.

After a moment, Din answers your question. "Tight, but not warm. Better than nothing but... Like a ration bar when I have a meal right in front of me," he adds pointedly, and one booted foot slides between your folded knees, leather rubbing along the seam of your sex to make his point clear. "I like that you like looking at me, but we could have bought a mirror instead. I could be fucking you in front of it right now."

Your cheeks warm as you think about it: Din, arching over your back, holding your chin, making you watch your own face as he nudges the head of his cock into you. You don't know how you'd feel staring at yourself like that, but your cunt twitches again, letting you know that more important parts of you fully approve of the concept. The helmet has dropped back down. He's observing your reaction. You file the idea away for later. "I like seeing you like this, though. Did you really never use it after you met me?"

A chuckle. "Oh, I used it. Before... when you were first here. I used it so much I think I did permanent damage."

A little shiver of heat winds up from the base of your spine. This is new information. But he's not done. "Which is why I should be allowed to show you how much I appreciate you, not this plastic junk." He makes a show of slowing down, grinding up into the toy and letting out an exaggerated groan. You know he's still watching you closely, waiting for his cue.

You give him a wicked grin. "Sometimes... it's more distracting to make your body suffer than give it what it wants." Din groans for real in response, but you have other things on your mind. "Back before... when you... were you thinking of me?"

He makes an uninterpretable noise. "Oh no, mesh'la, I wasn't thinking of you. Only of your hips. And your hair. And your tits. And your ass. And your cunt, and if I could get you wet for me, and what that pretty mouth would look like around me, and how you'd sound when I put my cock down your throat."

"... Fuck," you say breathlessly. What started as a flutter has become an aching, empty pulse. "Fuck, Din," and you lean forward, bringing your face almost close enough to nuzzle where he's still sheathed in the toy, breathing in his scent. It has the unintended effect of driving the tip of his boot further into you, a solid mass pushing on the thrumming bundle of nerves between your legs.

When you first started doing this, he said very little to you. You could read nothing in his body except desire and frustration, both of which he extinguished in the furnace of your sex. Later, after Mos Eisley, when anger was no longer the single note of your shared existence, he talked to you constantly. The man of few words outside the ship became the man of many words when he was buried inside you. He told you what he was going to do to you, what he wanted to do to you, how good you felt and what you did to him. He talked like he was trying to construct a gilded cage of words you wouldn't fly away from. You had been dumbfounded by the change, shy and unsure, unable to find a way to reassure him you had already stooped to his lure. Part of you was afraid that if he knew the truth - that you'd have him any way he wanted, silent or talkative or babbling in Tuskan sign - he would stop. He hadn't, but the stream had slowed. More deliberate, less frantic. Somehow even more indecent.

He's being indecent right now, timing the strokes of the toy with his words. "I wanted you every morning and twice at night." Down. "I couldn't think - could barely shoot straight." Back up. "I wanted to bend you over the crates and fuck you until you felt the same." A slow slide back down. "Fill you up with me until you cried, until you knew you were mine, until that sweet cunt wouldn't want anyone else." Up, until just the tip of him is still out of sight. He's losing his even tone, the modulator turning gasps into static. "And then I did fuck you, and it got so much worse. You let me pull you open and put my cock in the hottest, wettest place in the galaxy and-- are you really going to come on my boot instead of letting me fuck you?"

You come to with a little start, pulled aware by the abrupt shift in subject. There's dampness under you, and you realize you've been rocking back and forth on his boot, rubbing the folds of your cunt against the worn leather, and moaning into his lap while he talks. It feels so good to be here, sitting at his feet as he strokes himself for you, hearing the jagged details of your shared past transformed by pleasure. The scruff of the boot against you, the bite of a seam into your tenderest flesh, the smell - steel and old smoke and hot sand - so uniquely Mandalorian it has you panting for him.

"Din," you breathe. "Stop -- stop. I want to feel you."

That's all it takes. The toy is gone in an instant, he's off the pilot's chair and dragging you upright and his half-bare hips are against yours, crowding you into the console. His cock is painfully hard against you, already smeared with precum and the lubricant that makes someone of his size using a toy like that even possible. You realize with dizzy delight that this is going to be one of those times where he fucks you without preamble, pushing his way in, making you feel every inch of his invasion. The pleasurable burn of your cunt adjusting to his girth will be revenge for making him use the toy - a revenge he knows you will enjoy.

More leather, this time at your mouth. The feel of his glove as he curls his fingertips under your chin. "Spit," he commands, and you do.

"Good girl. Now turn around."

***

It was after the first time he'd had you in the cockpit that you'd found the courage to ask. It had already been one of the worst days of your life, what more was there to lose? You were so numb there was no cliff you wouldn't jump off, no risk you wouldn't take. If you asked and the answer was indifference, well, it was just one more pain to add to the litany: your cracked lips, your shredded feet, your bruised ribs, your bloodied hands. And soon, maybe, your broken heart.

Mando had left, as he always did, after you were done, leaving you on the steel floor mostly naked and entirely without the desire to stand on your own. You told yourself that you would simply sleep there, if you had to, rather than getting back up on your cut soles. After all, you'd slept in worse places recently. Though you'd meant it to be fierce the thought sounded pathetic even to you.

