maskormenacelogs | jannat al-ma'wa [OTA]

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jannat al-ma'wa [OTA]

WHO: Cassian, Jyn, K-2SO, Revan, OTA
WHERE: Neojedha in Maurtia Falls
WHEN: huh? continuity? (your choice)
WHAT: The dojo opens (multithreads welcome)
WARNINGS: facepalmingly pompous mun!wish-fulfillment re: community service and indie start-ups; any of the reasons someone might need a shelter situation; PTSD sublimation; TL;DRing up the tauntaun. 1 and 2 are kinda infodumps. 3 (knowing us) ~~could~~ did get smutty. 4's accessibly friendly!

P.S. on taking cultural references from karking everywhere (title: Arabic, passcode: Sanskrit, setting: Americanization of Japanese, characters: none of these…) Cassian's trying to avoid cultural appropriation without even knowing the term; I'm stomping carelessly through the tulips. Hopefully not to conflate any of the cultures or schools of thought. Thinking more of The Cloisters: a museum Frankensteined from many different religious sites and relics, exploring the differences and finding underlying agreements, resulting in a space that feels secularly holy.

1. Neojedha: the dojo (attn. Jyn Erso, K-2SO, Revan, OTAnyone who wants to stop in while the place is active)
2. Haven: the safehouse (closed to Jyn, Kay, Revan)
3. The Bridge: between them (closed to Jyn Erso)
4. Outside: the street, the back alley, the fire escape, the roof, etc (OTA - WHAT a proper prompt)
5. The world: NPC neighbors and friends (if you ever come while they're closed and ask the neighbors about the dojo's staff, this is the info you'll get)

[+ image references: Colleen Wing's Chikara Dojo from "Iron Fist" …babeh]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She remembers the bodies strewn across the beach. She remembers angling herself just so, so he wouldn't have see the crumbled body of a Rebel soldier nearby. She regretted and still regrets having never bothered to learn their names, but it was old habit by then. No attachments, no feelings, no emotions; knowing names, knowing stories, knowing lives complicates all of those things. She had to think of them in terms of numbers and battle tactics; she couldn't think of them as the people they really were.

And it's something she still wishes she could change. Maybe something to ask Cassian, some day in the future. When the pain of the loss has healed over some, scabbed and no longer tender and sore.

"Funny how that works: the goal of survival, how it affects everything."

Someone's survival. Yes. Doesn't have to be your own.

They'd been fighting for each other's. …Fighting for…

He changes thoughts before he can project the one he knows hurts her. No matter how much it had helped the rest of them.

Let alone, one hoped, the galaxy…

Though… even that he couldn't think about too much right now without beginning to spiral again… how the further and further from their own time the stories got… the less anything seemed to matter…
Because only the present matters. Only the present is real. We did what we had to in the moment. And if only for a moment, it did help people. Try to choose one's moments like that.
It wasn't how he'd lived his first life. …Or was it. It was so hard to tell—when he was being fair to himself. It wasn't just that he'd sacrificed the present for a hope of the future. Or rather, he did for himself but not necessarily for others… by choosing to be in situations where the present could be no-win.
One could argue that he'd saved Tivik…

Stop oh god please stop.

The present was Jyn. Only Jyn. He shut eyes against her, holding her, trying not to let himself fall away from her again. Be here. Stay here.

Her grip slowly grows tighter and tighter as the thoughts flood her. She's long since stopped trying to filter out her own from his, instead allowing them to mingle and co-habitate as though it were the most natural thing they could do when forced into the same cranial space meant for one person. Somewhere in her consciousness, the part of her that doesn't detach while drowning in a sea of another's worries and fears and regrets, she makes a note that perhaps - perhaps it is still too soon to speak of the others. To speak of what they'd been through. They could speak of each other's histories with as much ease as could be expected given the events that had taken place because they'd had enough time to cover them in their guts as though with snow.

But Scarif - the others who'd perished with them on the shores of that otherwise paradisiacal planet - was perhaps still too raw, nerve endings severed and wounded.

"Stay with me," she whispers, coming back into herself. "I'm here."

He was modulating his breath. Even, slow. But his heart was pounding.

I can't. I can't.

