#wearing an english smock

[pexadillo]

[the-nettle-knight]

Late to the party but did an English Miku

[popsicle-stick]

i have a post on trad folk wear in england brewing away in the drafts but i'm not strong enough to actually send it off into the world

[fear-is-truth]

❝ 𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋, 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐋𝐕𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒. ❞

— charlie mayhew x f!reader

summary: you’re a college student who haven’t confessed in ages. tags: mature content・mdni・blasphemy・unprotected p in v・fem!reader・not proofread

♱ a/n◞ english is not my first language

it’s been far too long since you last stepped into the confessional. guilt weighs heavily on your soul, gnawing at the edges of your conscience like a relentless rat. father charlie mayhew sits in the adjoining room, just beyond the closed door. you feel like a convict marching to the gallows or a witch being led to the stake. the air is thick with the scent of incense and remorse as you push open the wooden door and step inside, taking a deep breath,

“forgive me, father, for i have sinned.”

“how long has it been since your last confession?” you pause, fingers twisting in your lap. seven months? eight?

“…too long.” you finally settle for that answer. he hums softly in response, encouraging you to elaborate further.

“i’ve been… neglecting my prayers,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out like a spew of vomit. “i’ve been lazy with my duties, with my work.” a flashback to your half-finished papers, ignored for days, weeks. the familiar frustration and self-loathing settle in again.

“sloth,” the priest says softly, but not unkindly. you nod, even though he can’t see you. “and… wrath,” you continue. “jealousy, really. i’ve been… envious of others. their success, their accomplishments, while i’ve just been… stagnant.” there’s a faint rustling from the other side of the partition. “envy can eat away at the soul,” he says quickly. “but it’s the admission that brings healing.”

“and lust,” the word slips past your lips like a dirty secret. “mastur- sorry, i mean. self pleasuring. and there were… party hook-ups. frat boys. things i shouldn’t have done, things i knew were wrong.” you can feel father charlie’s attention on you, even though you can’t see him. he pauses, and you hear the soft rustle of cloth and creak of wood again. “lust,” he repeats in a gravelly, conspiratorial tone. “is a sin we are all vulnerable to.”

“even you, father?” the question slips out before you can think better of it. the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating like a poisonous fog.

there’s a soft sigh, and you hear the faint rustling of fabric again. “oh yes,” he admits, but he doesn’t sound as ashamed as you’ve imagined a priest should be. there almost seems to be an air of self congratulation.

“especially that.”

your fingers curl tighter around the edges of your skirt. a single beat of silence. then—

“sins like these require penance. penance,” he repeats, slowly, savouring the word on his tongue, “is meant to cleanse the soul. to discipline the flesh.” another rustle of cloth—and you wonder what the hell he’s doing behind the wooden barrier.

“are you prepared to accept the form of penance i offer you?” the way he phrases it, like a double entendre you can’t quite place your finger on.

and yet, something possesses you to reply:

“yes, father.”

“good. now step out here.”

your heart pounds as you obey, stepping out of your side of the confessional. when you turn to face him, your breath catches in your throat.

father charlie is not dressed as a priest should be. gone is the cassock, the traditional garb of a man of the cloth. instead, he’s wearing a white translucent smock, the fabric so sheer you can see the hard planes of his chest, every muscle defined. his tan skin gleams in the low light, and your eyes drift downward, catching the black leather chaps and, beneath them, a jockstrap that leaves little to the imagination.

you simply can’t tear your eyes away from him.

the cocky bastard must be fully aware of his effect on you, the way his eyes gleam as he takes another step toward you, the leather of his chaps creaking softly in the quiet room. the smirk on his lips deepens, and he raises a hand, resting it lightly on your shoulder.

“recite the act of contrition.”

your throat tightens, pulse quickening at the contact. he’s standing so close now that the scent of incense and something distinctly masculine fills your senses, clouding your thoughts. taking a shaky breath, you start, voice trembling slightly,

“o my god, i am heartily sorry for having offended you…”

his fingers graze your arm now, trailing lightly down to your wrist, but you don’t stop. you can’t. his presence demands obedience.

“…and i detest all my sins because of your just punishments,” you continue. he hums softly, a sound of approval, thumb rubbing slow circles against the inside of your wrist.

“…but most of all, because they offend you, my god,” you falter for a moment as his hand moves down, skimming the curve of your hip, lingering at your waist, “who are all-good and deserving of all my love. i firmly resolve,” you choke out, forcing yourself to finish the prayer, “with the help of your grace, to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin.”

a pause, thick with ominous tension. you look up at him, unsure of what comes next, warm, honeyed lust dripping through your loins betraying the pious words you’ve just spoken. fingers still at your waist, he leans in.

“beautifully done, beautiful.

the priest whispers, and there’s something unexpected in his voice. emotion. when you look back up at him, there are tears in his eyes, like the words had truly moved him. for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to say something, maybe pull back, remind you both of your places.

but then his hand slides into your hair, fingers tangling gently at the nape of your neck, and before you can catch your breath, he’s guiding you with firm, practiced ease into the tight space of the confessional’s compartment. his grip is strong, sure, as his hands settle on your waist, pulling you flush against him. your back hits the wooden wall with a soft thud, the creak of old wood reverberating through the silence, amplifying the intimacy between you.

he leans in closer, his body pressing into yours, the booth feeling impossibly small now. his lips find yours in a slow, deliberate kiss, soft at first, then deepening with intention. his tongue slips past your parted lips, exploring the inside of your mouth, grazing your teeth before sweeping across your hard palate in a way that makes you shiver.

a moan escapes you when you feel his erection rubs against your thigh.

•••

god, you’re going straight to hell.

you moan in unison as he pushes the tip inside you in one, smooth motion. pleasure riddled with agony shoots up from your aching quim to your entire body, the sheer girth of him straining at your velvety walls; filling you up in a way that nobody else has ever done before.

“mghmm— oh fuck… you feel so good,”

charlie grains into your shoulder as he bottoms out, features twisting in sordid rapture when you clench around him involuntarily. your insides are so sensitive and raw that you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock pulsating against your walls as you struggle to accommodate him. he pauses, giving you a second to recover before rearing back his hips slowly, almost pulling out but then to slam back into you completely. the wooden wall of the confessional box creaks, but all you can focus on is the tip of his cockhead kissing— no, fucking your cervix. stretching your cunt in a way so sinfully good that you’re certain that even though you’ve booked a one-way ticket to the second circle of hell, it’s fucking worth it.

it’s not long before the hot coil finally snaps, and squeezing your eyes shut, you dig your fingernails into his shoulder, leaving crescent indents as your orgasm crashes over you.

waves of white-hot pleasure ripple through your veins, and you throw head back to scream out his name. through your post-orgasm haze, you watch as charlie continues to pound into you. a raw moan rips from his throat, accompanied by a final, deep thrust. burying himself to the hilt, he comes inside of you, thick, hot spurts of come filling your womb as a string of indiscernible curses tumble past his lips.

he doesn’t pull out immediately, his cock twitching with residual spams as he continues to thrust his hips lazily, grinding his seed inside you as deep as it can go.

father charlie pulls back slightly, chest still heaving as he gazes at you with that same smug, satisfied smile. he brushes a thumb over your swollen bottom lip, his touch lingering, almost tender.

“well,” he muses, “i think that’ll do for your penance… for now.” his eyes gleam with something darker, something that promises this isn’t over. “though, if you feel the need to… atone further, you know where to find me.”

“same time next week?” you nod in response, eyelids fluttering shut as he threads his fingers through your hair, before pressing a tender kiss to your temple.

m.list

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[hardboiledleggs]

You Looking at Me Looking at You ~ Steddie Week Day 6 @steddie-week

Acrid smoke belched from beneath the hood of his dingy van. Eddie sighed as he slammed his fists against the steering wheel and snatched his bag from the passenger’s seat with a groan. Just his luck.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled across the parking lot, eyes squinted against a bitter wind that was howling across the campus. This was the third time this month that the van had quit on him on his way to class, and he was fresh out of extra cash to pay for even a bus ticket, let alone a tow truck.

Eddie had just finished weighing the merits of walking home versus calling his Uncle Wayne, who lived in a trailer an hour away from campus, when he reached the squat building housing his favorite class, Intermediate Painting. He swung the door wide, breathing in the smell of canvas and turpentine, and stepped around the many easels scattered across the floor until he reached his favorite corner. Robin was already there, fiddling with her supplies, and her face broke into a toothy grin when she saw Eddie.

“Hiya, Munson! I was wondering if you were ever gonna get here. You’re usually so early, is something wrong?” she chirped as she busied herself with arranging her brushes.

Eddie flopped onto his stool with a huff. “It’s my stupid van. Fuckin’ blew another gasket or some shit. I thought it was gonna explode before I made it into the parking lot.”

She winced in sympathy. “That’s too bad, Eds. You can’t ask Wayne for any extra cash to maybe replace the engine or something?”

“No, no, I-I mean, I don’t want to bother him with something like this. He’s got a lot on his plate, and I’m an adult. I’m supposed to be figuring this stuff out on my own.”

“If you’re sure. Hey, you can always crash at my dorm tonight if you can figure out a way to sneak past Wheeler. She’s been taking her RA duties veeery seriously lately,” Robin rolled her eyes as she said this. “Apparently, Carol from 306 got busted when she went home for Thanksgiving. They went into her room for maintenance and it turns out she had snuck her boyfriend in and he was living there. Wheeler was pissed it happened under her nose.”

Eddie snorted. “Carol Perkins? From our English 101 class first semester? That doesn’t surprise me at all. Remember when she came in late for the exam covered in hickeys? She clearly doesn’t know how to be subtle.”

He grinned and began to sort through his own supplies as Robin cackled. Today was supposed to be a live model study, and he had been struggling with the assignments set to them regarding the human form so far. Eddie had been practicing sketching strangers in the park and at coffee shops, but Professor Bauman had insisted that he had yet to “capture the innate sexuality of the bare human form,” whatever that meant. He was determined to get it right today.

At that moment, Professor Bauman swept into the room, wearing a bright pink smock smattered with paint. He clapped his hands together, silencing the muted chatter in the room.

“Children, children! We have precious little time today for our artistry, so PLEASE let’s get started. I want you to focus on the proportions of your sketch today, making sure that we’re being as accurate as possible before any paint blesses the surface of your canvas.” He leveled a pointed look at Robin, who flushed and picked at a hole in the knee of her jeans. “If everyone is ready, I’ll go and grab our model for today.”

Eddie stuck his tongue out at Robin. “Eat it, Birdie. You aren’t the favorite anymore.”

“Oh, please. You know he lets me call him Murray during office hours.”

“Ask him to boost my grade next time you’re in there, will you? Make yourself useful for once.”

Their squabbling was cut short as Bauman’s office door swung open and out stepped Adonis. Okay, it wasn’t really Adonis, but to Eddie, the model may as well have been the stunning Grecian figure. He was stark naked, of course, which allowed Eddie to see the moles that dotted his gleaming skin like dark constellations. His bronze hair was swept artfully off his forehead, almost gravity-defying in its levity. He was toned, but not overly muscular, and his chest was covered in a dense thicket of hair that Eddie wanted to press his face against. Eddie desperately worked to keep his eyes level with the model’s collarbone and not stray any farther down.