The sound of boots climbing up the ladder interrupted your self-pity. Mando had not only come back, he had come back with a box: the medkit he kept in a crate in the cargo bay. He knelt beside you on the floor and started to lift you to him, one hand on your back and one hand under your knees. It was close and familiar in the worst possible way, like the fuck wasn't, and you made a hoarse inhuman noise and tried to kick him. You slammed a broken toe into a beskar vambrace instead and then you screamed for real.

He was patient with you and you hated it with every aftershock of white-hot rage in your body. You struggled even once he managed to get you up in his arms. After a bad moment where you thought you might actually try to bite him, he stopped attempting to haul you down the ladder and dropped both of you into the pilot's chair abruptly instead, pulling his hands away like you'd burned him. "Hey, it's me, just me, the one who's on your side," he'd said, attempting a touch of humor, and strangely it was the buzz of the modulator, so unlike the voices you'd been hearing for the past few days, that had incrementally slowed your galloping heart.

The medkit was in reach and at first he was gentle but even that was too much. You pulled away without leaving the chair, putting distance between you and that damned helmet. All you wanted was to rest, except you were afraid of what you might have time to think about if you did. There was a tense minute as he resumed his work with gauze and tape and bacta spray, but even in your exhausted state you somehow felt him make the decision to stop trying to be tender. He took your cue and bandaged you with impersonal efficiency, like you were a soldier in his regiment or a fellow Mandalorian. It made his touch tolerable, and you were so tired you almost resented him for it.

By the time he was done, you were nearly asleep. You heard the click of the medkit closing and, calmer now, a little more returned to yourself, braced for him to lift you down the ladder. But he surprised you by making no move to get up, resting his hands on his legs, around you but not on you. You could tell he was waiting for something but not what. Maybe it was something from you, but you were all out of give. It was his turn.

Another moment of silence, then momentary confusion as you both spoke at once:

"I have to tell you so--"

"Mandalorian, why are you--"

He stopped. You pressed on. "Why are you always calling me a distraction?" Your tone was flat. You sounded like you could be asking about the price of power cells.

The helmet twisted. This was clearly not the direction he expected your post-coital, post-triage conversation to take. "Because you're distracting."

You thought anger might be the only thing keeping you upright. "Not good enough. What the fuck are we even doing here? Why did you come after me? You told me we were done, that you didn't owe me anything. You could have left me there and pocketed the bounty for yourself. They would have let me go once they convinced themselves I didn't have the information.” A lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “That doesn't sound like I'm just a distraction."

"I said you're distracting, and you are. That's different." You were sure he was being pedantic but your tired brain couldn't keep up with Mando at his most evasive. "You're not just a distraction. I don't make a habit of coming back for-- distractions."

Coming back for was a polite euphemism for the amount of killing Mando had done in the past few hours. None of it mattered to you if he was doing it because of his damned Creed. Maybe none of it mattered at all. Maybe you had kept your mouth shut for nothing. Your chest hurt and you had no idea if it was because of your ribs or because of your heart. You kept going.

"It makes no difference if I'm a distracting fuck or something worth coming back for or a kriffing bantha, Mando. I'm still..." Exhaustion made you blunt. "I'm still against your Creed."

He made a noise that could have been agreement, or negation. "The Creed is not against pleasure. Or companionship. Only... distractions." He sounded like he was reading out of a textbook. You'd heard it all before. You had wrung everything out of him you could about his Creed, because you wanted to find somewhere to fit. That was all he'd ever said.

He surprised you again. "Distraction is a-- it's not easy to describe. It's not as simple as wasting time or effort. Distractions are... things that pull you from your orbit without returning value, like a comet disrupting a planet's path around a sun. Too many and you begin to drift away from the tribe, the Creed, the things that make you a Mandalorian. You lose yourself chasing what streaks past you, already gone."

That little speech was probably the most words you'd ever heard Mando say at once, and there was too much there for you to process in your wasted state. You latched on instead to the thing that seemed most personally insulting, given how you'd been spending your time the past few days. "Maker, Mando, do you think that's all I am, a comet? That you'll turn around one day and I'll be gone? Do you think I did-- what I did– what we did– for fun? Do you think that's all you are to me?"

There, you had said it. Or at least implied it. Your cortisol response gave one last death rattle and suddenly you found you could sit up a little straighter, could feel your pulse in your throat. Your feet ached.

There was a long silence. 

Then the Mandalorian sighed, and in that sigh was more defeat than you'd ever heard after a hunt gone wrong. The sound seized you and squeezed your breath as it stuttered in your chest. When he spoke, it was low, tired, and edged with brutal honesty. "No mesh'la. I don't think you're a comet. Not after... today."

And that, somehow, was what did you in: his surrender. The first acknowledgement of what you had endured for him and what you'd done together and what it meant between you. You dropped your face into the filthy duraweave of Mando's shoulder, not caring if you caught the edge of beskar beside it. Something boiled up in you and you weren't sure what it was, only that you snapped your mouth closed hard over a noise like being struck and fisted your hands in his tunic. All the fear you'd put aside came slamming in, the torrential wave presaged by an empty beach. You drove yourself as close as possible to your Mandalorian and shook as though a blaster bolt had found its home in your brain after all.

