#because he is tempted and attracted by power even if he rationally knows it is morally wrong | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

miceenscene · 3 years

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Fealty

female shepard/garrus vakarian | pwp | roleplay

wc: 8.9k

summary: Garrus & Shepard find some escapism in the midst of a war. | This is the product of listening to Rimsky’s Scheherazade too many times whilst pondering the inherent eroticism of blood oaths.

warnings: none, just sexy times galore

an: in this house, service switch Garrus hours are 24/7

ao3 | Masterlist

The Incident was an accident.

The Incident was an accident, and Garrus swore he would maintain that story to his dying day. It was not his fault that when Shepard really got him going sometimes odd things came out of his mouth. If anything, it was Shepard’s fault. Her and her flexible, strong, smooth body did unspeakable things to him that he really couldn’t rationally explain outside of the moment.

The night of The Incident, they’d started in the elevator, cautious at first then building as it became clear no one would interrupt them, then shedding armor carelessly in the hallway just outside her quarters. They’d made it to the desk at least for the first round. Then half a round against the fishtank, till finally she had him pinned down on the bed. His hands gripped her waist, following her rhythms eagerly, as she found her pleasure on top of him. She was warm and clenching around him as his head swam with Shepard.

There was a phenomenon that Garrus had long since noticed, beginning really from the first time they ‘blew off steam’. In the run up to Shepard’s peaks, he found himself… needing, craving, desperate to give her what she desired. Probably some combination of turian martial instinct–she was still the commander of the ship he served on, even if she claimed she wasn’t his commander anymore–and plain attraction to the woman herself. As well as his own perfectionist tendencies. If he was going to do a job, he wanted to do it The Best… and apparently that also applied to giving Shepard orgasms.

And it was somewhere in the middle of this phenomenon that it happened. The Incident. Shepard was close, close enough for them both to taste it. And she gave him an order, deeper more right there. And, as he happily obeyed, it just came out of his mouth in a soul-deep rumbling groan.

“Yes, your majesty.”

There was half a second before they both heard what he’d just said. Then it clicked. Glass shattered in the forefront of Garrus’ mind as a thousand warning lights suddenly started flashing.

Meanwhile, Shepard paused, teetering on her edge, and looked down at him. Her face was flushed, chest heaving with exertion, eyes over-bright. “What did you–”

It was a dirty move, but to distract her, Garrus pressed his thumb to her clit and canted his hips just so, shoving her into bliss with a loud exclamation. She pulled him down with her, both of them shuddering and swearing in each other’s arms.

His afterglow, however, was undercut with a strong tint of embarrassment. Luckily, nothing seemed to have bothered Shepard, who melted on top of him with her head resting on his chest. He trailed a few talons between her shoulder blades, making her hum and relax even more. Maybe she’d drift straight off to sleep, and in the morning his stupid mouth would be back under control.

But she shifted to the side into the waiting crook of his arm and molded around him in the usual, seemingly physically impossible for how perfect it was, way. “I should go clean up,” she sighed after another few minutes of quiet, stretching leisurely.

He hummed an agreement, relaxing now that it seemed his little outburst had been forgotten. “I’ll take care of the sheets,” he replied, nuzzling a kiss to the top of her head.

“Thank you,” she murmured, returning the kiss to the front of his carapace. With a soft smile, she got up. His hand traced the line down from her shoulder to her wrist to the tips of her fingers before she was out of reach. He admired the languid lines of her figure as she retreated, the bathroom door hissing shut behind her.

That was a close one.

Though he really should have known that his dodging skills were not that great. Or rather, Shepard’s ability to lay in wait should never be underestimated. Reckoning came a few evenings later. They were back in Shepard’s quarters again, but this time both reading through reports on her couch. Shepard liked to lean back against him and wrap his arm across her torso. Garrus liked it too because it was easy to lean over and stroke his mandible over her silky hair occasionally.

They’d been diligent for nearly three hours now, wading through the mounting horrors of war, but Garrus felt his eyes start to glaze over as he opened the next report from the Hierarchy. He blinked a few times to bring himself back into focus, only for it to happen less than two minutes later. Alright, perhaps it was time to call it a day.

His focus shifted to Shepard, a few tempting ideas popping up in the back of his mind. He brushed her hair to one shoulder so he could nuzzle a kiss to the other side of her neck. She hummed and her hand brushed the side of his face, but he didn’t have her full attention yet. That would have to change. He trailed the tip of his tongue up the side of her neck, up to her ear and over the shell of it, making the muscles in her core clench.

“Done already?” she asked, her voice just slightly airy.

“Done for tonight,” he rumbled. His hand covered hers on the datapad, updated casualty estimates from Earth. The numbers just never stopped growing. “You should be too.” She let him take the pad from her, setting it down on the coffee table, before laying back with her head in his lap.

“Perhaps you have a point.” Mentally setting aside the unfixable, she gave him a tired smile. “Did you want to go to bed? ...Orrr?”

“I’m a turian, Shepard. I’m pretty much always up for ‘orrr’.”

She laughed quietly and sat up to straddle his lap, arms resting on his shoulders and making his subvocals start to rumble at her proximity.

“How about you?” he asked, returning to his earlier work on her neck and sliding his hands across her waist. “Are you up for ‘orrr’?”

She hummed and leaned into his ministrations. “That depends.”

He really should have seen the trap, but he was too focused on trailing talon tips up the shallow valley of Shepard’s spine to see it at the time. “On?”

“Are you going to call me ‘your majesty’ again?”