“Hi, everyone, I’m Steve. I’m just going to be doing one pose today, so I’ll be taking quick breaks to stretch every 30 minutes or so.” Steve had a nice voice, calm and alluring. “Feel free to come closer if you need a more detailed look at anything for your sketch, it doesn’t make me uncomfortable at all.”

He smiled at the class, showing off a row of even white teeth. Professor Bauman shook Steve’s hand firmly and waved him toward the low table in the center of the room.

“Remember, let your hands be your brushes. Let the colors move through you and allow them to direct your movements. You have two hours. Begin, please!”

At that moment, Robin elbowed Eddie sharply in the ribs, forcing a hacking cough from his lungs as he took his first breath in what felt like hours.

“Jesus, Munson. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit either,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth.

Eddie spared her a glance of disdain before watching Steve lower himself onto the table, folding his arms underneath his head and bending one leg so his knee pointed skyward in a pose that showed off just how muscular his thighs were. Shaking himself, Eddie sorted through his pencils with a shaking hand until he found one light enough to begin his sketch with.

The next half hour was torturous. Eddie really did try for professionalism, carefully outlining Steve’s frame and sketching out the proportions for his hands, but every time the model shifted to grab a drink of water or stretch out his limbs, Eddie’s eyes drifted downward and he became so flustered his pencil would slip and mar his careful marks.

At the hour mark, Professor Bauman began to walk around the room to begin his critiques. He had this way of leaning into his students’ space and artfully picking apart their work that was equal parts impressive and unnerving. At Robin’s canvas, he paused for about a minute before remarking “Don’t be afraid to get up close and give the appropriate detail to the more intimate parts of our friend Steve,” which made Robin blush.

His gaze slide to Eddie’s work, and he broke into a pleased smile.

“Yes, Munson! This is what I have been looking for from you! Do you see how you’ve used the light in the room to bring the focus of your sketch to his face? And his expression, my God, so simultaneously haunting and sensual! Excellent work, keep it up!”

Bauman swept away in a dramatic fashion, leaving Eddie to bury his face in his hands. The word ‘sensual’ echoed around his skull. He wondered if Steve had been listening to that particular bit of the professor’s speech and internally debated whether it would be more embarrassing to leave now or possibly be stuck walking to the parking lot at the same time as the model.

Robin snorted, catching Eddie’s eye and wiggling her eyebrows suggestively as he glowered at her. Leave it to Buckley to revel in his extreme embarrassment.

The class continued to sketch silently, save for the shuffling of supplies or a muffled curse when someone smudged their careful pencil lines. Eddie had almost completed his initial portrait when he got to the hands and frowned. Hands had never been his strong suit; they were always proportioned differently on each person, and there were too many knuckles and creases to ever look natural.

Sighing, he gathered some scrap paper and a pencil and shoved his stool back from his easel. He shuffled into the center of the room to Steve’s side, trying and failing to keep his eyes on the more appropriate parts of the model. Steve’s eyes flitted to his own, and he grinned up at Eddie, though he kept his body completely still.

“Need to see anything specific?” he asked quietly.

Eddie flushed beet-red. “Uh, your hands?” he asked, cringing internally at his indecisive tone.

Steve lifted one hand and placed it in Eddie’s palm. “Do your worst, Munson,” he said with a wink. “That is your name, right?”

His fingers were warm and solid against Eddie’s, and each nail was painted a different color, though most of the paint was chipping. Up this close, Eddie could smell a faint hint of something floral: Steve’s shampoo, maybe? He clutched Steve’s fingers and sat on the small stool next to the table, searching for his usual confidence.

“That’s my name, feel free to wear it out.”

A hastily-stifled laugh shook Steve’s chest, and he glared at Eddie in mock anger as Eddie’s ego preened under the positive attention.

“I really need this paycheck, dude, don’t screw this up for me. I can’t go back to scooping ice cream at the mall,” he whined.

Eddie smiled as he held Steve’s hand up, carefully bending and straightening each knuckle as he sketched.

“Sorry, big boy. I can’t just turn off my irresistible charm all willy-nilly. What if a handsome man walks in here and starts flirting with me? I have to be prepared for every possibility.”

“I thought a handsome man was already flirting with you,” Steve shot back, a glint in his warm brown eyes.

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat, but he recovered quickly, glancing around the room in exaggerated confusion.

“Really? Where is he?”

Steve yanked his hand away, still grinning. “You wound me, Munson. I thought I had a sensual form? Maybe I’ll just take my talents elsewhere.”

Eddie finished his sketch with a flourish and stood, shrugging at the model still lying flat on the table in front of him.

“I suppose you can do that, but good luck finding another cute guy to flirt with in here,” he drawled.

“There’s always Professor Bauman,” Steve snarked, and Eddie snorted as he backed toward his easel.

As soon as he had flopped back into his seat and his face was hidden from Steve, Eddie spun to face Robin. She was already looking at him with a knowing expression on her face, one eyebrow lifted in an unspoken question.

“He’s so hot, Birdie. And funny. I’m going to die!” Eddie hissed at her, and she rolled her eyes at him fondly as she took in the panicked expression on his face.

“Just so you know, Mr. Hot-and-Funny watched your ass the entire walk back to your seat. Good thing you wore your tight jeans today,” Robin smirked.

Eddie flipped her off and schooled his face into a neutral expression. He refused to give her the satisfaction of flustering him.

When the professor told them to pack up for the day, Steve stretched languidly like a cat and loped into Bauman’s office. Eddie gazed after him dazedly, watching as his muscular thighs flexed and his ass bounced with every step. He would’ve been more embarrassed if there weren’t at least five other students doing the exact same thing.

Robin stood and sighed. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she tugged at a lock of Eddie’s hair.

“You sure you’ll be able to get home okay? I bet we could sneak you past Wheeler if we tried.” The genuine concern in her voice almost melted his resolve, but he shook his head.

“Don’t worry about me, Buckley. I have enough duct tape to hold the old gal together for another few miles at least.” Her frown deepened, and he hastily added, “Besides, I don’t think Tammy likes me very much. The last time I was over I broke one of her mugs and she called me an ‘inbred hick’ or something charming like that. I still can’t believe you ever had a thing for her.”

Robin shook her head ruefully. “Alright, asshat. I’ll see you next week then. Call me when you get home so I know you lived.”

She left, barely catching the toe of her sneaker on the doorjamb and stumbling into the hall as she went. Eddie listened to her muffled curses as she tripped down the hall on the walk back to her dorm and grinned to himself.

He packed up his supplies carefully. This professional shit hadn’t been cheap, and he definitely couldn’t afford to replace his oil pencils if he ruined them. As he was stacking his canvas carefully in the back with the others, the door to the professor’s office opened and Steve stepped out, dressed now in simple blue jeans and a bright yellow sweater. He was frowning slightly and fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, but he straightened up and his face brightened when he spotted Eddie still lingering in the classroom.

“Hey, Munson! I was hoping I could catch you before you left,” he called as he hurried to Eddie’s side. “How did your piece turn out?”

“Not bad,” Eddie smiled. “Helped that the subject was cute, you know. I do my best work when I’m staring at hot people.”

Steve threw his head back in a genuine laugh as they began the walk through campus. His strides were much longer than Eddie’s, despite their similar heights, and Eddie found himself rushing a bit to keep up.

“So, are you majoring in Art?” Steve asked, his casual tone at odds with the searching intensity in his eyes.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I am. I want to do tattoos for a living like my mom, so… art degree! College isn’t really my thing but I knew my uncle would get a real kick out of raising a college grad. I used to, you know, deal in high school, so he just about explodes with pride whenever he can tell somebody I’m a sophomore in college.” Eddie grinned ruefully at Steve. “Of course, the dealing is what made it possible to pay for these first couple of years, but there’s a mutual understanding to ignore that part of our finances.”

That drew out another laugh from Steve. Eddie felt the laugh settle somewhere in his chest, warming him from the inside despite the biting wind.

“So, what do you usually get up to after class?” Steve questioned. He was still picking at the loose threads on the ends of his sleeves like he was nervous, although he seemed perfectly comfortable walking with Eddie.

“Well, today I will be begging my uncle to come up and drive me home, probably. My van quit on me again this morning,” Eddie sighed as he scuffed his shoe along the edge of the sidewalk. He knew Wayne wouldn’t mind, but he felt horrible for interrupting his uncle’s sleep schedule because he couldn’t take care of his own vehicle.

“Damn. If only there was a cute guy around who would definitely drive you home if you asked nicely.” Steve snapped his fingers in an ‘aw shucks’ motion and sighed. “If only he had a really nice car and absolutely nothing to do tonight and is desperately trying to figure out a way to spend more time with you.”

Eddie’s heart leaped into his throat. Blush saturated his cheeks, staining them with pink, and he turned to look Steve in the eye.

“You better not be fucking with me, okay? You’re fun and I like you, so if you drive me home, it better not be the last time I see you.”

Steve gave him a long and searching look before grabbing Eddie’s hand and looping their fingers together.

“Well I, for one, am excited to see your place,” he said softly.