He should go. I should… I have to…

it's your own fault you said it you raised it you filthy you hypocrite
theresnoway to explain i cant sayifit understand there isnt its not
nothowtheuniversegoes itwastooeasy idontgettohave
howcanistayidont

Rhythm broken with a groan or a sob.

Climb

…Behind his closed eyes, suddenly…

don't carry yours wherever you go
only way out of here
climb

He let out a low breath.

Called on a memory.

Not just to show her.

Recreated it. And put her into it.

They were standing at the foot of the Alliance's Yavin base. She'd never seen this part of it. Only been taken inside and left again straight to and from the landing pad.

This was where it sat in the endless forest. Where it had done so for millennia. Sitting here still long after those who built it and all their descendents were gone.

Massassi. She must have heard the word been thrown around. Would she have known what it meant.

As it stands in Cassian's mind, its meaning stands too. The people. The culture. So long ago, those who'd made it. Who'd vanished mysteriously and left wonders behind. The ancestors of the language and the people who'd spread through all the Yavin system. The writings on the walls almost indecipherable to Cassian but here and there, a word he could read, similar to its descendent language of Yaval. Like the lightest touch of a hand on his face from far, far away and deep below.

He stands before her, eyes closed, breathing with painstaking deliberation, keep it even, keep it slow. But here, he's not confined to his skull, himself, his mind. Here, they stand in the sunlight, in the wind, in the song of the trees, and the massive ancient temple, testament to time and the universe and all its worlds being bigger than any one awareness of it and any one war… and this time, unlike in life, he gets to be there with her: his favorite place with his favorite person…

He opens his eyes, at last finding the rhythm to breathe. Doesn't quite smile, but so glad she's there. Holds out his hand to her.

"The view up top," he said.

Climb.

Edited 2017-06-25 06:33 (UTC)

Jyn isn't sure if it's something that's changing inside of her or some side effect of the nanites at work, but she finds herself less and less inclined to fall back on old habits as the days wear on. Her toes don't twitch with the immediate reflex of wanting to dig into the earth below and push off with all of her might as she runs. The shadow that always threatens to consume and swallow her whole seems more and more faded with each new bathing, cleansing sunrise.

But his silent self-~~talk~~ arguing sparks something of it in her again. She feels the twitch in the big toe of her right foot first, then the left. The sudden burst of movement coincides with the off-beat of her heart and the abrupt inhalation of air like a dart in her lungs. And then -

He stays. He opens up something she immediately knows is - more than meaningful, more than precious, more than treasured. It's transcended those trite explanations. It's ascended into a its own life force, one that he can call upon and draw from whenever his physical/mental/emotional one begins to wither. It's its own breathing, existing thing, this memory. And what a beautiful one it is, she thinks, as she stands and looks out over the leafy canopy in all of its verdant beauty. Inherits the understanding and knowledge second-hand of the temple's creators, their culture, their links through the millennia to present-day. Wishes, somewhere in her own mind, that she could have had the opportunity, the time, the chance, the option to have explored it more for herself.

Her hand lifts to meet his before she's had a chance to even deliberate - though what deliberation could there have really been? Palm slides against palm like shifting tectonic plates, heat sparking up her wrist and splitting into two to jolt up the bones in her forearm, only to be rejoined at the shoulder. Further up, along the collarbone, the neck, exploding in a vision of light and spark behind her eyes.

"Climb," she echoes, eyes soft and full of love.

Edited 2017-06-25 07:15 (UTC)

He smiles like he kisses her and presses their joined hands together to the golden stones.

What had possessed him the first time to climb this thing
just needing
something not anything he already knew
a way out of everything else in his life

and unlike all the other ways he'd tried
this one worked

he'd found the sea above the forest
the swaying trees, the infinite canopy
real infinity looks flat, true infinity needs limits
and the sun warmed stones to hold his back
and the wind to smooth the furrows of his face
and the vast feel of everything connecting him up without being about himself
and he could simply stay there and be.

And he wants her with him for it now. Leaning himself back against the stones. Looking up at her, asking with his eyes if she will sit down against him so he can hold her against his chest and look at the trees with her hair tracing patterns in the wind and against his face.

"I know this is my mind," he said. "But I don't think I could be doing it without you."