Crap.

He froze, hands under her shirt, mouth open on her neck. “You heard that?”

“Yes, Garrus. I do tend to hear what you proclaim when you’re inside me.” She pulled back, making him look at her. “You mind explaining that one to me?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing, forget it.” And he tried to duck back in to distract her again, but she moved back once more.

“It’s not nothing. I saw your face as you said it…” There was a teasing light in her eyes, coupled with a similar smirk across her lips. “Oh, come on. Remember I was the one who pitched that whole ‘let’s pretend we’re having a first date’ thing?”

“There’s a difference between faking the date we never got and… this.”

“I don’t mind taking things a step away from reality… seems almost a necessity these days.” Her eyes half-turned towards where the datapad still lay.

That was a solid point. But some deep shameful part of him clenched at owning up to this particular non-reality. Her teasing look dimmed as he didn’t budge a metaphorical inch. Thank the spirits, it seemed like she might let this go. But he was caught off-guard when she cupped his face in her hands.

“There is nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me love you less. You know that right?”

He flinched from how deeply she struck. Consciously, yes. He trusted her when she said she loved him. The subconscious application was… tricky at times to prove that it had been completely accepted. Not all the time, just rare instances. Like right now.

He nodded. “I know.”

“Okay. Good.” She tipped her forehead to rest it against his. He was the luckiest damn turian in the entire galaxy. And he loved her just as much; he hoped she knew even though he hadn’t said it just yet.

She smiled softly as she sat back. “You don’t have to tell me the explanation if you don’t want to. But…” She shrugged and moved off his lap, sitting on the couch next to him and picking back up her datapad. “If you did, maybe I could… play along.”

The last two words came out just a touch rougher around the edges, sending a fizzing thrill to his gut and calling his bluff all at the same time. Just like she’d no-doubt intended. A whole new host of tempting ideas popped up in the back of his mind, their sum total enticing enough to overwhelm the shame.

He was actually going to do this.

“How… much do you know about turian history?” he asked slowly, picking up his own datapad in a feigned casual manner to have something to look at.

“Very little.”

“Well, it’s not as much turian history as… turian historical fiction.” He sucked in a breath for the strength to power through to the end of the explanation. “A… scandalous novel I read as a young recruit. Set during the unification wars, about a warlord and… her right-hand warrior.”

He could feel her gaze land on him, but he maintained focus on the words-turned-unparsable-shapes of his datapad. Embarrassment singed the back of his neck as silence filled the room. His first instinct was right; this was a silly fantasy, best kept to himself and not shared with someone whose respect he craved like Shepard’s.

He heard her shift and then her hand was under his chin, tilting his head to look up at her. His breath caught in his upper chest when he met her eyes. She’d stood, making her taller than he was from where he was sitting. Her posture was taught, like on the battlefield, yet somehow tempting at the same time. Strength and power radiated from her. A smile hinted in her eyes, but her mouth was set into a stoic line.

“Do you want me to be your queen, Garrus?” she asked in a low voice that shifted like sand under a desert wind.

“Yes.”

One dune after another, the horizon seemed as far now at dusk as it had been at dawn. Always dancing and shifting, no matter how steadfastly the General moved towards it. The glaring suns had beat unrelenting against his helmet all day, scorching his armor and the sand beneath him. But as they slipped beneath the horizon, he finally caught sight of his destination in the far distance. A camp of tents lay in the shadow of the mesa, spotted with torchlight and waving flags of red and black.

A small flurry of alarm kicked up at his approach to the camp, then stilled as he was recognized by the watch. His men greeted him warmly, but the General didn’t slow. He headed straight for the largest tent at the dead middle of the camp, trimmed in gold with two guards at the entrance. Momentum pulled him inside the tent where he finally stopped, removing his helmet and falling to one knee on the sumptuous rug across the floor.

It was scent that whispered of her arrival, more than sound or sight. Cool jasmine with the slight tang of tempered steel drifted towards him, surrounded him, familiar and intoxicating. Then the soft drag of a silk robe across carpet met his ears, followed by her voice, low and calm as a viper.

“You have returned, General Vakarian.”

“Yes, my Queen,” he answered.

“Rise and report.”

He stood and breath caught in his chest as he finally saw her, his Queen. Every time he saw her, it was first her eyes that captivated him, green as a forest and piercing as a dagger. Her waist-length crimson hair was loose, brushed to gleaming over one shoulder, and she was wrapped in a deep blue robe. She appeared unarmed, perhaps even vulnerable to the untrained eye. But he knew her better than that. She was dangerous, yet all the more beguiling for it.

At his prolonged silence, she lifted a single brow and turned to a small table at the opposite side of the tent that bore a pitcher and a few silver goblets. The General opened the bag he’d carried for days now and placed a sealed scroll on the wide table in the center of the room on which a large map was unfurled.

“As you requested, Lord Tulius has been removed. His head decorates the gates to his city.”

She didn’t pause her calm movements, pouring two goblets before turning back to face him. “And?”

“The new Lord has sworn five hundred soldiers when we ride on Gerou next month.”

She neared, jasmine and steel surrounding him once more, but she did not offer the second goblet. “And?”

“And Ardaraka will also be joining with one hundred archers and sending tribute.”

Her mouth remained steady, but an approving light shone in her eyes as she held out the goblet to him. The wordless approval rested on his brow brighter than any crown. He took the goblet carefully, gloved fingers brushing hers for a moment. Never looking away from the other, they both sipped the wine. Spices blossomed on his palette, heady and strong.