Eddie grinned and allowed himself to be tugged toward the parking lot a little faster than his legs could carry him.

~~~

Below as always is my permanent tag list for Steddie writings, if you want to be added or removed just let me know :)

Tag list: @brassreign @inmoonywetrust @kyoxyukiforever @spectrum-spectre @vampireinthesun @awkwardgravity1 @obsessivlyme @steddieassheg0es @tell-me-a-secret-a-nice-one @sunflowers-and-knives @original-cypher @estrellami-1

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Four point Five.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C     

word count: 7.9K  

chapter summary:  If Din Djarin was going to be f----d to death by a crazy Dahl-woman, he wanted to be comfortable.    

warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI!, Mando'a and English cursing, unprotected PiV sexual situations, non-con sexual situations, violent situations, past hurt, past misogyny, past child abuse

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

<- You Were Marked: Previous Chapter 

Marathel kept up her high-speed march all the way from the chook pen to her hut.  She was so angry, and Frith, it felt so good to be angry.  Better to be angry than being so scared, so sad, so lonely all the time.  The fact that she probably had no right to be angry at the Bounty Hunter mattered not one whit to her.  How dare he!  How dare he have the temerity to laugh at her as she struggled to climb down a tree!  Tearing her only gown, no less.  The gown that she had spent the entire of the cold season making, preparing all the plant fiber, spinning enough yarn to wrap around the Hold wall thousands of times, finding the perfect flowers to make the beautiful yellow that made her think of sunshine and warm days and freedom, warping and wefting and weaving that yarn into the deepest hours of the night because she was so excited to make something that wasn’t the colors of dirt and grass.  Why in the name of Frith had she worn that gown today?  It wasn’t even remotely useful, and she knew she was going into the chook pen today ... not the cleanest of places, but then she didn’t expect to be put into a tree by a little spoiled brat!  

Marathel stomped up into her hut, setting her basket of mostly broken eggs on the counter.  Even worse, the whole morning had been a waste, food-wise.  With a grimace, she poured the egg mess from the basket into her largest bowl.  Out of all the eggs, only three managed to come through unscathed or uneaten by the gaping maw of the little green goblin.  The rest she whipped into a scrambled frenzy, imagining it was the Bounty Hunter's liver she was blending into froth.  She strained the whipped eggs through layers of cheesecloth to get out all the shells.    

And what am I going to do with all this? she thought.  All these eggs would make the largest omelet ever.  Good enough for the Bounty Hunter and that bottomless pit of a son of his!   All these eggs, I hope they both get terrible wind and just blow away to wherever they came from!    

The image in her head of the Bounty Hunter and the little green boy flying due to wind made her laugh as she held her face in her hands.  The laughter ebbed away into a single sob.  Oh Frith, she was so confused and frustrated.  She had worn the gown because she felt pretty today, and so, she wanted to look pretty.  But trying to impress the Bounty Hunter? Oh, no no no, why would she want to do that?  Her thoughts wandered back to the previous night, when she was under the spell of the Dahls.  She had been mostly aware of what was happening the entire time – of what she and the Bounty Hunter were doing – but it hadn’t been her.  Not fully.  Sort of.  Oh, it was so hard to explain, even to herself!    

The eggs taken care of, Marathel looked down at her dress and smock, stained with pitch.  She twisted around to see the tear in the back.  Hopefully it was repairable.  She quickly pulled both over her head and off, forgetting that she was standing in the middle of her hut wearing nothing but her shift and those two male-types could show up at any moment.  With an exasperated grunt, she went behind her curtains.  She just had to invite them to stay, didn’t she?  Ordinarily modesty didn’t concern her much; no one came to bother her over here anymore.  When she first came to live at the hut, she would either hide or chuck rocks to drive off the Cyiloggs the Hold sent out to bring her back.   After a while, they stopped coming … so she assumed that the Hold and The Bishop wanted nothing to do with her now.  Diwhyn Olba had come out to inform her that she would be left alone so long as she delivered Dahl eggs for the Elders each season.  But then the Bounty Hunter appeared with his tiny metal whatever-it-was that had The Bishop’s voice within, telling her that he had not forgotten her, that she had an obligation in the Hold that he still expected her to keep.  

Oh, Diwhyn Olba, I wish you were here right now.  

Marathel indulged in a moment of tearful self-pity, calling herself foolish a thousand times over.  She found some clean clothes and put those on.  Looking down at herself, she felt as plain as the quack grass color of her clothing.  Patched.  Utilitarian.  As frumpy as a Diwhyn.  With a sigh, she left her curtains and picked up her gown and smock from the floor.  The smock had a couple of snags and would be easily fixed.  The tear in the gown was L-shaped and went straight along the grain of the fabric.  This could also be fixed almost invisibly if she was careful.    Marathel dug through her basket that held the remainders of her spun yarn, finding the ball of the yellow.  She sat cross-legged on her table and prepared to weave the ragged edges of the fabric back together.  Why had she worn this today?  

Because you felt pretty.  The Bounty Hunter made you feel pretty … even desirable.  

Had he?   

She thought back to the night before, when he had kept her pinned and unable to escape against the post, pressing his body firmly against hers, into hers, which had felt so good, so fulfilling, with her legs wound tightly around him, feeling his muscles ripple under her thighs … just the memory made her heart beat faster and she felt a flush creeping up her neck. And he had been willing, yes, he had been.  And yes, Frith, that part had filled her with amazement, but it was after that had touched her heart: the care with which he covered her up, the gentleness of setting her feet back down to the floor, even just the simple act of asking if she were all right.  Those kinds of moments, she didn’t know those could exist.  Oh, what must he think of her?  That she asked him to stay with her that first day?  She hadn’t even been thinking about the Dahls rising to mate soon, she had only been thinking that she was so lonely, and how captivated she was by the little child and the strange, frightening man that had come looking for her.  

Looking for her.  

She had worth.  

Marathel pushed the why of her worth out of her head, at least for now, choosing to remember the sight of the Bounty Hunter running to the chook pen because she had called for him.  And then, him calling for her.  Using her name.  Calling her by her name for the first time.  The sound of his voice coming from his helmet, saying her name.  Marathel bent down to repair her gown with a better heart.  

Marathel was almost finished with her sewing when she noticed the Bounty Hunter and the child returning to the hut.  Frowning, she realized that they had been gone for quite some time.  She watched them approach, Grogu on his father’s hip.  She bent back down to her task and waited.  

Din could see her as they got closer.  It had taken a while to walk to their destination, but he had hoped that the time apart had calmed her temper a bit … not that her temper wasn’t justified.   He also hoped that what they brought back for her would please her.  Marathel sat on top of her table, the yellow gown in her lap, a needle flashing in her hand.  She was now wearing clothing the color of dead grass, which did her coloring no favors, he thought.  The yellow and charcoal combination had been so striking against her fair skin.    

He and Grogu had made it to her steps.  Marathel took a quick glance over and looked back to her dress.  Din set Grogu down on the floor, and then bent down to whisper in the boy’s ear, “Now, just like I told you, okay?  Go ahead.”  He gave Grogu a little push on his back.  Grogu toddled silently all the way over to the table, while Din removed his blasters and jet pack.  Louder, he said, “Um … Grogu has something to tell you.”  

Marathel looked up at Din, and then down to Grogu, noticing that he had clambered up on the bench, and was holding a few stems of yellow cup-shaped flowers, which he held out to her.  Marathel knew that Grogu had no way of knowing that not only were these her favorite flowers, but they were the very kind that she used to dye the yarn for her yellow gown.  Smiling, Marathel reached down and lifted Grogu up to the tabletop.  “And what does Grogu have to say?”  

Din walked over to her and stood rather like a boy who was in trouble, with one arm behind his back.  Rocking back on his heels, he said, “Grogu says that he is sorry that he ate the eggs.  He also says that he is sorry he put you in a tree.  He promises that he will obey you if you need to scold him, and … he also promises not to move people unless they’re in danger or if they’re a danger to someone else.”  Marathel watched Grogu’s face during this little declaration, and she didn’t think that the boy could make his eyes any larger or any more winsome as he held out the flowers to her.  

Marathel took the flowers.  “Grogu, I accept your apology.  Thank you.  And I am sorry that I was so cross.  Thank you for the beautiful flowers.”  She leaned forward to give him a soft, lingering kiss on his forehead, and then gave him a cuddle.  Happy again, Grogu climbed into her lap into the pile of yellow fabric.    

Din moved around the table, seeking out a tall clay cup from the kitchen counter, filling it with water.  He took the flowers from her and placed them in the cup.  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry too.”  Marathel looked up at him.  “I’m sorry for laughing, and … I’m sorry your dress was torn.  I hope it can be repaired.”  

Marathel smiled and dropped her gaze back to her dress.  “I suppose I was quite a sight, treed like a crazed dycwingen.”  

“Yeah, you were.”  Din gently picked Grogu up off the yellow dress, walking back to the steps.  Marathel turned to the counter to look at the flowers, and then noticed three perfectly ripe gorugellys standing there.    

A gift.  He brought me a gift.  She looked out to where the Bounty Hunter was sitting, playing with Grogu.  He didn’t turn his head, but Din could see her smile from across the room.  A smile as bright as the yellow dress.  

Marathel finished repairing her dress to her satisfaction.  She held it up and figured it wouldn’t be too noticeable unless someone was looking for a flaw in her fabric.  Or were staring intently at her backside, something she could do little about.  With a sigh, she got off the table, stowed her sewing gear, and put her dress and smock on to soak.  The tree pitch would come out with a little work.  As she considered what to make for dinner, she felt her hands and her shoulders tense.  The Dahls were getting active again.  She closed her eyes and did what she could only call reaching, sending out feelers from herself to the Dahls, trying to work out how many Dahls would be rising tonight, which ones, if they were her bonded Dahls.  Marathel was dismayed to learn that there would be a great many rising tonight.   Whatever should I do? she thought, dropping her face into her hands.  At that moment, all she could do was take a deep breath in, which she released in a gasp when she heard the Bounty Hunter’s voice just behind her.    

“Are you all right?”  

Putting a hand on her chest, she said, “Not when you sneak up on me, no.”  

“I have been standing there for quite a long time.”  

“Oh,” she murmured, moving down the counter, keeping her back to the Bounty Hunter.  She went to the same post as last night, leaning against it, wrapping her arms around it, her back to Din.  Just like last night.    

Din decided to keep his distance from her this time.  “Is it the Dahls again?”  

There was a long pause as Marathel pulled her hair over her shoulder, combing it with her fingers.  “Yes.”  

“Are they … rising to mate again tonight?”  

“Yes.”  She continued to stroke her hair.  “You should just take Grogu and leave.”  

Din suddenly found himself disappointed she would say such a thing … even though he had had the same thought himself.  “You said yesterday … that you had always been alone before, when the Dahls would rise.”  He paused, wondering the best way to put his question, whether he should ask it at all.  “What happens when you’re alone?”  