When you knew where you were again, you found you had shifted - or he had shifted you. You were curled between his legs, your arms still around his neck, your face against where his cheek would be in the cruel parody of a kiss. You froze for a moment, anticipating the helmet to feel hostile against your lips, but it was only Mando, the smooth silver of him that you'd come to know and expect. With sudden resolve you drew back an inch or two, away from the spot where your  mouth left a sliver of fog. Your heart beat in your ears, marching steadily onward toward its inexorable conclusion. You had always known what you needed to do for both your sakes', and now you even thought you knew the bargain that could make it bearable.

"Mando," you whispered. "If that's the way it is, I wouldn't... I would never ask you to go against your Creed. I couldn't."

The warrior under you was so still you feared he might not respond at all. Then he blew out another long breath and put his hands around your waist, impossibly solid against you. It was the second time that night he'd reached for you with gentleness and, leaning against him, you could nearly imagine what it would be like to feel safe again. It would have been so easy to sink into shared delusion. But you owed him something more.

"I couldn't," you said again. "You couldn't. We could never-- it would never be right between us. I don't want that." You were certain you were crying by then, silent tears racing down your cheeks. "But please... I'm not ready yet. I'll leave tomorrow. Please, please... just give me tonight."

The hands on your waist spasmed, gripping you so hard that for one deranged instant you thought he might throw you down on the steel and fuck you all over again. He did the opposite and hauled you painfully upright, stood you in the tight space between his knees and the console. You winced when your abused feet took your weight. His own posture and the set of his shoulders told you absolutely nothing. He was still holding you like a lifeline.

"No," he said. After everything you'd done it was absurd that one word could make you want to crumple to the floor again, but you stayed upright, nails digging into the console for support. "I won't give you just tonight. I know you. You walked into that warehouse for me. You were so afraid for me you couldn't be afraid for yourself. You bled-- you killed-- because you hoped it would buy me time. I know you. Now you're offering– this. I refuse. You're not a Mandalorian, but your courage puts ours to shame. Who would I be if I returned your loyalty so little of my own?"

"Mando, what are you saying?" You were so numb with exhaustion that you weren't sure you had it in you to hope. You tried to keep your gaze steady, but you knew your eyes were wet.

"Stay with me," he said quietly. You did crumple then, your knees turned to water, and only his grip still on you kept you standing. "Stay with me, and let me prove my honor to you."

"Yes," you breathed, and that was all he needed. He hauled you to him, pulling you down, until your chest was pressed to him as he ran his gloves frantically over your neck, your shoulder blades, your hips. You rested your forehead against his, against the blood-warm beskar, and waited. You wanted nothing more than the feeling of his hands on you but you were so tired. "Will... will the tribe understand?"

A pause. He slowed, but did not stop, tracing soothing heat across your body. The blank faceplate tipped up to gaze out at the desert night. "Some will. Some won't. It doesn't matter. How I feel about you can't be against the Creed any more than my helmet. You can't turn a thing against itself." His head was still turned away, looking past the canopy to the starless sky outside. "You aren't a distraction from my Creed, mesh'la, and you never have been. You're part of it. You make me a better... a better Mandalorian."

His hesitation did not go unnoticed. You heard what he didn't say: a better man.

***

The problem with having sex in the cockpit is that when you want - no, need - to lay down afterward there isn't quite room for both of you between the chairs. Also, the floor is that textured, anti-slip steel they use for gantries, which pokes uncomfortably into bare flesh. You end up squashed together, half on top of your Mandalorian, letting his still partially-armored back take the worst of your combined weight as you roll on to your side and throw one leg over him, pillowing your head on his pauldron. It's not ideal, but after the three orgasms he pulled out of you with as much dedication as he'd ever chased down a bounty, you don't really have a choice. Going down the ladder in your current state might actually be the thing that kills you.

Din is still breathing hard from his own climax, sought only after he'd made you so sensitive that he'd had to put a callused palm over your mouth to keep you from shrieking and waking the Child. He'd started, as you thought he would, by pulling off your flimsy shorts and shoving the thick head of his cock into you with no preparation other than telling you to bend over the console and stay quiet. You'd cooperated, knowing that the position put his mouth conveniently close to your ear, and were rewarded with that smooth modulated voice telling you he was going to make sure you never made him use a toy again, never want his cock in anything but you. He told you he was going fuck you so thoroughly you'd beg for him to let you come on his cock. He'd started rough, his pace matching the coarseness of his words, and you'd bitten down your whimpers at the stretch. 

But Din knew you far too well to let you off so lightly. Fast had turned to slow and deep, caging your hips with one forearm while skillful fingers lightly circled your clit, never giving you quite enough pressure to get you where you ached to go. Then you had begged, and he'd almost given in: pulled out of you abruptly, replacing his cock with three fingers after ripping off his gloves. You'd come so hard Din had groaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, your legs trembling uncontrollably, but even that wasn't what you were hoping for and he knew it. He'd coaxed you to a second orgasm by turning you around and crudely shoving his knee between your legs, making you ride the textured cuisse on his thigh. He'd insisted you work for it, rubbing yourself against him and leaving streaks of arousal on the beskar, and that was less satisfying still. Only after you'd gotten yourself off did he ask you what you wanted, and by then you were so needy, so desperately raw and sex-drunk, that all you could do was whine, "You-- please, Din-- you." The sound of his name seemed to shred whatever last bit of composure he had left, and he'd pressed into you harder than ever as your hand dropped to provide the friction you'd needed. You'd come apart with him buried deep, your cunt gripping him like a vise, and he'd followed not long after, your name on his lips as his cock twitched and softened in you.