“Your work is always exemplary, General,” she said, stepping around him. Her shoulder just brushed his as she passed, burning him through his armor. “But this is to be commended.” She rounded the table and took another thoughtful sip as she sat down in the chair at the head. “Such efforts should not go unrewarded. Tell me what prize you would accept, and it shall be granted to you.”

She was a woman of her word. Up to half her kingdom could be granted to him if he but asked for it. As it was–

“There is only one prize that I desire.”

Her eyes locked to his, gaze as scorching as the suns and twice as rich. Then she set her cup down and relaxed back in the chair, a smile finally playing on her lips.

“Come and claim it then.”

Wasting no precious time, the General shed his gloves and rounded the table to stand before his Queen, eyes boring into hers, smoldering hot enough to catch flame. She offered up her hand, which he took in his, smoothing a thumb over her battle-calloused fingers before pressing a kiss to the knuckles.

“I swear to guard my Queen from harm and, with either my life or my death, ensure her continued dominion,” he whispered, repeating part of the oath he’d taken so many years ago. The solemn vow was carved on his spirit, the ethos of his life from that day onward. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then her wrist, feeling her steady pulse on his mouth plates. “Until my Queen releases me, death takes me, or the world ends.”

When he looked back to her face, her lips were slightly opened, eyes wide and utterly enraptured. Deep satisfaction suffused through him at the sight. Glimpses of the woman behind the crown were rare, and he coveted them jealously. For as assuredly he would follow her into death, some naive part of him longed to share her life even more. The awed warmth of her gaze kindled something deep inside him, something precious and pure. Something to be thought of only in the most private of moments and not yet voiced. Perhaps never to be spoken, only shown.

He knelt before her, basking in her rapt attention. With great care, he reached for her ankle, palm sliding up the smooth skin of her calf before stopping at her knee, which he lifted and placed on his shoulder as he moved in closer–submerging himself in jasmine and steel. Pulling her robe open, he found her completely bare underneath save for an encrusted dagger that was wrapped in a holster about her thigh.

He’d given the dagger to her not long after he came into her service. The reminder of how close she kept it on her person still sent a low shudder down his spine. Never unarmed that was his Queen, he mused, subvocals starting to purr. He traced the leather strap first with his fingers, then his mouth plates before drifting upwards and pulling her closer.

This near, her clearest scent filled his lungs–rich as earth, complex and mouth-wateringly bitter. Her thighs resting on his shoulders and his hands on her hips, he stared up at her in both wonder and desire. Her usual stoic front was holding strong for the moment, but he could see something stirring beneath her surface. He held there, waiting for the final permission. She granted it in a silent nod.

Not looking away, he kissed her center, making her eyes flutter shut momentarily. But she quickly regained her composure. It was always a battle with her, a testing of wills–he wouldn’t have it any other way. Determined, he delved deeper, still holding her eyes for as long as he could. Her hand rested at the back of his head, fingers just brushing his most sensitive area as he found hers. The sinews in her neck clenched as he circled and lapped, pushing and teasing her till she yielded for him. It came as his tongue slipped inside her warmth. Her eyes shut, mouth dropped half-open, and her hand on his head clenched, nails biting at his skin. A half-strangled gasp met his ears, sweeter than symphonies, rousing his own desire with its call.

Now it wasn’t a battle, but a crusade. Or perhaps a gauntlet, a test of his mastery of her pleasure. He never wanted to just satisfy her, to just sate her. He wanted to ruin her. To make every other partner pale in comparison. None could eclipse her in his eyes. It felt an honest, if perhaps hopeless, endeavor to strive for the same honor from her.

He pulled away from her, earning a low whimper of protest from his Queen that kicked his subvocals rumbling even lower. But he didn’t move far. His thumb circled over her center, drawing her attention, till he nipped the sensitive inner skin of her thigh. Her hips bucked at change in sensation, muscles rippling under his palms. He apologized with a swipe of his tongue, though he knew it would leave a mark. A reminder of his presence just for her.

Her other hand gripped his shoulder, a burning beacon that she was close to her end. He could retreat now, suffer her temporary wrath, for another valiant run for glory. Some nights, she let him indulge himself, bringing her closer and closer to her edge without letting her fall over. But her hand on the back of his head pulled him back to her center. No, she was not to be toyed with tonight. So he gladly surrendered to her will. Not replacing his finger, he dipped his tongue back inside her.

It took only two coordinated strokes before she fell, shuddering and clenching and gasping. She pulled him so close, curling over him as if to blur the boundaries between his being and hers. Tension shattered through her core, her limbs, stacking to insurmountable heights. Till, like a candle flame, it vanished, leaving only boneless, radiating warmth in its absence.

His Queen dropped against the back of the chair, hands relaxing their grip on him but not moving away. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to rewrite her composure. Though before she completely succeeded, a blissful smile spread across her lips. He wished he could save it somehow, tuck it away in a cedar box at the bottom of his armory, where it would be safe and cherished as long as he drew breath.

She swallowed and let out a low hum of contentment that settled in the back of his skull. “Commendable, General,” she said, her voice smoky as torch light. “As always.”

“It is my honor, your majesty.”

“Yes, it is.” The corners of her lips tugged in amusement but didn’t spread wide again.

His subvocals rolled with his unquenched thirst, perhaps she could feel them from where his palms slid down her hips. He pulled her silk robe back into place before retreating reluctantly, standing and stepping back from her throne. She offered her hand again, which he happily took and helped her stand.