“I can only tell you what has happened to me before.”  She took a deep breath before continuing.  “When I first came to the hut, I could sleep through their mating.  It would be difficult for me to sleep, though.  I suppose that was before I realized what they were doing.   Diwhyn Olba had to explain it to me.”  Din watched a light pink flush grow from her neckline up to her hairline.  “She even explained … ways … I could … take care of myself.”  In a whisper, she continued, “I never found that to be helpful, though.”  Marathel paused, looking out over the rocky field.  “I have woken up, far from this hut, with no knowledge how I got there, sometimes a full day’s walk.  I have tied myself to this very post to keep me from wandering.  I simply chewed through the ropes to escape.  I have tried to use objects …” She drew her breath in sharply and it was a moment before she could continue.  “I have injured myself, sometimes badly.  Once, I came back to myself because I had thrown myself off a cliff – this was out past the tidal flats -- into the ocean below.  That was possibly the worst.  That was a time when I had over twenty bonded Dahls, and it seemed as if all the Dahls on this side of the Hold rose at the same time.”  

Din stood silently.  He had considered tying her up.  He had considered taking her to the Razor Crest and locking her in his sleeping cubicle.  He had even considered just leaving the planet altogether, leaving the bounty behind … but taking her with him.  “You said that you could hear the Dahls.  I assumed that meant just yours.  But you’re able to hear more of the Dahls than just the ones you’re bonded with?”  

“I can hear all the Dahls.”Marathel took another deep breath.  “It’s usually not a bad thing, to hear them all like that.  It’s just noisy, in my head.  Confusing, sometimes.  I know when they’re hungry, if they’ve found food, if they’ve laid a clutch of eggs. I get stronger feelings from my own bonded Dahls when those things happen.”  She chuckled.  “I feel their joy when the eggs are laid, when the kits hatch.  Those times fill my heart with happiness.  When the Dahls are mating, they are in such a frenzy that … they are so loud then.  It’s amplified, it’s all I can hear and feel.    And when one dies, especially one I’m bonded with … The pain is immeasurable.  As if a very part of me has died as well.  I’ve stopped bonding with so many because of that.  I can’t bear their deaths.  Rodanthe is the oldest of my Dahls.  She’s the last of my original Dahls from the Hold.  When she dies … I don’t know what I’ll do.”  

Din could hear the tears in her throat.  In that moment, he wanted nothing more than for Marathel to turn around so he could see her face.  What a burden these Dahls were to her.  “If this is the case, then why would the Elders want Dahl eggs?”  

Marathel stroked her hair at a faster pace.  “They want the power of control over another living thing.  That’s all they ever want.  And … now that I fully understand what kind of power the Dahls have over me, what I will do because of them … I can see them desiring that power as well.”  She took another deep breath, and said in a rush, “Please, please, understand, that I had no knowledge of what would happen, of what I would do …”  

Din looked down to the floor.  “No, don’t say that.  It’s … it’s all right.”  

“I don’t want you to think that I lured you here, to stay with me.”  

“I don’t think that.”  

“Then,” Marathel said, wiping the tears from under her eyes, “you should take Grogu and stay on your flying ship.  Stay away from me.  Leave me here.  When the eggs are ready in a couple of days, I will bring them to you, and you can take me to receive your reward.”  She sighed, leaning her temple against the post.  “That’s the best thing for you to do.”  

Yes, that would be the sensible thing, Din thought.  But the idea that she could do herself a grievous harm, perhaps even accidentally kill herself while under the control of the Dahls, upset him greatly, and not because of the potential loss of the largest bounty he would probably ever receive.  “Will it be bad tonight?”  

She swallowed.  “Yes, I think so.”  

“Are there a lot of Dahls rising?”  

“Hundreds,” she whispered.  

“Then I will stay here with you.”  

Marathel's head snapped up straight, but she continued to keep her back to the Bounty Hunter.  “Why in the name of Frith would you do such a thing?”  

Din stepped closer to her, standing just behind her shoulder, mere inches separating her back from his front.  “I will tell you … if you tell me who this Frith is that you call on so often.”  

Marathel stammered, “Wh . . . Frith is the name of the Luad Dycwingen.  He can see us all the time, being up in the moon like that.  We were told as children that if we misbehaved, Frith would tell the Diwhyns on us.  We also blamed Frith for things that happened in the Hold, like carrots growing where the onions should be.  Or if a boy’s shoes went missing.”  

“Or … loaves of bread going missing from the kitchen?”  Din asked, trying to bring a touch of levity to this conversation.  

“Yes, just so.  Missing loaves of bread.  Frith must be in my kitchen.”  Marathel dropped her head.  “Now, back to my question, Bounty Hunter.  Why would you stay here with me, knowing what will happen tonight?  Knowing what I will do?”  

Din reached over her shoulder, taking her hair away from her nervous hands.  He gently stroked it with his gloved fingers, fanning it out over her shoulders like a cloak of molten silver.  His gloved hands remained lightly touching her shoulders.  “Because I want to.”

Marathel stood stock still for a very long time.  Din felt her shoulders rise and fall with each breath.  Both remained lost in their mutual embarrassment, their mutual dread, their mutual anticipation.  Frith and the Maker alone knew how long they would have stayed in this moment, which was finally broken by Grogu, who wrapped his little arms around Marathel’s ankle again.  “Patu?”  

Marathel lifted her foot, letting a giggling Grogu hang from it.  “No, me not Patu, you silly gochgoch.  Me Marathel.  You Grogu.  You probably very hungry Grogu.”  She lifted her leg higher, bouncing Grogu up and down, making him squeal.  Marathel tilted her head towards the Bounty Hunter.  “Now, if your Patu would peel you off my leg, I can make you something to eat.  Probably eggs.  I have an exceptional amount of eggs.”  

Grogu did not want to let go of Marathel, of course, since he was having too much fun bouncing up and down, so it took Din taking hold of her leg and physically unwrapping Grogu’s arms to try to make him let go.  Marathel started laughing so hard that she fell to the floor, Din dragging her a couple of feet as he tried to get Grogu to release her ankle.  Din threw up his hands in disgust.  “Haar’chak, kid, let go of her."  Grogu blew a raspberry as he swung back and forth.  

Marathel’s laughter subsided to giggles.  “Grogu.  Grogu.”  Her voice changed to that of a stern parent, and Grogu looked down at her.  “Let go now, child.  I have things to do.  Go play with your Patu.”  Grogu immediately dropped to the floor.  Marathel sat up and kissed his ear.  “Thank you, love.  Go on now.”  Grogu immediately complied, toddling back to the front of the hut.  

Din watched him go, and then held out a hand to help Marathel up.  “I need to learn that tone of voice.”  

Marathel took his hand and let herself be pulled up to a standing position.  She shrugged.  “It only works if there are no trees to put you into.”

For dinner, she swirled the blended eggs into a boiling broth, filling out the soup with finely chopped vegetables and sliced fish cake, and then floating fluffy dumplings on top.  Grogu, of course, ate more than Marathel ever thought a little body like his could hold.  “Where does he put it?” she asked Din, who simply shrugged and led the boy out into the yard.  He sat down with Grogu and produced the little round gear knob from the Razor Crest.  He spent the next couple of hours encouraging Grogu to use the Force to move the ball, to toss it into the air, to raise it and the surrounding rocks higher and higher around him.  

Marathel sat on the steps, watching.  As the shadows deepened in the yard, Din could tell that she was getting more and more agitated.  If he had passed her on the street on any other planet, he would have assumed that she was a spice addict in withdrawal: her hands shook, her head bobbed up and down, her toes curled and uncurled over the edge of the step.  Grogu bleated for Din’s attention.  He looked over and just managed to catch the gear knob before it smacked him in the helmet.  Grogu looked quite grumpy.  “I know, kid, but I am purposely trying to wear you out.” Din tossed the gear knob straight up for Grogu to catch in the air, making it hover about a meter above his head.  “I need you to sleep like a rock tonight.  It’s … it’s going to get weird around here.”  He turned to look at Marathel again.  She was gone from the steps.  He looked past the hut, and finally saw her walking through the stream.  He watched her until he felt the clonk of Grogu throwing the gear knob against his helmet.  “Sorry, buddy.  I’m paying attention now.  Show me again?”  Grogu harrumphed, but obediently raised the gear knob again, along with several stones and a large roly-poly bug, making them all swirl around each other in a complicated pattern.  Din leaned back on his hands and watched. “Good job, kid.”  

“I think I could watch that all day.”  Din turned to see Marathel standing in the stream that coursed along the edge of the yard.  Her hands were clamped hard on her arms, her knuckles white.  “It’s mesmerizing.”  

Grogu gave a little whimper and set everything down on the ground.  Din took the gear knob and put it back in his pocket.  “He’s not strong enough to do this for too long. It makes him very tired.  But he’s getting much better at controlling his Force powers.”  Grogu sighed, looking exhausted.  Marathel came over and picked him up, cuddling him in her arms.  Even though she was shaking, her lip trembling, she remained focused on the boy as she began to softly rock him, humming a quiet tune.  Grogu closed his eyes and snuggled against her.  Marathel continued humming and swayed as she hummed, turning in slow circles, stroking Grogu’s ear.  Din watched as the waning sunlight reflected on her hair.  Her features were so soft, her eyes closed, her lips tilted in a small smile as she continued to hum.  If he had thought she would make a good wife before, he knew now that she would be a superb mother.  She was so good to his kid.  She was probably good to all the children of the Hold too, before she left, even though she was a child at the time herself.  She would raise good children.    

She could raise warriors.  

He stood up and moved to take Grogu from her.  She flinched away.  “He’s all right, Bounty Hunter, I’d never hurt him.”  

He held up his hand.  “I know that.”  

Her eyes filled with tears, and her hands trembled.  “I’d tear my heart out for him.”  

“I know, Marathel.”  

The tears spilled over.  “Then please … let me hold him a little longer.”  In response, he put his arm around her and held her close.  He put his other hand over hers, the hand that was supporting Grogu’s head, intertwining their fingers together.  They stood that way, Din stroking her hair, their hands linked together on Grogu, until it became full dark.   Together, they stepped up into her hut and laid the sleeping boy in his pram.  Marathel gave him goodnight kisses and Din whispered quietly in the boy’s ear before closing the lid securely.  They stepped back and away from each other.  

Din shifted his weight to one hip in that way he had.  “So … now what?”  

“Oh, your guess is as good as mine.”  Marathel, already breathing hard, put her face in her shaking hands.  “There’s never been so many rising at the same time.  My heart is already racing.  And it’s so hot.  Aren’t you hot?  I’m so hot.”  She turned away and went behind her curtains.  Din turned his back, but he could hear her clothes sliding against her skin as she stripped them off.  He took a deep breath himself, listening to her moving about behind the curtains.  Haar’chak, he was already aroused with just the thought of her.  Oh, he had a bad feeling about this.  He felt as nervous as a first-timer at a brothel.  No, scratch that, he was as nervous as a first-timer sex worker at a brothel; that was a more appropriate feeling for his situation.  He heard her step down from the platform, then a splash.  He could just see Marathel in the darkness, wearing her thin nightgown, walking quickly away from the hut through the stream as she held her hair on top of her head.  She disappeared into the tall grass.  Din stood still.  She would come back, right?  Yes, of course she would.  He was here.  She would come back for him.  He was her prey tonight.  

How does one prepare to be prey? he wondered.  What the shab should he do while waiting for her to come back? Anxious to be doing something, he found the lantern and shook it.  The lantern gave off its pale glow.  He carefully moved Grogu’s pram until it was tucked against her loom, fully out of the way.  Out of the way of what, he was unsure, but out of the way was good.  He looked out over the landscape with his thermal vision.  She was out there in the tall grass.  He watched her pace back and forth, continually turning back to look down into the valley where the Dahls were.  The Dahls were very loud now with their yip-yehs and occasional keening wails, piercing enough to make him wince. If the noise was almost unbearable to him, how must it be for her?   Then he saw her turn in his direction.  The Dahls quieted.  He watched her breathe, chest heaving.  Her heat signature was much higher than a humans should be.  She took several steps towards him.  He instinctively took one step back despite the fact she was a couple hundred meters away.  There was a sudden shrieking howl of several Dahls at once, and Marathel clapped her hands over her ears, emitting a howl herself, and dashed away down into the rocky valley, out of view. 