The nice thing about steel floors, you decide, is that they're easy to clean. You can feel Din dripping out of you and you're pretty sure you're going to leave a wet spot. You’re also pretty sure that the cylinder rolled under one of the consoles and is still jammed there, but that's a problem for later. You pull yourself even closer to him, enjoying his warmth in the shared quiet, watching the strange false light of hyperspace dance outside the canopy.

You don't notice that Din’s turned his helmet to you until he speaks. “Another 26 hours and then we’re off this boat.” He sounds relaxed, pleased both with your current configuration of tangled limbs and the prospect of no longer being confined to the ship. “Felucia is a jungle world. Plenty of frogs for the womp rat to chase.”

You grin. “Or eat. How long are we staying? Are we dropping in somewhere civilized or staying off the radar? And who are we even after? You didn’t show me the puck yet.”

“Off the radar, and this one’s a solo job.” You start to protest, but he stops you. “Really. The contact says he’s holed up in a cave in the middle of nowhere. We’ll set down in the nearest open spot, then it’s half a day overland to the hideout. No point in you coming, nothing for you and the kid to do but get wet and feed the gnats.”

After space travel, a hike doesn’t sound unpleasant, but you know he’s right. There’s no reason to go to the extra trouble of packing supplies for two more when it’s a straightforward retrieval. At least you and the Child will get to explore your landing site. You can do your work outside in the open air, and if all goes well, Din will only be gone a day or two.

“Hey,” you say softly. “You’ll come back, right?” It’s only half a serious question. You trust your Mandalorian. You’ve trusted his competence and drive and ability since the moment you met him, and have learned to trust that his desire to return to you is real. Still, you always ask. It’s a private ritual between you, something soft built over top of hard truths. 

You think of the times he’s left you. To work a job or on a hunt or sometimes just for the cold, hard recesses of his mind where you cannot touch him. Once, although you try not to remember it, for a black and shaking depression that terrified you both. Most of all, you think of that night, on Mos Eisley. The crunch of sand under his boots as he turned away. The glimpse of beskar through the door. The feeling of his hands on your battered ribs. His voice, very tired, I don't make a habit of coming back for distractions.

"Of course I’ll come back, mesh'la." You’ll never not thrill to Din’s electronic baritone calling you beautiful. "How could I do anything else? You're part of my Creed."

***

series masterlist

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

What do you think about the claims that Aang’s anti killing Is hypocritical because of the Blue Spirit’s rampage and it’s possible that people died when Aang would defend himself and his allies?

If we were to apply real world physics, biology or just common sense to the story, the show would not happen because Aang would have died inside that iceberg - no scratch that, there wouldn't be a story because HUMANS CAN'T CONTROL THE GODDAMN ELEMENTS!

Katara, Aang and Sokka would have also died, or at least being severly injured, with lots of broken bones, and possibly paralyzed from the waist/neck down after their attempt of using the Omashu mail system as a rollercoaster.

Firebenders should accidentally burn themselves all the time since their flames are always either dangerous close to their skin or directly touching it as they are created. Don't even get me started on lightning, especially with stuff like Iroh redirecting lightning FROM THE GODDAMN SKY. Toph should have also gotten severe burns in the finale because of that full-body armor she made with ABSURDLY HOT METAL and that was in direct contact with her skin.

Realistically, Sokka should have not have been able to help evacuate an entire village with not previous plan to do so like we saw him do in "Jet." The man Haru and Katara saved in "Imprisoned" should have been very hurt after all those rocks fell on him, and the fact that no died in that metal ship after all the COAL they threw at FIREBENDERS is absurd.

When the pirates put explosives in Zuko's ship, there's a split second where we can see he created a fire-shield - that would in now way in hell be able to allow him to just be walking around the following episode, with just a few superficial burns that are already healed in season two.

In the season one finale, Zhao very clearly aimed his flames at BOTH koi fish, yet only the one with the moon spirit died. Everything also becomes black and white for no real reason since the moonlight has nothing to do with how humans see things

For fuck's sake, the show full on says "AANG DIED AND KATARA BROUGHT HIM BACK FROM THE DEAD!"

Avatar is a children's show AND a cartoon. It operates on cartoon logic - aka, unless death is explicitly mentioned (Gyatso, Kya, Aang) or VERY heavily implied (Zhao, Jet, Combustion Man) we are supposed to assume that, somehow, everyone survived. The fact that fandom can accept EVERYTHING being unrealistic, then complains that people Aang fought survived the impossible just screams "I don't like that this character in a kid's show doesn't go around murdering every enemy in his path!" or "I don't like Aang because he got in the way of my ship, so I'll take any excuse to pretend he is actually a terribly written character everyone should hate!"

As for the Koizilla situation in particular, lets not forget that the very next episode has Aang having nightmares about it and showing that he very clearly does not know how to control the Avatar State, how it works, or even what it is. Roku literally shows up to EXPLAIN that stuff to him. HOW can we hold Aang accountable for something that was not his decision?

Once again, because of cartoon logic, the only sort of confirmed death was Zhao - and that one was 100% on the Ocean Spirit, since he had already split from Aang.