“Such… valiant effort on behalf of my realm deserves more than one reward, don’t you agree?”

He tipped his head in deference, deep parts of him agreeing with her far more vehemently. “If you wish to honor me more, who am I to deny you?”

She stepped towards him, close but not touching. Jasmine and steel surrounded him again, sending his core muscles clenching. Her chin lifted, tilting her face as if she wished to kiss him. Like a comet, he was pulled helplessly into her orbit. But she did not meet him. She, instead, hovered a hair’s breadth apart. His control shuddered as he held there with his hands clasped behind his back, knuckles paling for the effort.

After several tense seconds, her gaze met his, curiosity and something like satisfaction in her eyes. “You would deny me nothing, would you?”

“Nothing,” he repeated in a fervent whisper. His plates were starting to itch from how close yet far she was. But he refused to move till she gave him leave.

She pulled away yet rewarded his restraint with the backs of her fingers stroking along his scarred mandible. Though he couldn’t help but lean into the touch, brushing a kiss to her knuckles as her hand dropped away. He was only mortal.

“Come.” She offered her hand and led him away from the table. There was a curtained doorway that divided the war room from her sleeping quarters of the tent. She pulled back the thick fabric and stepped inside, inviting him into her most private space.

The room was not overly large, nothing like her chambers back in her fortress. Her armor, spear, and shield were displayed proudly next to the entrance. There was a space for bathing and dressing. A smaller table for her own use tucked in the corner. But the room was dominated by the large bed in the center. Not four postered and curtained like in her ancient estate by the sea, a bedroll made for travel but still strewn with cushions and luxurious enough for royalty. The scent of her hovered in the room like incense. A few candles in the corners were the only source of light, casting soft shadows around the edges of her figure.

Once inside, she didn’t let go of his hand. Instead, her nimble fingers travelled up his arm, removing vambraces and pauldrons with practiced ease. She untied his cuirass from around his carapace, fingertips brushing against his sides, before setting it carefully aside with the other pieces. When strapped with his armor and weapons, he hardly noticed the weight of them anymore. But as she pulled off each piece, breath came easier to him, though he wasn’t sure if it was relief or anticipation that filled his lungs so readily. Every plate of steel gone felt like a skin removed, stripping away the mantle of General to leave behind just him for her.

She went to remove his greaves, moving to kneel before him, when he reflexively stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She shouldn’t– But her eyes snapped up to him, sharp and flinty.

Would you deny me this?

No, he would not. So he pulled his hand back, humbled by the rare view and trying to deny how the unique angle stirred up memories filled with desire.

She pulled off the last of his armor and then rose, her half-smile distracting him from her hand till it dragged up his completely spread plates over his pants. That made him flinch and suck in a sharp breath, sparks leapt onto the crumbling tower of his composure.

“Too much?” she asked in a low voice. His eyes opened to find her looking at him intensely, brows flickering just towards each other.

He shook his head. “Never.”

She repeated the action, but he was ready for her this time. The gentle pressure emanated out through his whole person, making his subvocals sputter and stop for a moment. He was absolutely weeping in his sheath, but she stopped before it became too much.

With just one hand at his waist, the sensation muted from his underclothes but knee-buckling all the same, she urged him to sit on the foot of her bed. He was closer to her face this way, giving him a chance to admire the sharp line of her jaw, how her eyes were inky black haloed with thin green. She was breathtaking on the field and away.

Breaking all contact with him, she edged into the space between his knees, commanding his complete attention without a word. Not letting him look away, she loosened the tie of her robe. It slipped off her shoulders and pooled on the ground, leaving her only in her dagger. He found an anchor in the silk sheets beneath him, talons gripping the fabric for dear life. Her eyes proclaimed proudly that she knew exactly what the sight of all of her was doing to him. His gaze greedily swept over her figure, like a bandit discovering a pirate’s hoard, taking in the exotic curves and admiring the few pale scars. The need to put his hands on her and pull her close scalded his palms. He longed to kiss every freckle that dotted her skin, to hear her gasp his name as he buried himself inside her. She let him admire for a few breathless moments, but twisted the dagger when she lifted her holstered leg to rest her foot on his knee.

“Would you help me, General?” she asked calmly, as if asking for him to bring her the weather reports.

He swallowed, hard. Then again. No, growling subvocals would not allow words she could understand now. So he instead simply obeyed, unwinding the leather strap before pulling it through the buckle. His hands only trembled slightly, but stilled as the steadying weight of the dagger dropped into his palm. He offered it to her, pride shoring him up as he persevered under her visual onslaught.

She took it from him and turned away, long hair tossing over her shoulder and brushing against his face for just a moment. “Would you want some Aephusian Ale?” she asked, sashaying away with a pronounced hip swing that he could not ignore. “I know how much you enjoy it.”

“Of course,” he rumbled, dropping his gaze away from her to gain his bearings more. A few deep breaths cleared his head enough for her return, proffering a dark glass bottle. His attention could not be afforded anywhere but on her as he took a sip, not quite paying attention till the taste registered.

Garrus blinked. “This… this is actually Aephusian Ale,” he said, looking down at the bottle in his hand. It tasted exactly like the drink in the book. Spirits, where had Shepard found this?

“Of course it is,” his Queen said in a low voice, pulling him back in as she stepped closer. “You think I don’t know my best General’s favorite drink?”

He smiled softly up at her. “I am humbled by your attentions,” the General replied.