There's an odd sensation of the manifestation of the physicality of this memory, though - it isn't as intense as it would be if it were really happening, if they were really climbing up the ziggurat. But her chest feels tight and light and heavy all at once; her breath feels thick in her lungs yet as thin as smoke; her skin scrapes against phantom precipices until raw and red. Or, at least there's the phantom sensation of it, much like wind sweeping over a field - invisible, intangible, yet felt.

She nestles in against him as she's done so many times (still not enough times) and leans herself back to press against his chest, eyes sweeping out over the beauty in which he's suspended them.

It's a breath-taking sight, and to be able to see it through Cassian's eyes, tinted and bathed in nostalgia and warmth, is incredible.

She turns towards him, then taps her forehead against the side of his face.

"Thank you for bringing me here and for allowing me to come."

He pressed a kiss into the hinge of her neck and shoulder. His arms and chest curved to enfold her.

"I'd put you into every good moment in my life," he said. "But that's not taking advance of how we get to move forward."

Move forward… justify… make it worth it…

No, that's not doing it either. But that was the why behind both these places—Neojedha, the Massassi temple. Give people a moment to be safe, and to breathe, and be defended.

God it's been a long time since her body was pressed to his.

She hums happily at the feel of his lips and his body wrapping itself around her like a cocoon. Her head tilts to the side to lean against his before barely nodding.

"I'll appreciate and exist in this for now, for however long you'll let me stay. I'll repay the favor," she whispers, voice melting into and losing itself in the gentle blowing of the wind and rustling of the breathing trees down below. Her arms come to rest over his, eyes making grand sweeping gestures across the honey horizon, before she turns to face him again to plant a kiss to the edge of his jaw. "We're always moving forward in one aspect or another; even if it doesn't feel like we are," she murmurs, kissing his jaw a second time.

He kissed her back on the temple above the forest
He moved against her in the bed in their haven
hands sliding to loosen her clothes
hands sliding to gather her close
his body calling to hers
asking if it wanted to slip into each other again
not caring about its own arousal or release, just wanting to be with her
in true restored state
as they'd evaporated together in the white light
but this time without oblivion
this time minds staying together too

She melts into him - here and there and every space in between - with melodic murmurs and floating sighs. Hands trailing up his exposed abdomen, chest, shoulders, drawing herself closer with a push of her hips towards his own. An answer floats in somewhere in the ether around their heads and in the galaxies overhead - "always" - somehow Jyn's voice and somehow something else, something larger and more ethereal than she could ever hope to be. Fingers untucking the towel from around his waist and flicking the dampened fabric away from him with careful precision, greedily exploring the exposed flesh and dark forests underneath, flesh already rigid in her grasp.

Soon both temple and dojo will seamlessly fall away, both places and none, when all he knows is her.

He unfastened her bra under her clothes, gently opening and peeling away everything and down off of her, kissing her skin as it was bared, as his hips rolled softly against her, moving himself in long strokes in her circling hand.

It hasn't been an excruciatingly long time since the nerve fibers her body sang underneath his touch they way they are now - and certainly, she'd gone through a much longer period of time after escaping Skuhl, and yet - it feels like eternities, like gliding timelines and universes that have been birthed and transformed and withered. Her body swells beneath his hands, his adept fingers like a wave crashing against a bluff, as though it's never known the feeling of them before. Or like it's forgotten the silk and velvet sensation of it and hungrily devours all it can do in order to remember.

She uses the tug and pull of her feet against the legs of her trousers to inch them down her legs, toeing off one boot, then the other, and shedding the fabric of first trouser than undergarment like sloughed skin. She takes one of his hands and guides it down below, teeth grazing over the plump flesh of his lip.

His thumb moves over her hand as she guides it. Then drifts from her hand to where it's placed.

The feel of her. From the coursest scars to this softest flesh. He follows every ripple of terrain, as if what she feels like against his fingers could be just as enthralling as anything he might be giving her. Continuing to part and trace and work in her with painstaking care, as far as his fingers could reach and bend, while his thumb comes to kiss its rough texture to its chosen anchor and begins building warmth, stimulating her, there.

Higher up, his arm has slipped under hers, circling her ribs and up her back, so his other hand can slide in her raven hair, hold her head. His face is tilted down, in pure concentration of both their hands. Their breaths cross, chests moving as one, even following one another when their hands make breathing catch.