Din didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until he let it out in a rush.  He was relieved for a respite.  Being this far out of control was anathema to him.  He had been relaxing the limits of his comfort zone ever since he met his ad’ika, but this half-crazed woman possessed by freaky dog-lizard-cat things was really pushing it.  He tried to take some deep breaths, but it seemed to do no good.  He became aware that he felt warm, almost feverish, when just a few moments ago he was quite comfortable, temperature-wise.  Now he felt as if he was in the Dune Sea in high summer at midday. 

Osik, why was it so hot?  

He pulled off his heavy cape and undid the cowl at his throat. The night air was cool and refreshing, but now his armor was so damn heavy.  He stripped his gloves off his sweating hands and dropped his cuirass and cuisses to the floor.  Still too damn hot.    He jerked open his jacket, pulled out his arms, and stripped his thermal shirt off, relishing the cool air on his bare chest, on the throbbing bite mark.  He pulled his jacket back on, only halfway fastening it back together, and swept his discarded cape and armor out of the way, still not sure what out of the way meant, and put his hands on the edge of his helmet.  Here, he stopped, closed his eyes, and struggled for self-control.  No. The helmet stays on, the helmet stays on.  He took a deep breath and dropped his hands to his sides.   Feeling better, he sat on the steps to wait for Marathel to return, as the yip-yehs began again. 

She finally reappeared on his thermal vision, walking back into the tall grass.  He watched her stop and raise her head, appearing to look directly at him.  She began walking again, this time back towards the hut, walking with great purpose, much like her angry marching earlier today. Was that really just today? he thought idly, not quite noticing that she was moving faster and faster until he realized she was running at a full tilt straight for him. 

He had just enough time to half-stand, thinking oh kriff oh kriff oh kriff as she reached the hut and leapt at him, planting her knee in his chest and laying him flat out on his back.  His breath was knocked out of him, but he was still able to make an automatic defensive move as he used her own momentum to flip her over, and she rolled hard against one of the benches, ripping her nightgown from hem to waist. She grunted in surprise and pain, and got up into a crouch, snarling at him. Din turned to her and got to one knee as she leapt at him again.  He jumped up and grabbed her by the wrists before she could get to him.  She cried out in dismay, stretching up on to her toes, trying to break free.  Din swept his leg under her feet, knocking her to the floor.  He held her down, his knee in her gut, holding her wrists as she struggled. His knee slid on her nightgown, and she managed to slide out from under his knee, trying to twist herself free of his grasp, getting one foot under herself before he swept his leg again, knocking her back down to the floor.  This time he pinned her down under his full weight, grabbing her nightgown and ripping it free from her shoulders before pinioning her wrists to the floor with his large hands.  She shrieked with fury.  She raised her head, baring her teeth, seething, snarling, spitting at him as she struggled beneath him.  Her eyes were completely dark, her face was flushed red, her breasts were heaving, she had bitten her lip at some point in the struggle and there was blood in her mouth.   

Osik, she was so beautiful.   

He had to take her right there or die trying, he thought, and he let go of one wrist to open his breeches.  She immediately sprang into action, using the leverage of her free arm to get a leg loose from under him, trying to flip him over off her.  But he had about fifteen kilos on her, and her advantage was short-lived as he simply rolled her right back over and slammed her flat on the floor, holding her wrists tightly over her head again.  Crazy bitch! He shouted in his head, or he might have said it out loud, he was beyond rational thought beyond wanting to fuck this pretty piece of flesh, fuck her right into the floor, to fuck her right until she split in two.  But she kept fighting, wailing, tears streaming down her temples.   

Haar’chak, this was what she wanted! 

Wasn’t it? 

She took a deep breath and with all the force she could muster, she got one leg out from under him, twisted it around his leg, and with a strength he didn’t know she had, flipped him over, planting her knees on his hips, slamming his hands to the floor, screaming into his face like a wild animal.  He pedaled with his feet, trying to slip out from under her, actually getting about halfway free before she forced him down again, this time setting her weight down heavily on his crotch, breathing hard, snarling. 

Now he understood.  She needed to dominate him. She needed to take him.  She needed him to be terrified of her. 

Well, I’m scared shitless, so one out of three so far, he thought, panting.  He looked to his left and saw that they were actually fairly close to his bed tick.  If he was going to be fucked to death by a crazy Dahl-woman, he wanted to be comfortable.  His brain was so fevered at that moment that he actually started laughing.  She shifted her weight backwards, confusion crossing her face, allowing him enough freedom to backpedal more with his feet, dragging her with him into his curtained cubicle.  She fell off her knees and ended up stretched out fully against his body, gripping his hands, both breathing hard in point/counterpoint. He let go of her hands, laid back, and stretched out, to let her do what she would.  Surprised, she scooted back until she was sitting on his legs.  She snarled again, her hands gripping his thighs, squeezing, daring him to defy her.  He gave her no struggle.  She knee-walked up his body, sitting on his chest, pushing his shoulders down to the sleeping tick.  Again, he did not struggle.  She made her way back down his body, scrabbling at his jacket and laying it open, dragging what was left of her fingernails down his ribs and belly to his waistband.  Here she tried to pull at his breeches, but they were secured by his belt buckle; he had to quickly get that loose for her but immediately laid back down in his supplicating pose.  He felt her forcefully drag his breeches and under thermals down, which hooked briefly on his erection on their way down to his knees.  He closed his eyes, because he was scared of her, oh yes, he was terrified, the only words he could manage in his fevered mind were please don’t bite me over and over.

He felt her warm breath on his thighs, on his crotch, and he began to whisper please don’t bite me when he felt her soft cheek stroke his erect penis from base to tip.  His eyes opened and he gasped; it was the most exotic feeling he’d ever had, and he felt her face move to the other side, and he felt her eyelashes against the side of his shaft as she stroked her face against him, the feathery touch driving him mad.  She nuzzled her nose into his pubic hair and then she stretched out her neck to stroke him again, up one side and down the other as she breathed deep, her exhalation soft and warm on his skin.  Oh, he sighed, she was getting his scent, marking him with her scent, taking possession of him.  She dragged her breasts up his thighs, her nipples tracking on his skin, bringing out goosebumps on his legs, softly rubbing her body up his cock, squeezing her upper arms together to capture him between her breasts, and she moved up and down there several times, his precum seeping from his tip as he marked her with his fluid down her breastbone. As she moved her breasts down his cock one last time, she dropped her chin and took the whole of him into her mouth, causing him to groan.  But she did not close her lips, she did not use her tongue on him, all she did was breathe, just like the Dahl did with his hand, breathing in his intimate scent, tasting it with her inhalation, exhaling against him like a hot summer wind.  She removed her mouth just before he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep from moving, lightly grazing her teeth on him, and he whimpered.  She moved back up his body, smelling him, softly rubbing her face against him as she moved, brushing against his erection with every motion she made, and he could not help it any longer, he arched his back to thrust at her, at any part of her he could reach, he was so desperate to be taken by her.  But she would continue to deny him as she leaned forward on her knees, nuzzled his chest, working her way up to what she could of his neck, not trying to remove his helmet but holding her face just under the lip of it, breathing softly into his helmet, taking his exhales into her mouth, her erect nipples dragging on his chest, her hands sliding down his arms to hold them down when all he wanted to do was take hold of her, and he murmured, “Please Marathel, please Marathel, please,” as she completely dominated him, laying mostly naked and exposed on his back on a planet beyond the edge of nowhere, pleading, promising to kill for her, promising to die for her, promising to set the universe on fire for her if she would just please, please take him now. 

 

She settled back on her heels, tilted her hips, and took him fully within her in one smooth stroke as she quietly inhaled and softly exhaled.  

He, suddenly enveloped in her sweet hot wetness, died for a full second, and then was revived as she moved her hips in rhythm, slowly, so slowly, too slowly, thinking that he would die for real this time as a sob escaped him and tears slid down his temples.  He bucked at her, desperate for more than what she was willing to give, when she dropped her dark eyes to his helmet and snarled, and she slapped the palm of her hand sharply on his bite wound and pressed hard.  He cried out with the pain, and this must have excited her, for she moved a little faster on him, and he grabbed at her hand on his bite wound, which she slapped away with a hiss.  She rocked faster, throwing her head back far enough that he felt her hair brushing against his legs, and her hair wasn’t soft at all, but was coarse like the mane of a running beast, like sheaths of dried summer grass, and her hands clutched at his ribs and her thighs squeezed him tightly as she began to climax.  He lifted his hands and slid them up her legs to her hips as she bucked against him, his thumbs pressing into her soft round belly, his fingers clasping at her hipbones hard enough to leave marks on her supple flesh. He arched his back, flexing his hips upward, balancing on his heels, trying to get as deep into her as he possibly could, losing all conscious thought as he whimpered “Mara … Marathel … my mesh’la …" as she cried out with her own orgasm, collapsing down towards his chest, thighs trembling, her hair falling over his visor, her hips still pulsing against his as he drew his knees up, thrusting his pelvis against hers, clutching her tightly to his chest as he finally came, grunting, tangling his fingers into her hair, sobbing her name, “Marathel … Marathel … my mesh’la Marathel …"  And then he laughed as she gasped against his shoulder.  She pushed up just enough to look into the visor of his helmet, and she was Marathel again, with her silver hair all in disarray, tears leaking from her silver eyes, lip trembling as she reached up and placed her hand on the helmet where his cheek would be. He laid his hand over hers as they breathed in time together.  Then her eyes fluttered closed as she collapsed on his chest.  He felt every muscle in her body release their tension as she melted off him to the bed tick, rolled to her back beside him, and threw her arms up above her head, unconscious.  

Oh, Marathel, he thought.  You are the Queen of the Universe.  

He gazed at Marathel's still face for a long time. He got up to one elbow and watched her slow breathing, a lock of hair lifting and falling on her collarbone with each breath.  His eyes skated down her naked body, her round breasts, just nicely proportioned to fit in his hand if he so dared, her middle softly curved with a slightly rounded belly, a little extra flesh at her hips, her long legs, one stretched out straight, the other bent at the knee with her toes touching her calf, legs that were heavy but were so much more muscular than they looked, legs that could break a tree in half, strong rounded calves with finely turned ankles.  He sat up on his hip and reached with his bare hand, thinking, forgive me, Marathel, but I must have this memory of your skin as he lightly skated his hand over her flesh starting at her ankle, moving up her leg.  She stirred slightly at his touch but did not wake.  He stroked her gently, passing over the already-forming bruises that he had given her in their struggle tonight, flinching that he had injured her so, but continued his hand up her bent leg onto her inner thigh when he felt a patch of puckered skin near the apex of her legs.  His hand stopped.  Her skin until now had been as smooth as liquid beskar, but this texture was different, like scar tissue.  Curious, he bent down to look closely at the place on her inner thigh that he had found, thinking maybe a very old injury, perhaps a birthmark.  He turned on the light on his helmet, blocking it as much as he could so as not to wake her.  Focusing the beam on her leg – and the lovely silver thatch of hair next to it – he could see that the puckered area of skin was not a birthmark at all, but the remnants of a brand.  The brand was latticed, stretched, signifying to him that she must have received this mark as … a very, very, young child.  He turned off his beam immediately, but the mark was already burned into his retinas. It was square – or had been at one time – with an arrow-head shape in the middle, but it was so hard to read, as old as the mark must have been.    