She moved even closer, nearly touching him now. He could feel the warmth radiating lowly off her skin. It grew stronger as she leaned towards him, head angling once again for a kiss. And like before, she stopped a grain of sand away, though this time a strangled whine snuck up the back of his throat before he quickly cut it off.

A gloating look floated through her eyes. “Your orders are to retreat, General.”

Unsure precisely what she meant, he frowned slightly up at her. She waved her hand and it clicked. It wasn’t graceful, but he moved backwards across the bed, only stopping when the back of his carapace met the cushions already set up to support him. As if to make up for his lack of coordination, his Queen prowled towards him, a hungry look simmering in her eye. Feeling trapped in the very best way, he set aside the ale.

She crawled all the way up to straddle his lap, dropping herself the last inch and expelling a soft groan from his gut at the sudden contact. But it transformed in a low growl as she rocked her hips, rubbing her sodden center over his sheath. His swollen cock begged to be released, trapped by her and his pants, and her steady, eddying pressure was delicious torture. But she was nefarious and brutal, his Queen, and she reminded him of that as her arms wound around his shoulders, fingers trailing up his neck to the skin under his fringe. He could have borne the burden without complaint had she not also dipped her head and finally pressed that craved kiss not to his mouth but to his vulnerable throat.

That finally broke him.

“Please,” he bit out, head dropped back in utter submission. “Please, your majesty.”

She kissed his neck once, twice more, and then bit down. It wasn’t enough to leave a mark through his skin, but his whole body jerked, jostling her and halting her slow grinding. Without any rush, she lifted herself up off his lap to meet his eyes, a palm smoothing down his fringe.

“Yes, General? Is there something you desire?” she asked in that same calm voice.

“You.” His subvocals were shredded with clawing need. “Always you.”

Hands cradling his face, she tilted his head forward enough to press her brow to his in a turian kiss. The simple yet profound gesture blew right through simple carnal desire, landing square in the deep unspeakable truth at his very core. Eyes shut, he pressed up against her as fervently as the angle would allow, letting his subvocals sing with the words he didn’t dare to utter.

She pulled back for a moment, soothing fingers brushing along his mandibles, then leaned back in, lips so close to his mouth. But this time, she whispered, “Kiss me.”

And he did, surging forward to claim her mouth with his. After so much build-up and denial, it rapidly deepened to something needy and demanding. Technique and skill were completely abandoned in favor of pure sensation. He needed her tongue tangled with his, her breath in his lungs. Oh, though it was so blissfully wonderful to taste her again, it was not enough. Nothing less than all of her would suffice.

“Please, my Queen,” he rumbled, tracing his mandible along the smooth line of her jaw. “I need you. Please.”

She kissed him once more, rising up on her knees to break the pressure on his waist and tilt his head back as far as it would go. Her hand rested on his throat, fingertips tracing small circles on either side and pulling uncontrollable shudders from him with every small movement.

“I’m already yours. Take me,” she whispered with a slight smile.

She obviously had not been prepared for his attack as she let out a small cry when he flipped their positions, tossing her back on the bed with as much care as he could muster. It turned into a breathless chuckle as he pulled away just long enough to wrench his trousers off. A deep groan left him as he was finally freed from his sheath, relief sparkling down his spine and numbing the back of his skull.

“Can always count on you to be ready for battle,” she mused.

He had plans to remove his shirt too and possibly say something witty back. But all thoughts were driven from his head as he caught a glimpse of his Queen completely splayed on the bed, dark eyes taking in his figure, her hand sliding down her stomach with obvious intent. He caught it before it reached its destination, pressing another quick kiss to her pulse. She groaned softly at being interrupted.

“I would deny you nothing, your Majesty. But it is my honor to be the only one to please you this evening,” he purred, nipping a kiss to her collarbone.

“Then what are you waiting for?” She sounded annoyed, though there was a telling glimmer in her eyes that spoke otherwise. He lifted one of her legs into the crook of his elbow and leaned forward, just enjoying the low whimpers she made as he rocked through her heat.

“Absolutely nothing.” And he kissed her again as he finally joined with his Queen. Twin groans floated through the air of the tent as he immediately set a deep and thorough pace. Her clenching heat around him demanded his full attention, everything else but her disappeared from his mind. Her tongue tangled with his, and her fingers trailed down his fringe.

He kissed every inch of her skin that he could reach, running his tongue along her throat, nuzzling mandibles across her shoulders. She returned the favor with her own kisses up his neck, though his steady rhythm stuttered when she bit him again. Spirits, she knew him too well. Though he knew her just the same, and so he left his own nips along her collarbones, the base of her neck, anywhere that could be hidden by her armor. The evidence of their love was just for their knowledge.

Her low swears and strangled groans were the sweetest tune he’d ever heard. But he wanted the full symphony. An honest-to-the-gods whimper escaped her throat when he stilled and pulled back. Oh. He’d proudly wear that as a medal of honor on his breast if she could mint it.

“I’m not leaving,” he promised breathlessly. He lifted her hips and slid a cushion underneath, changing the angle of their meeting. “Still good?”

She clenched her inner muscles around him with a smirk.

“Fuck,” he groaned in answer to his own question.

“You have not yet been relieved of duty, Gen–” The end of her word changed into a deep moan as he rocked once, testing the new arrangement on his knees. Holding her open with his grip on her leg, he moved again, enjoying thoroughly watching the collision ripple through her body and hearing the echoes in her voice. Her hands stretched out for him but failed to reach their mark as he pressed the pad of his thumb to her clit, circling in the pattern he knew she liked best. She went fully lax, granting him full command over her pleasure.