Not to mention "this person accidentally died because of one of my actions" is not always the same as "this person died because I chose to kill them." It's like the difference between a car crash where the driver wasn't able to stop in time VS literally shooting someone in the face.

Plus, in the finale Aang even reached the conclusion that, if he had no alternative, he WOULD kill Ozai, even though that would obviously take a great psychological/spiritual toll on him, because it would be ONE LIFE TAKEN AS A WAY TO SAVE THOUNSANDS, and even before that he had no problem with things like Sokka killing Combustion Man or even full on admiting "Fire Lord Ozai is a terrible person and the world would probably be a better place without him".

It's pretty clear that, even if Avatar DID go there and said "sometimes people died in battles against the Gaang", it would still NOT contradict Aang's beliefs, and therefore he is NOT a hypocrite, and the idiots of the fandom can die mad about it.

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

last day at the battle of red cliffs, and i am the coalition's top general in charge of the land assault. it is eerily quiet in the mountains, an easterly wind blows hard and cold. the skies over the river glow pink, like the blooms of a peach orchard in spring, but the sight brings me no joy, for i know it is fire that stains the heavens. tonight the red cliffs are ablaze with burning ships. the rivers run with the blood of brave men. after so many years of bitter fighting, we have finally struck a decisive blow against the Usurper and halted his war of conquest. tonight we emerge victorious from the quagmire, but my heart grows heavy at the cost.

Glaive in hand and sitting astride my steed, I lead five hundred crack troops towards the narrow mountain pass of Huarong Road, racing to cut off the Usurper's escape. the people say he is a vicious monster whose hunger knows no bounds. They are wrong. He is just a man, capable of love and honour--and is all the more dangerous for it. you cannot call a typhoon or earthquake evil, but it does not make it any less destructive.

I had tried to help him, once upon a time, but some men cannot be changed, only stopped. there will be no peace as long as he draws breath. the war must end here. he must end here. We might have been allies once, almost friends, two beans side-by-side in the same pod, but I will put aside our shared history for the sake of duty, bitter though it may be. I have sworn a sacred oath to my Liege Lord and Elder Brother, I will only live and die by his side.

hark! the enemy approaches. i order my men into formation and ride out to meet them. a tiger is most dangerous when it's teeth are broken. i must show no weakness or he will eat my heart.

an old man on a lame horse rides out to meet me.

"I trust you've been well, General, since we've last met," the Usurper croaks, swaying unsteadily on his saddle, and then; "might i trouble you for a drink of water?"

he bares his teeth in a rictus of a smile. while he has never been handsome, he had at least been stately, now exhaustion and desperation have robbed him of even that.

his soldiers fall to their knees at the sight of me, weeping and trembling piteously. I ride through a sea of haggard, mud-covered faces. half the men don't have saddles, most don't have weapons, one is, rather absurdly, clutching a clay cooking pot--none of them look capable of putting up a fight. all look ready to drop dead.

once upon a time, a foolish, kindly man found a snake on the ground, frozen and half-dead...

i give the Usurper my water-gourd. his hands are shaking, so I take it back and unstopper it for him. it is for the sake of expediency. our hands do not touch. i had half-suspected he might have been stalling for time, but the gourd is empty when he hands it back.

"I often dreamed of you, Yunchang--" he hiccups, and then continues in the strong, resonant voice i know so well, his words amplified by the stone walls, "we'd sit under the trees and drink a toast, for old times sake. How the years have flown. it is the greatest tragedy of my life that we are doomed to be on opposite sides of the battlefield, never crossing paths except to exchange blows. Oh, woe, to be dealt such a hand by fate. To be seperated from the man you desire most." To be continued

notes:

ok! so in the middle of cao cao's Yackey Sack Chase Scene he stops and lets his men cook dinner...which implies that at least ONE guy was carrying a fucking pot with him. one of those heavy as shit honest to god terracotta pots. up and down hills while running for his life. i respect NO ONE except Random Wei Soldier and his pot. this man is my spiritual brother.

watch 2010 san guo tv show. that is all.

[toastys]

I have a really out-there theory that The Pale itself is symbolically/metaphorically/allegorically/a physical manifestation of the influence of The Players of Disco Elysium. The Pale wiggled its way into Harry's comatose, bender-beaten brain and shattered him into twenty-six different pieces for the Players to convene with. Strap in cause this is a Long One.

The Pale is often described as 'consisting of' everything that has ever happened in Elysium's past - the memories of everyone you meet, speech, radio waves, etc - it would make sense that it would be almost completely inaccessible to the Player as its own plot device. You can't just dip your head into Elysium's Lore Sauna to learn everything immediately... In a sense, you have amnesia too, and are learning everything with Harry as the catalyst. He is an unreliable narrator in an extremely specific position in the world - as a cop stuck on a case in a destitute part of Insulinde - allowing you to absorb the worldbuilding little by little instead of slamming you in the face with all of history at once.

Elysium is giant, but not infinite. Not even the people who live in Elysium know what it looks like from above. The Pale acts as a physical barrier around the most important parts of this world, and is eating away at it - much like the Player absorbs its geography, politics, and cultural sensibilities to utilise to the best of their abilities through Harry. Dora and Harry's past being inaccessible due to physical or mental manifestations of the Pale is another way of motivating the Player to shape Harry into someone new, as You are all he has now.