Someone had held her down, opened her legs – a little girl’s legs – and held a brand to her delicate child’s skin, burning it to leave this mark.  

He'd heard screams of children before, many times.  Too many times to count.  He felt physically ill as he thought of her screaming as a tiny child, probably even younger than he when his parents had been killed before his eyes.  A little girl, tortured by the very adults who were supposed to have protected her.  Was Diwhyn Olba there?  Did Diwhyn Olba have to hold her down?  Did Diwhyn Olba tend to her wounds while little Marathel screamed in pain?  

Din rolled away from Marathel and stood up, closing his jacket, pulling his pants back up, ashamed to have exposed himself to her, who suffered as a little girl at the hands of men.  She must have sensed his movement; she rolled to her side, curling up with her hands in front of her face, curling up like a child.  He grabbed one of the blankets she had given him and unfolded it, gently tucking it around her, covering her, wishing in some way to protect the child Marathel from the unnamed unknown evils that must have taken place in that Hold.  Marathel sighed in her sleep, took hold of the blanket and pulled it over her ear as she snuggled down deep in the sleeping tick.  Din carefully lifted a wayward lock of her hair from her face and put it behind her shoulder.  He stood and then passed through the curtains to the center of her hut.  He sighed.  The room showed no signs of their earlier struggle, other than the pile of his cape and removed armor, and the bench at the table slightly askew from when she crashed into it.  Din picked up his discarded clothing and armor, quietly saying the proper old incantation for each piece as he replaced them on his body, ending with the words this is the way as he straightened his helmet.  Feeling stronger in his soul with the remembrance of his Creed, he sat down against the post closest to where Marathel slept, vowing to protect her until the hunt was finished.  Crossing his feet at his ankles, he stared at the stars above him until he dozed off.   

 

You Were Marked: Next Chapter

[edwardseymour]

People trying to say Jane Seymour wasn’t fashionable - I might be wrong but don’t inventories show her wardrobe was full of a large number of clothes (especially considering how short her time as queen ended up being) in loads of different colours, and with lots of jewels?

✨ terfs/zionists fuck off ✨

i love when my anons get petty lmfao

yes. she seems to have had a wider range of pieces in her wardrobe than catherine of aragon: “her wardrobe included a wider range of garments to those found in catherine of aragon’s wardrobe. jane’s clothes were also made from a larger range of colours but a similar range of fabrics” (hayward) — no small feat considering the brevity of jane’s reign. likewise, she seems to have had a considerable jewellery collection: “with a total of 508 pieces, jane seymour’s collection was significantly larger than that of either of her successors” (tallis).

as far as i can tell, there’s no reason to believe jane wasn’t fashionable. she was a lady of the court, had been for years (and, if one accepts anne boleyn was fashionable… well. jane was a member of anne boleyn’s household. it does not follow that anne could be fashion forward, with a fashion forward household, and jane somehow not be). i think maria hayward has the right of it: “the use of dress by henry’s wives was also a means of establishing their own identity at court, and for his english brides, not born and reared to be queen, to establish their position as queen. [...] the evidence of [jane’s] wardrobe indicates that she used it to define her role as queen”.

if nothing else, being visually appealing was part of a lady’s — and more significantly a queen’s — job. queens should look beautiful. on that point, we have evidence for jane cultivating certain fashion standards.

maria hayward has found evidence of fashion dolls (or ‘babies’) in jane’s inventory: “the idea of using dolls [referred to as ‘babies’] dressed in new styles to promote new styles originated in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries”, and at least three existed in jane's wardrobe, with similarities between the clothing worn by these fashion dolls, and items in jane's wardrobe: “there were parallels between the dress of the first doll and jane seymour’s gowns, in particular the aglets on the sleeves”. sleeves, trims, and aglets make up the bulk of jane's wardrobe, with forty-nine pairs of sleeves decorate with pairs of golden aglets per sleeve. “sleeves provided an excellent means of display” (hayward), as they provided jane an opportunity to show off her embroidery skills — which were apparently exceptional— as well as her wealth — which, as queen, certainly was. she even had sleeves decorated with h’s, that matched a set owned by henry decorated in emeralds and pearl i’s: “oone peir of slevis of crymsen satten thowtesides of either of them sett with iiij .h. of golde and in every h. ix peerles”.

we also know a little about jane’s household requirements with regards to fashion — she preferred her ladies wear english fashions, and specifically preferred anne bassett wear “a bonnet and frontlet of velvet”. she also made stipulations about the value and quality of their clothing, instructing anne to provide “a gown of black satin, and another of velvet” for “there is fault founden that their smocks are too coarse”. i already talked about this here.

i have to wonder what people expect of a royal power dresser if not using that power to enforce dress standards. this was jane doing her job as queen — fashion was a tool for constructing and projecting an image of conservative queenship, to challenge the “pride, envy, indignation and mocking, scorning and derision” of court. cultivating an image of dignified magnificence and modesty is not surprising; she became queen following the condemnation of her predecessor for loose morals, which invariably impacted the respectability of the queen’s household. her ladies were a visual representation of her, and their appearance emphasised the queen’s; likewise she, as their mistress, had a duty of care to protect their reputations and honour.

the brevity of her time as queen, and her having significantly reduced ceremonial opportunities to be seen (such as having no coronation) did limit her ability to stamp much of an impact on fashions, but i think it is therefore worth acknowledging how considerable her wardrobe and fashion choices were in spite of those limitations. her gown and jewellery in her holbein portrait is beautiful, and i see no logical reason to assume she was not otherwise fashionable. it seems frankly dishonest to pretend that a queen enforcing standards of fashion is not to be expected, and to deny the evidence left to us pertaining to jane’s relationship with fashion.

[clove-pinks]

Fashion plate of 29 June 1833 in La Mode (detail), Met Museum. "Gloves, with both sexes, were now becoming conspicuous and important." — C. Willett Cunnington and Phillis Cunnington on the 1830s, in Handbook of English Costume in the 19th Century.

The gentlemen have yellow gloves, tassled canes, and wear frock coats with cinched waists. Sir Hardy Amies describes the fashion in his book The Englishman's Suit:

The frock coat appeared about 1830. It was probably of military origin as it fastened high at the neck and was usually double-breasted. It was the same length as the morning coat but the fronts were not cut away. By the middle of the century, Norah Waugh (again!) says, 'It now became a very worthy and somewhat dull garment, a coat for the well-to-do and professional classes — the hallmark of Victorian respectability'.

To accuse these Romantic fellows of ‘Victorian respectability’ seems harsh, but the Cunningtons describe a growing sense of prudery in the opening chapter to Handbook of English Costume in the 19th Century ("A View of the Century"):

In 1830 Leigh Hunt remarked that ‘so rapid are the changes that take place in people’s notions of what is decorous that not only has the word “smock” been displaced by the word “shift” but even that harmless expression has been set aside for the French word “chemise”, and at length not even this word, it seems, is to be mentioned nor the garment itself alluded to, by any decent writer’.

It was just at this time that parents began to discover additions to their families under gooseberry bushes; polite euphemisms for homely things were springing into use and in place of trousers gentlemen wore nether integuments, inexpressibles, unmentionables, ineffables or unwhisperables.

Frock coat-wearing men in Journal des Marchands-Tailleurs, December 1838: officially in the Victorian era now. (Well, maybe Monarchie de Juillet for these gentlemen).

[inarustyle]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: ENGLISH FACTORY Gingham Bell Sleeve Smocked Top S.

[trulymedievalstuff]

Book Review:

I'm on a book buying ban for the next month, so I went to the library to find stuff to read. I picked up "A Sword for His Lady" by Mary Wine for some shits & giggles. It's...meh. It's not anything special but it's not the worst either. The characters are pretty tolerable. I do like the main female character, Lady Isabel of Camoys for the most part, though I wish the author didn't make her horny on main just at seeing the male lead. At least it wasn't love at first sight. Lust at first sight is acceptable in my view, so at least the book has that going for it.

What I don't like is the cover art and some the 'historical' details. I know, I know. It's a romance book that's worth less than $10. It's not supposed to be groundbreaking or historically accurate, however I'm allowed to be bothered by the inaccuracies if I feel like they're too much of a distraction for me.

Book Cover (some of these have nothing to do with historicity and are just personal peeves of mine)

I hate that the female model is wearing a Medieval-inspired dress with no smock or chemise underneath. Even if it's not accurate to the period, at least let her wear something so it doesn't chafe

I hate the cut of the gown and the slit up the leg. For a romance novel directed to a female audience, I don't understand why the female model is the on showing a tremendous amount of skin. Not that women can't be sexy, I just think it's an odd choice for a romance novel cover to have the female model showing the most skin

I don't like the mid-2010's hair style of her. The character in the book is described wearing her hair in a braid. Does that look like a braid to you?

Speaking of which, I dislike modern-looking shirt he's wearing. He's mostly hidden anyway. Why bother tugging the shirt off his shoulder if he's mostly covered by the other model? At least put him in armor if you're going to use a male model on your cover

What kind of sword is that? That looks like a cutlass. Why not grab a longsword? Like they used in 12th century

Book Content (things I noticed that distracted me from the story)

The story supposedly takes place in 1189. We even have King Richard Lionheart. Why is the author describing plate armor which doesn't come about until the 15th century in Europe. During the Third Crusade, European soldiers likely wore padded armor and chainmail.

There are some French names, but the nobility seems stereotypically English in language and culture. Meanwhile, in history, the first king whose native tongue was English was Henry IV, 210 years later

Why is the author afraid to write shifts and gowns? She describes clothes as under robes and outer robes instead of what they are. When I think of robes, I think of robes, not 12th century gowns

Why is the male lead, Ramon de Segrave, insulted by the fact that Isabel knows how to use a falcon to hunt for mice? Women didn't do the majority of hunting, but we do know that elite women did do some hunting and falconry for sport. It wouldn't be so out of the ordinary

Why are the only women who wear head coverings the servants and old women? It would have been considered unseemly for a married woman or a widow to go bareheaded. Wimples were worn by this time but by nuns and older women. Isabel should be wearing a barbette with her hair in a net.

Why is the other confusing a wimple for a barbette? Why does she describe the wimple as a cap? A wimple was just a piece of starched cloth folded to cover the neck and the head. To my knowledge, it does not involve a cap as described in the book