“Look at me,” he pleaded, more subvocal than voice. But she obeyed. She demanded his continual gaze with hers, and neither looked away as he drove them steadily to their peak. Her acquiescence to his strategy started to crumble, however, as they drew close. A hand found purchase on his hip, pulling him closer, deeper, More. He eagerly surrendered what advantages distance allowed him in movement for the feeling of tucking his face against her neck.

Her cries abruptly spiked in pitch, and he just managed to catch her mouth with his for one last kiss before she reached bliss. Her body shuddering in his arms, and her slick heat clenching around him finished him off. Gratification shot down his spine, white hot and addictingly pure. He held tight to her, muscles locking as he convulsed once, twice, three times. Then every bit of tension in his body evaporated, all thought reducing to a rich blissfulness, thick enough to float away in.

A five-fingered hand rested on the back of his neck, stroking slowly up and down. Reflexes drunk-slow, he opened his eyes to find his Queen half-beneath him, looking nearly as relaxed as he felt. She caught his eye and a slow smile spread across her face, growing so fond it bubbled up into a low affectionate laugh. He pressed his brow to hers, a hand slipping into her hair, and laughed with her.

The air between them was saturated with the Unspoken. But it could barely be anymore blatantly stated than in his every small kiss upon her cheek. Every adjustment of limbs so they fit together even neater than before. Every slowing breath they shared as more one than two.

Her hand insinuated itself between his tunic and the small of his back, stroking his spine before tugging on the shirt.

“Remove this,” she murmured, eyes half open. “Your Queen demands it.”

“I don’t want to harm you,” he replied lowly, a hand smoothing over her bare hip.

“Do you think I’m as fragile as that?”

He shook his head. “Not fragile… precious.”

That wide eyed, awed look returned to her face, so wholly honest it took his breath away for a moment. Then she moved, crawling over him and kissing him once before pulling him up to sitting. She removed his tunic and then wrapped him in a long hug. The steady presence of her skin on his was centering in a way he couldn’t quite describe. The world, the galaxy fell into balanced order every time.

He hummed as she kissed his neck, slowly, luxuriously. Desire stirring slightly with the delicate attentions. She made her way leisurely up the length, pressing a final kiss to the side of his head then whispering, “You are so precious to me.”

His breath caught in his chest, but she didn’t pull away. More kisses made their way down his mandible then meeting his mouth in gentle caresses. She cradled his head in her arms, a hand brushing down his fringe.

“I don’t know where I’d be without you.” The look in her eyes was so fervently honest, he couldn’t do anything but stare up at her. The lines between Shepard and his Queen blurring till he wasn’t sure which one continued speaking. “I owe you my life more times over than I can ever repay. I never want to know what life is like without you at my side.”

His hands slid up her spine to pull her down for another kiss, adamant and just shy of bruising. “You’ll never have to know,” he swore to her, brow pressed to hers. “Not while it’s in my power. You’ll never know.”

She nodded and kissed him again, her breath shaking for reasons unrelated to the need in his touch. Her hands roved his body, finger tips slipping between plates, palms over his waist, while her mouth stayed steady on his. But there was no teasing in her touch this time, just devotion so pure it humbled him to receive it.

“Let me show you,” she whispered before kissing him deeply. “Please.”

He nodded, and her kisses drifted down his neck, across his cowl and down his carapace. Every muscle in his body clenched as he finally realized her intention. She stopped and looked up at him, but he was already nodding when her gaze met his. It turned warm and fond, and she settled on her stomach between his legs, pressing a chaste kiss to his hip.

He hadn’t reemerged from his sheath yet, though his plates were still fully relaxed. However, as she started drawing slow designs with her fingertips across his waist, he could already feel the efficacy in her small gestures. The sight of her was transfixing, hypnotic. Every puff of warm breath across his most sensitive skin electrified him.

As she kissed him, an unstoppable moan dropped from his mouth. She smiled up at him and kept at her work, persistent and skilled. Every time after, he swore to himself that he’d exaggerated in his memory how good her mouth felt on him. And every time, she proved him wrong. It took no time at all till he slid out and directly into her waiting mouth. It was so perfect, it seared.

“Shepard,” he moaned, talons gripping the bed underneath him for dear life. She pulled back, giving him a break from the onslaught.

“Too much?” she asked. He looked down and nearly moaned again, shuddering instead. A slight blush had formed over her cheeks, and her hand was resting loosely at his base.

“You have ruined me… for anyone but you… my Queen,” he said in reply.

She smirked. “Good.” You’re mine. And she approached again less directly, slight kisses, gentle passes with her tongue. He willfully surrendered to her, focusing on her touch, her presence.

It always felt an honor to receive such… attention from one such as her. But right now, it felt more a gesture of trust. She could trust him to give her only what she desired. And whole-heartedly, he felt the very same. Her moaning while his length buried as deep as she could take him nearly brought him to his metaphorical knees. He’d follow her anywhere, even to his own blissful end, which she seemed very determined to deliver him to. But perhaps–

He rested a hand on her shoulder, whining at both the sight and feel of her soft mouth sliding up his length. It made his thoughts scatter like sand under a gale wind.

“Together,” he managed, swallowing hard to try and control his roiling subvocals. “I want… together. Please?”

She smiled and kissed his tip, sending one last jolt through his system, before retreating. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He had to literally shake sense back into his head before he could move from where she’d left him. “Come here,” he said, shifting up to his knees and stumbling forward for the effort.