(She'll be coming soon. Le Retour. One day I will return to your side.)

The rest is out-of-bounds. Dora is not even seen in the game, since Harry's subconscious can only see her as Dolores Dei, ramming home the fact that Dora is long gone from Harry's life and the realities of poverty he must face. Dolores Dei was killed 300 years ago by a person she was close to after being perceived as something inhuman, and the bourgeois are not human.

Dora is middle class, and using this, she has literally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually transcended from the love she became disillusioned with. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with Harry because she thought he 'looked cool' during a brief economic boom. When the economy went to shit and the shit that made Harry look cool became outdated and tacky, she jumped ship using her class status. Harry is haunted by this - she is eternally leaving him in his dreams (his subconscious saying: 'why couldn't you take me with you?'). This mirrors the upper-class vacating Revachol, that was once the capital of the world, not once but twice. However, after everything, Shivers can still take the letter from you. The city proclaims her love for you. She finds you coat to keep you warm. You can't get Dora back; you couldn't even save yourself from crashing and burning - but the city needs you.

^ Key phrase 'Let me'. Implying that Harry of all people could kill it via neglect, and that Harry of all people could stop a fucking nuke from dropping on it. Shivers - the City, the Pale itself - could have taken Harry's memories away; the memories that drove him to attempt suicide - and replaced it with voices which guide him (however flawed) and an outside influence so far removed from Elysium that it can see beyond its outermost walls. The Player, baby.

Furthermore, the Pale is often implicated to be made up of alternative universes that contain events that never happened in whatever current playthrough...

This supports the idea that the Pale - and the resident pale-brained Inland Empire - is at least unconsciously aware of future events. Inland Empire deals in both Harry's inaccessible past and every future that could happen. Furthermore, could this imply that the route in which Kim survives the Tribunal and makes it to the island with Harry is the 'canon' series of events?

So, the Pale - which eats away at the fabric of Elysium - contains information from alternative timelines, and the future? Sounds a little like a Player's cumulative knowledge coming into Elysium to influence events that would otherwise remain unaffected... This would track with Harry's record of Knowing Shit that he definitely has no way of finding out, or even just 'can-opening' people. It's an essential gameplay mechanic turned into a pseudo-supra-natural ability. Other characters pointedly cannot read people's minds, see things that are happening miles away as if they were there themselves, or slow down time enough to make thought-out decisions in the blink of an eye. The Player, combined with Harry's Skills, may be a kind of lightning-rod for the Pale's container of near-infinite information. Of course, it is fallible, but it can also be excruciatingly accurate - so much so that you can freak people out by knowing or predicting shit. The Pale gives voice to Revachol via Shivers; voice to the RCM via EDC; and voice to the inner minds of the people around Harry via Empathy. The way Harry's brain is organised at all (via lists/trees) is genuinely an RPG mechanic based around extracting as much information as possible... Like the Pale. Human can-opener, sending facts straight back into the Player.

^ See, Kim? Harry can teleport... By the Player glitching him with game mechanics. So, the Pale is the out-of-bounds area inaccessible to characters? Where you have to travel through a physical 'loading screen' skybox of nothing that can do nothing but repeat other areas of Elysium?

I enjoy reading about people speculating on Harry's potential status as an Innocence, while also acknowledging the fact that every Innocence that has ever existed was elected from already-high-status by a politically-motivated court. There have probably existed people with Harry's/ previous Innocence's abilities all throughout history, but were simply never going to go anywhere due to their social standing. Dolores Dei was technically a nepo baby, and built a cult that absolved her of every crime against humanity via religion and political absolutism. A husband who vanished from history, as if his only purpose was to introduce her to the court. Her influence was a part of her Innocence- people were caught in the spell of her (funded) intelligence and (happenstance) beauty. There is another theory that Innocences were Player characters in different genres of games that all took place in Elysium: the Perikarnassian as a 'civilisation builder'; Francongero as a 'dark ages royalist military simulation'; Dolores Dei as a 'political strategy' (maybe Innocence Sola as a representation of the eventual disillusionment of Elysium in Moralism as a religion and the Innocentic system as a whole?). Wouldn't it make sense for the entire world to revolve around the Player? Wouldn't it make sense for them to have a massive outward impact, the future and history seemingly manifesting itself through them? Through the choices they make - the ways they choose to play the game, against an antagonist, and towards a victory that only they can see?

Wouldn't it be natural for Dolores Dei's assassination be the result of Her Player not investing enough skill points into 'appearing human to outsiders'?

^ The bourgeois are not human. 'We were supposed to come up with this ourselves!" - a reference to Dolores Dei pulling the future out of the Pale; from future universes where she never existed and retconning inventions into this one. Inland Empire who?

Appearing so perfect that she seemed inhuman worked for a while. People adored her, submitted to her. But, it eventually backfired.

An Innocence of Humanism - Humanism being a ideological strategy to increase the population and produce more expensive goods? Gaining EXP?

At the same time, using her wiles and her 'Army of Humanity' to crush and slaughter any dissenters to her rule? Holding tin soldiers between her fingers... The most 'socially secluded' and 'least self-aware' - perhaps secluded to prevent a game over? Un-self-aware because her consciousness is literally separate from Elysium? Is her assassination fundamentally detrimental to Elysium, the world coasting on the Player's absence like a softlocked game? Is Disco Elysium taking place in a 'game over'? 'Elysium' is the word for the resting place of dead gods...