Other Annoying Things

I don't like how long the chapters are. The first "chapter" was 50 pages long, the equivalent of 5 chapters. The long chapters just makes everything slog through. I've found myself daydreaming while trying to read this book because I found the chapters too long

As much as I like the main character, I don't agree that Isabel has to change her views on men but little is shown for Ramon to change his views on women. We're told through the narrative that Isabel can't hold a grudge against men because he first husband was an ass, but Ramon is free to keep his beliefs about women. That makes him a hypocritical ass.

Isabel doesn't lick his boots, and he finds that hot, but not enough to rethink his values. He's more sexually attracted to her because he likes the chase but it has nothing to do with Isabel's intelligence, business acumen, and prudence. Qualities, I'm sure, would still be valued even in the Middle Ages.

Am I enjoying the book? Yeah, I guess. Would I recommend this book? Probably not. It's not terribly written, but my grievances with so many details makes it difficult for me to think about rereading it later or recommending it. It's a cheap "historical" romance with some pretty run of the mill steaminess. I've certainly read worse. If you just want to read something to pass the time, I guess this is okay.

[unit2-ss24]

The 1970s - part 4

The Designers

Diane Von Furstenberg

In 1969 Diane Von Furstenbergmarried her first husband Prince Egon of Furstenberg, she then launched her own-name fashion label in 1970. "The minute I knew I was about to be Egon's wife, I decided to have a career,” she has said. “I wanted to be someone of my own, and not just a plain little girl who got married beyond her desserts." She achieved her dream in spectacular style, launching her signature wrap dress in 1973. Almost 40 years later and there is still no wardrobe that’s considered complete without one.

The wrap dress was inspired by seeing former President Nixon’s daughter Julie Nixon Eisenhower wearing a wrap blouse with a wrap skirt. Diane Von Furstenburg used this image as her motivation to combine the two into one “wrap” piece.

Zhandra Rhodes

Zhandra Rhodes is an English fashion and textile designer. Her early education in fashion set the foundation for a career in the industry creating textile prints. She has designed garments for Diana, Princess of Wales and numerous celebrities such as rock stars Freddie Mercury and Marc Bolan

Her textile fashion designs were considered outrageous by the traditional British manufacturers, which made it hard to find work. In 1968 Zhandra Rhodes started a business with fashion designer Sylvia Ayton. The two designers opened a boutique called Fulham Road Clothes Shop. The business allowed Rhodes to create her textile designs onto garments designed by Sylvia Ayton. She produced her first collection showing loose, romantic garments.

In 1969, the two designers went their separate ways, with Rhodes establishing her own studio in Paddington in West London. As a freelancer she released her first solo collection. The collection of garments received recognition from both the British and American market. Marit Allen, editor of American Vogue at the time featured pieces of Rhodes’s collection in an issue. Receiving recognition by Marit Allen persuaded high end retailers like Henri Bendel, Fortnum and Mason, Neiman Marcus, and Saks to purchase her collection. In addition, her own lifestyle proved to be as dramatic, glamorous and extrovert as her designs. With her hair a vivid shade of bright green (later changed to pink, and sometimes red or other colours), her face painted with theatrical makeup and audacious art jewellery, she stamped her identity on the international world of fashion.

Roy Halston Frowick

Roy Halston Frowick, best known as Halston, was an iconic clothing designer of the 1970s. His sexy, yet elegant dresses became a staple in American disco wear. He started off by designing hats but it was his dresses that made him famous. They were unique and streamlined. He worked with cashmere, silk and rayon jerseys, double-faced wools, and Ultrasuede. After two decades of dressing the jet-set, Halston was diagnosed with AIDS. He passed away in 1990.

Yves Saint Laurent

Yves Saint Laurent was one of the most famous and influential fashion designer of the 1970s. Drawing inspiration from menswear, foreign cultures, and historical periods, Saint Laurent crafted a new, chic, and modern way of dressing that became synonymous with the sexy and glamorous lifestyle of the decade.

YSL is probably most famous for "Le Smoking" tuxedo jacket, see- through blouses, peasant blouses, bolero jackets, pantsuits and smocks. By feminising the basic shapes of the male wardrobe, YSL set new standards for fashion across the world. He not only adapted the male tuxedo for women, but also safari jackets, pea jackets and flying suits. As well as this he was also one of the first designers to use ethnic minorities as models on the runway.

[whennnow]

Making Medieval Plans

October 3, 2023

[Image ID: a photo of Alex in a pink medieval tunic and dark belt, posing with a straw hat and small basket and pretending to wipe her forehead.]

With basic SCA garb done (in the form of my t-tunics), I can start making more elaborate, long-term plans.

Nothing is concrete yet, but I want to do this in a strategic way so that I don't end up with partial outfits for multiple eras.

My goal with each era is to make a small capsule-style wardrobe which I can later add to and upgrade, while still knowing that everything will go together well. I've already decided on color schemes for the Greco-Roman stuff (sage green and slate blue) and the 13-14th centuries (blue, oranges and yellows, small amounts of green and pink).

13th Century (1200-1299 AD) (vaguely English/French)

My t-tunic are a great base for the 1300s, and I'll just need some accessories to really pull off this era. I don't have much interest in this era, so I'm aiming for a general look as a branching-off point for other eras (and so I always have backup garb).

Other than the historical-looking crocheted snood I'm working on right now, my first priority is a white linen veil and wimple, and probably a simple cap to wear them over. A barbette and filet/"pie crust hat" could be made to go with the snood/hairnet if I want to double down on the last quarter of the 13th century.

A drawstring bag to wear from my belt is also high on the list, but I can use some of my Regency reticules for now.

For some variety in over-layers, a cyclas (like a sleeveless overdress) or two out of thrifted sheets would be easy, as would some sort of mantle/cape.

I might work on under-layers while I'm in this era, too, just to really have the basics down. (Or to really procrastinate.) A simple linen smock, probably a supportive linen smock, maybe some hose (stockings) and braies (technically men's underwear).

14th Century (1300-1399) (vaguely English/French)

This was my original goal when I got into the SCA, and still my favorite!

The cap, veils, bags, and any underthings I've done already will be a good starting point here, and allow me to focus on larger pieces.

If I haven't made one already, a supportive linen smock with a wide neckline will have to be my first priority here, since I will be the foundation garment for my fitted cotes/kirtles (dresses).

Next up is the kirtles themselves! I should be able to use the supportive smock pattern as a starting point for these. One is necessary. Two-three in different colors is ideal. I bought a slightly too-large one in dark blue from another SCA-dian which will be refashioned to fit me. I'd also like a tawny/orange one.

The 13th-century cyclas evolved into the sideless-surcote. One sideless surcote would be fine, especially if it is reversible. These were often statement pieces, so something silk-like would be best. Maybe one side in a golden yellow and one side a pink/peach?

In the third quarter of the century (~1350-1375) a second, usually short-sleeved kirtle could also be worn, often with tippets (white armbands with streamers) and fitchets (pocket slits, usually bound in white). One of these is probably enough, and it's a low-priority project. Probably a middling or lighter shade of blue.

Hoods are an important cold-weather accessory. I'd like at least two wool hoods - one in an earlier style and one in a later style. I have enough cotton from my t-tunics left over to line one hood with each color.

Misc Accessories

I managed to thrift a nice, generic-looking straw hat which is suitable for most of the medieval era. I also have one of those long leather belts with a metal ring at one end that you see on a lot of SCA/ren faire/fantasy outfits.

A simple linen apron would be a quick project and should be plausible for the 13-14th centuries.

I've started accumulating a vaguely medieval sewing kit, which I would like to continue adding to and upgrading. I even have a lucet fork, which I'm excited to learn to use! These currently live in a small, stained linen pouch, which in turn lives in a thrifted wicker basket. The basket is about the size of a small purse, and is a good size for carrying at smaller events.

Speaking of bags, I also have a large, heavy-duty linen market bag which I made at a local workshop! It's a bit too big for most of my needs right now, but I imagine it would be nice for bigger events. A smaller one might also be nice if I can find something suitably heavy-duty.

Other

I'd also like to upgrade my ancient Roman ensemble with maybe a new chiton, some sort of decorative border on the pallas, and maybe even a patterned stola.

Eventually I'd like to take a stab at a 1490s/northern Italian Renaissance ensemble too, but that's even further down the line. (Colors: maroon, yellow, and warm pink.)

[famousinuniverse]

Esita

Esita showing off her traditional Kiribati dance costume.Another creative creation of Boutaake's Boutique. Strapless mat bra (Black and white).

Common Kiribati clothing, or 'Mauri' wear, includes a. rectangular cloth ('sulu' or 'te be' in Kiribati) for both. men and women and a smocked blouse for women ('te. tibuta') which you can see in the fourth photo.

Kiribati clothing is colourful and fairly modest. Common Kiribati clothing, or ‘Mauri’ wear, includes a rectangular cloth (‘sulu’ or ‘te be’ in Kiribati) for both men and women and a smocked blouse for women (‘te tibuta’) which you can see in the fourth photo.

As the temperature usually sits around 30 degrees celsius all year, the main consideration for clothing is keeping people cool. T-shirts and shorts are common wear.

Traditional dancing clothing for women (see first and fifth photo) include leaf skirts made from blackened coconut leaves; a bra like covering made from pandanus leaves; and arm cuffs and embellishments made from coconut palm leaves, pandanus leaves, or reed.

Traditional dancing clothing for men (see first, third, and fifth photo) include dress mats made from pandanus leaves; sashes, embellishments, and arm cuffs made from coconut palm leaves, pandanus leaves, or reed; and a special belt made from the donated hair of a woman in their family to hold the dress mats.

Kiribati

Country in Oceania

Kiribati, officially the Republic of Kiribati, is an island country in the Micronesia subregion of Oceania in the central Pacific Ocean. Its permanent population is over 119,000 as of the 2020 census, with more than half living on Tarawa atoll. The state comprises 32 atolls and one remote raised coral island, Banaba. Wikipedia

Capital: Tarawa

Continent: Oceania

Population: 128,874 (2021) World Bank

Area: 811.2 km²

Official language: English

Currencies: Australian Dollar, Kiribati dollar

Calling code: +686

Kiribati - Wikipedia

A South Pacific inspired take on the traditional Kiribati dance costume bra.

[qdoesart]

lucy quinn fabray

Light. Wise.

basic information

FULL NAME. Lucy Quinn Fabray

NICKNAMES. Quinn. Q. Lucy Q if you're Judy Fabray. 

AGE. 28

OCCUPATION. Artist. Teacher. Quinn sells pottery, painting, and also takes commissions.

HOMETOWN. Shipshewana, IN

CURRENTLY LIVING. Lima, OH

RELIGION. Catholic. Post-divorce she's not practicing, though she still wears her cross beneath her clothes. 

EDUCATION. Masters in studio art and education minor. 

LANGUAGES. English and conversational Spanish and French.

family background

PARENTS. Russell and Judith Fabray. They've been divorced since Quinn was in middle school and Quinn hasn't seen her father since her wedding, and hasn't talked to him since the divorce.

SIBLINGS. Mary Frances Fabray, older sister. There's a decent age gap between them so they've never been close. Quinn sees her sister and her family (husband and young son) usually once a year around the holidays. Her only regret to their lack of relationship is that she and her nephew are essentially strangers.

PETS. Quinn feeds the neighborhood cats, but doesn't want to have to take on the responsibility for caring for someone else quite yet.

relationships

SEXUALITY. Lesbian. Quinn's known since she was a teen, but she fought against it and hoped marrying Sam would somehow work out. It didn't.