“You alright?” Her voice bobbed in amusement.

“Like I said, you ruined me.” He took her hand and pulled her close, kissing her once, then again for good measure. Then he moved behind her, pulling her back to his front.

“Oh,” she said slowly as he rocked between her thighs. His subvocals sang in agreement. She smelled so good–salt and jasmine and them. She was so warm already. The thought that pleasuring him ignited her in the best way burned up the last of his patience.

He pulled her hair aside and nibbled a kiss to her neck. “I want you,” he breathed against her ear.

“Please,” she whispered back. She guided him inside her, both of them letting out a long slow breath at their joining. His hands roved her body, smoothing across hips and circling her breasts, as he encouraged her to sit back into his lap. They weren’t joined as deeply as before, but this angle always brushed against her most sensitive places with the slightest of movement. An advantage he exploited to immediate benefits.

Rocking together felt more natural than breathing. Her hands intertwined with his, pressing one down between her legs and the other to her breast. He gave her the pressure she desired gladly and continued whispering a low growl in her ear.

“You don’t understand how thoroughly you have ruined me for anyone that isn’t you. I couldn’t want my own kind anymore even if I tried.”

She answered with a wordless cry, her spine undulating in a way that should have been physically impossible and was so alluringly easy for her. Still he kept up the rhythm, subvocals purring at how perfect she felt against him, around him.

“How could anyone measure up after I’ve had you? My Queen… my Commander.”

She shuddered and moaned, a hand reaching back to grip his neck. “Your voice–Gar–General–”

“That’s it, my Queen. Focus on me and let go.” He let loose a subvocal rumble loud enough that she had to hear it. Her answering cry echoed around the tent.

They hadn’t been particularly quiet up to this point, and their involvement was a poorly kept secret. Still, the thought of any guard just outside hearing her right now, knowing what she sounded like in rapture. He caught her mouth with his, swallowing her cry and turning it to whimpers.

“No one but me gets to hear you like this tonight.”

“Yes, Garrus.”

The sound of his real name pleaded so desperately shot straight to his core, immediately imploding. He pressed his brow to hers and circled his fingers on her clit, making her kiss him again to moan in response.

“Garrus–General. General, please. I–”

“I’m here. I’ll always be right here,” he vowed solemnly, meaning it as truly as the Unspoken.

She sobbed, the hand on his neck sliding up to scrape dull nails across the skin under his fringe. He throbbed inside her, his own release having snuck up on him in his focus on her.

“With me?” she asked, her voice tight and desperate.

“Always.”

And with a kiss they fell over the edge together.

It was several minutes later that Garrus opened his eyes to a world made entirely of red hair. The two of them had simply slipped sideways on the bed, still intertwined with each other. Shepard before him was breathing steadily, slowly.

He pressed a kiss to the back of her head. “You alright?”

She nodded. “I need a quick break though,” she said, her words slurring slightly.

“Me too.” He pulled away enough to turn her onto her back and stretched out next to her. For a few minutes, he just admired her face, fingers combing through her hair till it laid flat on the bed.

“How did you make it so much longer?” he asked quietly.

She reached up into her hair and something snapped, then a section of the long hair came out.

“That’s… not yours?” he asked, more than a little bewildered.

“Well, it’s mine in that I own it. But I didn’t grow this hair, no.” She repeated the process a few more times, removing all the pieces from her scalp till just her usual shoulder length hair remained.

“That’s… disturbing.”

“I wanted to be authentic,” she replied with a shrug. “You liked it till you knew.”

He grunted, not wanting to agree, and reached for his long-abandoned bottle. “Speaking of authentic, how did you find actual Aephusian Ale in the middle of a war?”

She turned to her stomach and grinned. “You can find many things when you’re as powerful a queen as I am.”

He laughed and took a sip, savoring the unique flavors of the brew. “Do you want your mead? It’s back on the desk.”

“Yeah, I’ll get it.” She rolled away and hopped up the stairs to her office. He couldn’t help but admire how her curves were highlighted in the low glow from the fishtank and the one candle they’d dared on the coffee table. A slow smile spread across her face when she noticed him staring on her return.

“See something you like?” she purred, kneeling down next to him.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. “I see many things I like.”

She chuckled and sipped her drink, a hand idly stroking along his fringe. A turian could die happy like this, he thought, drinking his ale.

“Anything I can do different?” she asked after a minute. “Should the Queen be more aloof?”

He looked up at her and shook his head. “You’re perfect.”

Her slow smile returned. “You make a damn fine General, Vakarian.”

He chuckled. “Anything for my Queen.” Her smile changed to something more coy, nearly shy. Then he realized– “You like being my Queen, don’t you?”

A pink tint spread across the tops of her cheeks as she refused to look at him, taking another long sip instead. He set his ale down on the floor and sat up to nuzzle a kiss to her neck.

“It’s not so strange, is it?” She let him take her cup away as she continued speaking. “To like having the man you love promise devotion and loyalty… even if it’s just a story?”

He held her hands in his and pressed his forehead to hers, subvocals humming the Unspoken once more. “It’s not all a story,” he whispered. Her eyes opened to meet his. “You know that already, right?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Good.” Not looking away, he pushed her back on the bed and laid down at her side. They found the fit between themselves, arms wrapped around each other. He rested his brow against hers again, eyes shut. “I swear to guard my Commander from harm… and, with either my life or my death, ensure the success of her mission,” he promised in a low voice.