The sun warmed stones against his skin. That's what he tries to make his hand feel like to her.
The ocean above the trees. That's what her hand is doing to him.
He doesn't need to bring her to it. She brings it back to him.

She shouts into the cavern of his mouth at the contact of his hand to her, the ease in which it explores and charts every ounce of territory she so willingly presents to him. It's no longer unknown, no longer foreign in the way it had been the first time - yet his hands, like wanderers, plant gardens as they move - sprouting buds and leaves and flora, even in the darkness.

The hand not curled around him like an equator slips itself between his neck and the bed underneath, hair and skin still lingeringly damp from his shower, made worse by the rising temperatures of their polarities, both separately and together.

Pelvic anchors twitch and flourish underneath, around the sun rays of his hand, his fingers; lungs expel and vibrate all thoracic corridors towards her mouth, where lips part for breath and sound and urgent murmurs.

He groans in need of her. And moved. His head ducking for his mouth to have her throat. His hips thrusting his hard on through and past her hold on it. His whole body arching to align them… find the river in the valley charted by his hand. And slick and frictionless, through and against every rippling grip and nerve, surging through.

None of which broke for a moment the rhythm of his thumb against her own hard flesh. It worked at her, light and ceaseless like water, even as their stomachs pressed abruptly together, forcing the rest of his hand flat between them. His other fingers moved aside for the greater mass of him to enter her. And as he'd wanted to do so badly before, he worked her now from both sides: cock within, thumb without, driving her with all he could to starlines and relief, shaking in his core with the intensity of her throes and swells around him.

Ease of entry requires movement on her part, and she divides her legs like the parting of seas, hooking the upper over the curve of his hip like the crest of a wave coming into shore. Bodyquakes and seismic activity ruptures from within, an unseen beast lurking, thrashing below the halcyon surface of her skin. Her hand slides through the archway created by his neck to wrap around his shoulders, forehead to forehead, eyes stitched tightly closed as her now-free hand comes to rest at the cliff of his jaw.

Skin turns to land - mountains swell where her breasts once were, rivers flow where they fuse together, jagged quarries and crags on the sharp edges of bone sliding beneath the thin outer crust. Canyons for mouths, gales and hurricanes for breath.

Below, the creation of energy in its purest form.

Friction heat fire spark light.

All of her welcoming all of him, as the volcanic ash begins to unleash in the room around them - a promise of the eruption forthcoming.

He thinks (he hopes) he's learned to tell when she's getting close. How to read her sounds and follow her motion, her straining to what's driving her forward. Advance the course. Ride into the gravity well. Be utterly led by her.

And feeling her start to crest… on lustblown impulse, his body went suddenly still. Still inside her, as hard and far he could go, flesh straining of its own accord, breathing and heartbeat pushing and pounding her. But his muscles made to be motionless, a cessation of thrusts. He just stayed there, filling and holding her from within.

Not from any change of feeling or mind. Not from any desire to stop.

Purely to throw all focus and support (…literally) to his touch on her outside. Compressing her between himself. Rubbing, drawing it from her—like easing back a hyperdrive control…

"That's it," he breathed. "Ugh, Jyn, yes…"

The verbal command always seems to be the last bit that she needs - already driven towards the summit with the adept and skillfully two-dimensional orbit of his fingers against her. It feels like atoms colliding, expelling light and energy off of each other and into the void, into her, into his hand, into the two of them together on this insignificant planet in the vaster expanse of space. It's only a few ragged breaths longer, painted golds and pinks and reds with her moans, before she's free-falling over the precipice, tumbling freely and in a crash of vibration, contraction, undulation.

Her fingers dig into his flesh as though he were the dirt of the earth, hips bucking like ripples after the submersion of a boulder in a pond, his name uttered in prayer and reverence and reward from her lips.

He can't stop himself bucking inside her, diving into the wave as she cascades. Then stilled himself again. Losing himself in the feel of her climax. Hoping his own could be put off forever so he could remain like this with her.

His hand left her locus to grasp her face, palm pressed along jaw, holding their foreheads together, like each was the other's oxygen mask, like it could keep them from a fall.

His flesh moves of its own accord, so slightly, inside her. But everywhere else, where consciousness can decide, he's not going to be the one to initiate motion again. He'd wanted to make her come fast. (The fact that they can and do is still remarkable to him.) His can wait for new sentience to rise.