Harry, without the Player, has made an absolutely clusterfuck of his life out of grief. It cannot be discounted, however, that he was an incredible detective. 216 cases cleared, earning the reputation of being a 'human-can-opener'; knowing things that he has no feasible way of knowing; carving a path across Martinaise and taking in every tiny little thing related to the case. From the Phasmid-traps to the Maybells. Perhaps pre-amnesia Harry even knew about the sniper, throwing his shoe through the window to gaud Iosef into shooting again.

^ Harry's parallels to Dolores Dei? Her toy soldiers, his human cans... Appearing out of nowhere and causing an avalanche, people both attracted to and terrified of them. The difference being - Harry's in a detective game where you start playing as a poor, ugly, drunk, amnesiac cop - and Dolores' political strategy where you begin climbing the ranks of the richest of the rich as a beautiful and immensely educated woman. Harry's scared of his own supra-natural abilities to the point where he doesn't even want to think about how they work? Talk about a sequel....

Who fucking knows what was going through Harry's head before the game started. It doesn't matter. All we know is that we now have an option to combat past-Harry's declaration of 'getting worse'. And we can save-scum this shit as many times as we want until we succeed, with a precinct of voices to converse with when it is necessary to read between the lines or take an action. We even know how likely it is for Harry to succeed at something, down to the percentage. In real life, we might have something of a clue about how likely it is to make a jump or whatever, but Harry's got it down to a percentile. Because he's a goddamn RPG main character, and the Pale cleared out the room for us in his head since Elysium needs another Innocence. One who is not 'innocent' of anything at all. One who is an absolute dumpster-fire drenched in flammable alcohol, representing the culmination of Revachol at this point in history. Born in a place where people go to die, contracting a disease that everyone was too poor to be vaccinated against, catching the momentary fancy of a richer upper-class only to be vacated and haunted into a recession fueled by addiction and poverty - now, reborn and rising and able to prevent his death in as many ways as the game allows us to.

^ Access to hidden places and circulation among those who are hidden - is this referring to his uncannily good detective work, and the trust and information he is able to can-open from those in hiding from one thing or another? 'Hidden places' could even refer to the future (or things otherwise unrevealed to most people), in this context. 'Hidden people' could be those who have been so downtrodden by capitalism that they are essentially nobodies - trapped in spirals of poverty, addiction, etc, - just like Harry. He is able to converse with them on semi-equal footing because of this.

His status within the RCM and whatever special treatments he socially benefits from is apparently paramount in him saving Revachol. Perhaps the RCM will become less of a tool used by the Coalition and more of a People's Army, fighting foreign control. A free Revachol. Not everyone in the RCM is a fan of this whole 'Moralism' thing...

'ONE DAY I WILL RETURN TO YOUR SIDE', burning in fuel that Harry lights with a tiny spark, written to be seen by the Coalition Warships above by a young revolutionary. The flames warm them both. We don't know how exactly Harry will stop the nuke from falling on Revachol - it could be something as little as a butterfly effect decision he takes, or as big as playing a leading role in Le Retour. A plea from the city to be vigilant. A stack of boxes, representing all of history, holding for a small moment with the help of Harry. Something beautiful is going to happen.

This one kind of got away from me, so thank you for reading all of it. What I think I really want to say is that our determination and hope to see the HANGED MAN through to the end is for us to witness all of Recachol's bloody history and fall in love with it anyway. To want to make it better, even a tiny little decaying part of it like Martinaise. Even a broken, objectively terrible man like Harrier Du Bois. Disco Elysium was meant to be only a prelude to a bigger series of games; a taster of the wider world. Sadly, we'll probably never get anything like that due to the original artists who created this world being fired from ZA/UM. But I don't think we'll stop loving or dreaming of this wonderful story and the characters who inhabit it. Capitalism can't kill an idea, after all.

^ Thank you to these people for planting this girthy idea in my head. I need a lie down.

[clove-pinks]

I'm listening to "Perry's Victory On Lake Erie" on repeat and while this song is fire, it also feels like a prime candidate for "readers added context" style fact checking.

Columbian tars are the true sons of Mars, who rake fore and aft when they fight on the deep.

On the bed of Lake Erie, commanded by Perry, they caused many Britons to take their last sleep.

💬 Readers added context they thought people might want to know. The average depth of Lake Erie is only about 19 metres (62 feet).

(See also "the whole British fleet, was captured complete"; and claiming that Perry is better than Nelson and Rodney).

Not only did Oliver Hazard Perry have a huge advantage in broadside weight over the British (far from being an underdog as the song implies), but allegedly he made poor tactical decisions and was saved by Perry's Luck, a very favourable change of wind. So he won the Battle of Lake Erie in part because of an act of God and/or spiritual forces of Lake Erie, I'm just sayin.

The naval history channel Drachinifel made a great youtube video called "War of 1812 - Freshwater Edition."

While I think there is some excessive clowning on the size of the Great Lakes compared to the open ocean—never mind that there was also a naval battle on Lake Champlain, which is vastly smaller than Lake Erie—the video does make clear that the lake-going ships did not need to be built to the same level of sturdiness as ocean-going vessels. And they used this weight advantage in construction for More Gun, making the Great Lakes naval battles of the War of 1812 huge artillery showdowns.