COMMITMENT. Quinn doesn't believe her infidelity with a former neighbor should be used against her considering the woman was only the second person Quinn had ever slept with. She was committed to same from the time they were 16 until she was 25. And though Quinn knew it was fruitless, she agreed to couples counseling while they were separated. Quinn's never really done anything in her life by halves.

CURRENT PARTNER. Quinn wouldn't call the affair dating, and it ended when Sam caught them, and she hasn't been with anyone since.

PAST PARTNERS. Sam Evans (ex-husband); Unnamed female neighbor (past affair).

physical appearance

HEIGHT. 5'6

HAIR. Blonde. Quinn's experimented with shades and color over the years.

EYES. Hazel.

PIERCINGS. Ears and nipples. She drove to another state to have it done after she moved out.

STYLE. Quinn's style has evolved over the years once her mother's influence and purchases no longer had room in her closet or drawers. She still has a few staple dress pieces, but for work and creating, pants make most sense. Slacks, jeans, and shirts make up her work wardrobe, and then there are dedicated jeans, overalls, and smocks for painting and ceramics.

ACCESSORIES. Cross necklace from her first communion.

TATTOOS. None.

personality and favorites

LIKES. early and quiet mornings. artistry in all its forms, but especially painting, sculpting, and ceramics. long walks. farmer's markets. homemade baked goods. breakfast foods.

DISLIKES. running or any physical activity beyond a brisk walk, leisurely bike ride, or swim. rainy weather during the day. cruelty. miscommunication. insistence that there's only one correct interpretation of a piece of art.

SLEEPING HABITS. quinn's always been a morning person. when she's tired she fades fast. she usually sleeps in a threadbare set of sweats and a tee (short or long sleeve depends on the season).

FOOD. blt sandwich.

NON-ALCOHOLIC DRINK. iced coffee.

ALCOHOLIC DRINK. quinn doesn't drink.

SEASON. spring.

ANIMAL. bowerbirds.

COLOR. varying shades of green.

SCENT. sandalwood.

[whatdoesthathavetodowiththis]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Boden Smocked Bodice Blue and White Print Midi Dress Sz 14.

[handspunyarns]

You Were Marked: Day Four.

pairing: din djarin x fem!O/C    

word count:   2.1K 

summary: Din cannot stop laughing, Marathel ends up in a tree, and eggs are thrown with extreme prejudice 

warnings: Mando'a and English cursing, violence to unborn ovoids 

You Were Marked: Masterlist 

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Din was still somewhere between dreaming and waking. He could only see soft, fading images in his mind: a gentle curve of a jawline, a slope of a pale-skinned shoulder. He heard a soft voice, quietly saying, “No . . . we can’t . . .” This denial made him furrow his brow even as he dozed, still gently supported in the herbal-scented clouds of sleep. Whyever not? He thought in his sleep. “No . . . don’t . . .” the soft voice pleaded again. No, don’t say ‘no’, he dreamed, but his dream was cut off like hitting a brick wall when he heard Marathel say, “Grogu! No, don’t!”, and Din felt the pounce of the little green goblin on his lower abdomen, not quite his area but close enough to make him grunt loudly with an “URGH,” and struggle to a sitting position with a babbling Grogu in his lap. 

Marathel, outside the dark curtained cubicle, stammered, “I’m so sorry, Bounty Hunter! I told him not to wake you . . .” 

“’s all right,” Din muttered as he pushed himself to a standing position, Grogu in the crook of his arm. “Time I was up. What the shab is so important, huh, buddy?” He stepped through his curtains and looked up to see Marathel standing primly in the center of the room, her hands clasped over her stomach. His first thought was that she was doing her best to look anywhere but at his face – well, helmet -- and his second thought was that she looked quite pretty today. Instead of her usual tunics and pants of dull tans, greens, and greys, she was wearing a gown of sunset yellow that fell into a swirl of fabric just above her ankles. Over this she wore a smock of deep charcoal grey, embroidered with yellow flowers around the neckline. Her silver hair was pulled back in a matching yellow scarf that was twisted around her shock of hair and tied off at the end.  

Marathel looked dismayed that Din was awakened in such a startling manner. “I told Grogu that I needed his help this morning, but we couldn’t leave until you had awakened. I did not want you to find him missing. But . . . he is impatient.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“To collect eggs.” 

“Eggs? Already?” 

She looked at his helmet for the first time, confused. “What? Oh . . . no. Not Dahl eggs. It is not quite time for those. Chook eggs.” Din tilted his helmet at her in his quiet way that she already knew meant that he needed more information. “Chooks are, uh . . . fluttery, rather stupid ground birds. They lay lots of eggs that are good for eating. I thought it may be fun for him.” She gestured to the table, where a covered plate waited. “I made you some breakfast. Grogu has already eaten. We will just be past the vegetable garden, if it is acceptable to you?”  

She had returned to her nervous formality of a couple days previous, Din noticed, as she dropped her head, and her hands began to go up her sleeves. Din stepped over and placed Grogu in her arms before her hands disappeared. “That is fine with me. That is within shouting distance, I think." 

Marathel turned a light shade of a very becoming pink having Din so close to her. She nodded, and said, “We will not be long. You will have privacy, and I will shout as we get near.” She turned towards this kitchen, cooing to Grogu, “Yes, we can finally go now, little one.” The two stepped off the platform and disappeared around the rock ridge. Din waited a few more moments, and sure he was alone, removed his helmet and gloves. He lifted the cover off the plate: toasted slabs of bread with soft cheese and fruit, with some pan-fried meat. A fresh mug of her herbal tea. He had been eating better these past few days than he had the past few months – not that he was complaining – but food was not a high priority for him. He could get too used to this kind of treatment. And the bread. Osik, she made good bread. He shoved a slab into his mouth before he even sat down.  What a good wife she would make, he thought idly, before he quashed that idea. He was not in the market for such an arrangement. He had all he could do to keep the child safe from the Imps, as well as keeping his Creed without entangling with a woman or any partner on a long-term basis. He had told Omera essentially that, and he hoped that she had found the person she needed. 

And what – or whom – did Marathel need? He scoffed, and muttered, “She got what she needed last night,” under his breath with a smirk, and then silently chided himself for such an unkind thought. He finished eating, and then took the opportunity of being alone to clean himself up, washing his hair, cleaning the bite wound again with a fresh layer of salve – this brought a small grin to his face -- and changing out his thermals and flight suit for a fresh set he had brought with him from the ship. He was in the process of reattaching his cuisses when he heard a distant shriek. Certain that it came from the direction of where Marathel and Grogu had gone, Din leapt into action and was already running that way, strapping on his jetpack and two of his most favorite blasters as he went. He heard Marathel scream, “Bounty Hunter! Bounty Hunter!” making him panic. He was already thinking the worst: Grogu was hurt in some way, a chook had pecked him in the eye, a rabid Dahl was making off with the both of them – as Din tore past the vegetable garden and leapt over the fencing that enclosed the chooks, noticing that the chooks she spoke of were indeed some sort of chicken. Skidding to a halt in the middle of the enclosure, sending chooks fluttering and clucking in all directions, Din saw that Grogu was fine. Grogu, in fact, looked perfectly pleased with himself, sitting on the ground, the basket beside him, as he held an egg in each hand. He looked quizzically up at Din and then ate one of the eggs whole. But Marathel was nowhere to be seen. Din spun around, shouting, “Marathel? Marathel! Where are you?” 

“I am . . . oof . . . up here!” 

He followed the sound of her voice, looking about 10 meters up the large tree that shadowed the chook pen. There was a distinct rustle of branches and some leaves fell, as he finally saw her perched up in the tree, balanced on her belly on a branch, reaching down to the next branch with her swinging feet. “What . . . what are you doing up there?” 

Marathel struggled a bit with a grunt, but finally made it down to the next branch. “He put me up here!” she yelled, pointing at Grogu. 

Din was finding it impossible to hide his amusement. “Why?” 

“Because you have taught him no manners!” She began to try to climb down to the next branch and was not succeeding at all. “Oof . . . I told him to stop eating all the eggs . . . I scolded him . . .” Marathel scraped her bare foot on sharp piece of bark. “Ow, ow, damnych! I scolded him, and the next thing I knew, I was up this tree!” 

Din gaped at her, then looked down at Grogu, who grinned cheekily at him, and then back up at Marathel, who was glaring back at him in fury. The laughter burbled up from deep in his gut, from a place that had not been so tickled in such a long time, and he could not help it, he burst into peals of laughter that made his sides hurt. He held his sides, bent over, trying to get control of himself, but he looked back up at Marathel standing so haughtily in that tree, and then she stamped her foot, shouting, “It is NOT funny!” The sight of her stamping her foot set him off again, and tears were rolling down his face at how ridiculous she looked. She clumsily scrambled down to the next branch, and then yelled down to him, “Are you going to help me down or not?” 

Din could barely catch his breath. “You . . . look like you’re doing just fine on your own!” 

Marathel struggled down from branch to branch, cursing at Din in her old language and muttering. “Just as bad as Grogu, you are . . . just like a child! You aren’t doing that boy any favors . . . putting me up a tree . . .” and then her gown caught on a twig and tore a large rip in the back of the skirt, effectively shutting Din up instantly. Marathel gasped in horror, twisting to see the back of her dress, crying out “Oh, damnych and double damnych!” She was close to the bottom of the tree now, so she set herself hanging from the lowest branch she could by her hands. Din went to her, putting up his hands to catch her as she came down. Unfortunately, his hands were on her smock over her waist, and the smock slid up against her dress as she slid down, and his hands ended up bracketing her breasts and holding them high against her chest, accidentally -- mostly. Marathel gasped in outrage and shoved Din as hard as she could. “Why, you . . .” She stomped away from him, spitting over her shoulder, “Y mallawer perlys, on chydich mown dynion!” 

Din chuckled quietly. “What does that mean?” 

Marathel grabbed the basket. “It means, ‘there is much virtue in herbs, but little in men!’” You’re not wrong there, thought Din. She swept a chook out of the way with her foot, sending it fluttering away, Grogu giving chase. She grabbed two eggs out of a nest with too much force, smashing the shells. Disgusted, she threw the broken eggs on the ground, snapping, “Now look what you made me do!” 

Din tilted his helmet. “Why are you so mad?” 

“I am NOT mad!” This, of course, was a lie, and Marathel grabbed another egg, this time throwing it into her basket with enough force to annihilate both it and two more eggs in the basket. She grunted in rage and picked up some more eggs.  

Din shifted his weight to one hip, crossing his arms over his cuirass. “You know, for someone who’s not mad, you’re sure making one hell of a mess out of those eggshells.”  

Marathel glared at him, and chucked an egg right at his head, where it exploded on his visor. Din fell about laughing again, wiping the egg mess off his helmet. “Whoo! Look out, Empire, we have a Stormtrooper who can actually hit something!” 

“Oh, shut up!”  Marathel stomped off through the gate of the pen, slammed it shut behind her, and began marching down the lane back to her hut. 

“Seriously, they could use someone like you!” Din shouted at her back. She whirled around, throwing another egg, which he tried to catch against his hip in his hands as it smashed into mush. “That’s what I’m talking about, lady!” he said, laughing even harder. 

“RHAFF CODIEH!” Marathel screeched over her shoulder. 

“And what does that mean?” 

“It means PISS UP A ROPE!”  

Marathel continued to march away so fast she was kicking up clouds of dirt at her ankles, her torn skirt swaying with each step, arms pumping at her sides. Din continued to laugh until he was certain she was out of earshot. He stood there, hands on hips, chuckling. “Ahhhh . . . Haar’chak.” He looked down at Grogu, who was covered in feathers and holding another egg, completely nonplussed by all the activity around him.  Grogu looked back at Din, grinning. Then he ate the egg. With a sigh, Din picked up the little green morsel, brushing the feathers from his tiny robes. “I think we’re in trouble, kiddo.” 

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