As the last tendrils of electricity scamper out towards all corners of the room, stimulating what feels like every single muscle fiber carefully wrapped around bone, she stills. There are a few tiny quivers of residual impact, but she lets herself float for a few moments - existing, breathing, feeling, reeling. A bubbling series of giggles come out of her, tongue swiping at her lips to wet them, before she narrows the space and presses them to his.

Another spark of skin against skin.

And like an engine, it turns over the mechanics of her hips again - which begin to move in slow and steady undulations, leg still hooked greedily around his hip to assist in forward propulsion. Renewed sensation from within pulls a moan out of her like a wisp of smoke, which she releases into the darkness of his mouth, into the softness of his lips.

A burst, vocal breath, only half leaving his throat, as she began to ride him—though they were still lying partially on their sides, canted for her to be slightly beneath him. It's so… she's so… she feels…

With a low moan of effort, he doesn't resume moving in turn. Keeps himself motionless for her to work herself upon him. Let himself feel every ripple, every spasm, every surge of her muscles under his hands, against his stomach, around his hips… around… Fighting feeling he 'should'… do his part, share the labor, but… didn't always have to… try to… Yavá, oh god, her… the way she felt, she moved…

Cassian barely spoke when he did or didn't mean to. He hardly vocalized in nightmares. His speech was a measured release, awake.

He'd never been inclined to talk through… engagement.

He could if that's what would bring a target over the edge. But to him, it would be technical. A way to control himself more, keep his mind detached from sensation, even if pretending it was spontaneous, loss of control.

He's barely aware of spilling words to her now. Only knows he wants to know connection to her in every way. Know she's there with him also in minds. "Follar-me… sóc teu… Jyn, god… stay with… ¡—! això… adelante… my love, yes…"

Edited 2017-06-27 21:44 (UTC)

The words are foreign to her ears, but it's as though the very blood rushing through her body - pooling down below beneath the surface of her skin, heating up and blooming the apples of her cheeks like petals in the sun - can understand. Elicits a shiver from the nerves of her body to send a shiver down her spine, which buries itself into her and around him, spasming the muscle that sheaths him so deliciously.

A part of her worries that she is being greedy - taking what she wants from him, perhaps as concerned with mutual consent and participation as he often is - but the words that spill from his mouth like sugar and honey reassure her. He's with her; they're together; she isn't taking anything away from him.

She wishes she knew more in Yaval with which to blanket him, wishes she could release the words like wisps of colored smoke into the air. Basic sounds so harsh, so crude against Yaval's flowing tide and nectar-like sweetness. But she breathes his name, she breathes pleas of desire and hunger and wanting, she breathes declarations of love and adoration all the same.

When had his hands moved…?

One cups the mound of muscle at the top of her thigh, following and feeding its exertions; kneading her grinding him, push and be pushed, supporting and compelling both at once. If she's 'taking', it's what he strains to give, and needs her to pull out of him.

The other finds her face, her scalp, her jaw, under her hair; cradling the weight of her head and straining himself to it, his hand running in her hair on her skin in counterweight and symmetry to his mouth finding hers, motion and touch taking over the cadence of language from them both.

He holds himself back… hold… slowly… abdomen concave, taut, thrumming like a wire, so they can meet at mouths and cores. And begins slowly—slowly—rising and falling within her again.

Even if what's born of it is not life, it's still working to create… galaxies wheeling to birth light itself.

A phrase in Yaval comes back to her, one she's heard him say before.

"T'estimo," she breathes in between the collision of lips, moans rippling the surface underneath, air pushing it all down as it comes rushing from her mouth. Her eyes flicker open, burning with the light underneath as it traces the delicate and familiar patterns of his face. "T'estimo," she repeats, a hand coming to skirt across the edge of his jaw as flips herself over and on top of him in a fluid dance of muscle and bone.

The change of angle and position makes her cry out, dark hair coming to curtain her face and counteract the lightness of her eyes as they peer down at him, lips curling with hedonistic pleasure. She leans herself down, close enough to bring her mouth near his ear, skin brushing against skin as she whispers.

"Come for me."

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HOT ICON

I KNOW it's from some movie lol

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