[arcanareads]

What about Zutara and Kaang?

The cards and I thank you for your questions!

A potential Zutara relationship: the fool, ace of wands, ace of cups

A Kataang relationship: the hierophant reversed, 3 of swords reversed, 2 of wands, judgment reversed

(Younger me was obsessed with Avatar, and I was always torn between these two ships because I thought Kataang was the sweetest thing, but Zutara had that glorious enemies to lovers energy)

The fool: this cards reminds you to have faith in the universe and encourages you to live fearlessly. It is also a reminder that you will make it through the storm, so long as you allow hope to replace fear

Ace of wands: a sign that you are on the right path and a representation of new beginnings

Ace of cups: this card denotes the beginning of a beautiful and loving relationship full of both spiritual and physical fulfillment. You are being drawn to those who are on a similar spiritual path in order to create more positive relationships

The hierophant reversed: this card implies a need to be less restrictive in your thought process and creative thinking

3 of swords reversed: a sign that dispite the passage of time, you are struggling to let go of a painful situation or maybe holding onto an old grudge. This is the time to take stock of your emotions and figure out which ones are holding you back from loving or living

2 of wands: a sign of opportunities for travel and the need to make life-changing decisions. This card encourages you to get out of your comfort zone because your destiny is waiting

Judgment reversed: reversed, this card implies that you are not the one in control of your own decisions or that you have given up power. It can also imply a time of being over-judgmental and missing opportunities because of it

[perverse-idyll]

Writing patterns

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern! Tagged by @yletylyf - thank you! Most of these are itty bitty fics and out-takes, but here we go.

1. The headmaster of Hogwarts, as yet unaware he had entered upon his last day on earth, raised his thin hand to stroke the unsmiling face of the woman who had afforded him so much unlooked-for happiness. [Year of the Thestral, HP, Minerva McGonagall/Severus Snape. An excerpt from a quasi-romance novel written about them after their deaths, a fact the reader won't understand until the end of the fic.]

2. Sometimes all Severus had to do was turn thirty-plus years of repressed hunger upon him, and Harry would start shaking. [Snake Charmer, HP, Snape/Harry. Out-take. A line signaling the co-dependent and sexual nature of the relationship.]

3. When Harry made his way out to the reception desk, there was barely a trace of almond left on his skin. [Coda to "Soft Touch," HP, Snape/Harry. Afterthought to a pre-existing fic. If I'd thought about it, I might have punched up the opening line by combining it with the last sentence in the paragraph, making it both clearer and funnier to readers who hadn't read the main fic: "When Harry made his way out to the reception desk, he didn't look like a man who'd just let Severus Snape bite his arse." Oh well. Missed opportunity!]

4. At around four in the afternoon, with three chapters to go in the espionage novel she was reading – since popular thrillers provided not only diversion but an eye-opening refresher course on Muggle slang and cultural attitudes – Minerva glanced up from the page to find Wil leaning in the doorway, watching her. [Candles Lit Against the Dark, HP, Minerva McGonagall/Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank but heavily featuring Snape. Scene- and relationship-setting, basically.]

5. It was possible none of this would have happened if not for Hermione. [The Afterlight, HP, Snape/Harry. A simple declarative sentence appears! Mildly mysterious, but since we as fans know this is a ship fic, the mostly likely suspect for the category of "this" is a relationship Harry's friends consider a mistake.]

6. Severus persisted in accompanying Harry to public events, in part because the wizarding world still needed it shoved down their throats that he and Harry were a couple. [Social Lubricant, HP, Snape/Harry. The premise in a nutshell. The rest of the ficlet just embellishes it.]

7. "You need to choose wisely when to be a dick, Potter." [Bad Manners, HP, Snape/Harry. Teensy fic. Sets the mood. Makes it clear who's speaking.]

8. Into the lives of all upstanding citizens, an occasion must fall where we fumble the biscuit and end up owing an undeniable debt to mankind. [Jeeves and the Secret Society, crossover between HP and Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves/Wooster, Snape/Dumbledore. Establishes a different narrative voice from my usual, hints but doesn't confirm a first-person POV - although fans of Bertie Wooster will probably guess.]

9. Radiant in the wasteland of a European battlefield, the vessel of Clara's memory shrugs. [Truce, Doctor Who, Clara/Twelve-ish. Drabble. Scene-setting, suggests this isn't literally Clara but a (precious) memory.]

10. For one of her first acts as headmistress, Minerva shatters the Mirror of Erised. [Spirituous, HP, Minerva, Albus, Severus. Drabble. Establishes a postwar timeline and implies Minerva's state of mind.]

Patterns? Hm. Well, anyone who's read anything of mine, even the drabbles, can already guess I'm fiercely wedded to compound sentences and fond of opening with dependent clauses. I also default to narrative prose over dialogue. And most of these first lines have some degree of hook to them, whether I planned it or not. Otherwise, um ... I think you need more to go on if you want to analyze the more interesting kinds of authorial habits and themes.

Does anyone else want to play? Tagging @danpuff-ao3, @ripeteeth, @saintsenara, @squibstress - and anyone else, because I have to be good now and go back to work!