“I love you too,” she whispered back.

When he opened his eyes, they were back in the tent. Jasmine and tempered steel drifted on the soft desert wind. But it was Shepard–his Shepard–who laid in the bed with him. All the tragedies and horrors of their real lives left behind, even if only for a few minutes. Her warm regard shone out through her eyes, not held back but freely offered.

They pulled closer still. Her arms slipped up around his neck, and he lifted her leg over his waist. He kissed her like that for a long while, brushing mandibles over her cheeks to match her movements best he could. No words spoken, but none needed. Just the tempo of her breath told him everything he needed to know.

Slowly yet steadily, they came together. He held her eyes as long as he could, watching every slight expression in her eyes. They were so different, the two of them. And yet he never felt more understood, more Known, than he did when he was with her. She pressed his brow to hers, mouth moving with unspoken words that he felt deeper than his bones. They were unhurried, confident in their destination yet nearly satisfied to never arrive. Following the other in a dance they knew and loved so well at this point. A dance that Garrus quietly hoped would continue for the rest of their long, long lives till they could be buried in each other’s gaze.

Shepard pulled closer still at the end, tucking her face against his neck and tensing before a long shudder ran through her core. A quiet echo of response answered from his center, filling any remaining air between them with a gentle warmth.

They were both quiet for several minutes, still wrapped completely around the other. If he had just a touch less self-control, Garrus might have been content to drift off to sleep just like that. But the evening, while thoroughly enjoyable, had made a bit of a mess.

“We should clean up,” he said quietly, without moving.

“Yes,” came the eventual reply from the area below his chin.

“...We have to move to do that.”

“You move. I’m too fucked to move.”

That made him chuckle and he pulled away, rolling up to standing next to the bed. Shepard groaned and made a weak attempt to pull him back, hand flopping against the bed.

“Well if you can’t walk, let me carry you then, your magnificence, to the royal baths.”

She laughed as he lifted her from the bed and whisked her off to the bathroom. They both grunted as the bright light flipped on when they entered. But the steaming water from the shower soon soothed any sting.

Shepard eventually got down, but still stayed within his arms, very content to let him wash her hair and rub sore muscles. He felt much the same as she returned the favor, cleaning him with a dedicated care that quieted his mind.

“Is there anything like this?” she mused as she shut the water off.

Garrus reached for a towel. “Hm?”

“In the book. Do the General and Queen do anything like this?”

“Oh.” He wrapped the towel around her shoulders as he thought. “There is a scene in a hot spring that’s pretty famous.”

She smiled and wrung out her hair. “Mm. I like hot springs.”

“Me too.”

They fell into the quiet routine of sleep, the late hour finally catching up to both of them. Shepard didn’t speak again till she eased into the bed next to him, under freshly changed sheets.

“So what happens?” she asked as he looped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer. “In the book, how does it end?”

He stared at her for a long moment and then answered honestly, grimly. “She sacrifices herself for the good of her people. And though he carries on, he never loves another. How could he?”

Her warm expression dimmed. “That’s… disappointing.”

“That’s turian romance.”

She shook her head and adjusted her fit in his arms, tucking an ankle into his spur. “Let’s change it. She… goes to sacrifice herself for the good of the people. But… he gets there in the nick of time, like always. And together… they win. Go on to have many more adventures and found the new turian empire.”

He smiled and threaded a hand into her hair, eyes drifting shut. “Much better.”

taglist: @me-fish ; @seleenermparis-blog ; @kelenloth ; @ferociousqueak

#shakarian #garrus vakarian #female shepard #mass effect #shekarian #femshep x garrus #garrus romance #fanfic #my writing

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suspiciouslybluemilktea · 3 years

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Pairing: Unknown x CMC Uyu (hey 2 ‘U’s 💗)

This lil piece was written for @official-rfa ‘s request for some Unknown lap kissies, which I just had to do because that is already such a solid chunk of my brainrot

It’s still the 25th for me TT my time zone is just wacky and behind so I promise this addition is on time! I apologize for portions where my writing abilities fall through as it’s late and I’m falling asleep while writing jfjfjd

Unknown was the type of man Uyu could easily say she’d never let herself care for, let alone fall for, at least initially.

It wasn’t that she found his looks unappealing, being as gaunt and lacking in strength as he was, unlike the conventional standard most held for a man. It also wasn’t because of a lack of intelligence or his style of dress, nor was it necessarily about personality.

It was simply because he was nothing more than her kidnapper day one, which to those with sanity, does not equal the perfect spark for a new relationship.

Letting the ‘Stockholm syndrome’ take over took its time, but eventually it won that battle over her screaming consciousness.

To her, Unknown is undeniably dangerously attractive. He’s as alluring as the cheesy myth of a beautiful vampire: tempting. Tempting you to join him and leave your world far behind you to live in his paradise for all eternity. And well, with the way he lets himself live, he may as well be a member of the undead.

Those mint eyes are the secret to his trance, a shivery coolness washing over her second she feels them lurking. When they capture hers, that’s when she’s done for, swallowing what feels like her entire heart caught in her throat.

And that’s not even mentioning the touches.

Uyu knows he does it all more frequently now to have his fun provoking a reaction, feeling cocky enough to test her now that she won’t get violent and swat him away. It can be something as simple as brushing her hair away to expose one side of her neck, and then lightly putting his fingertips to it, tracing up and down.

His hands are always cold without fail, but when one simply does as much as caress her cheek, she knows her body temperature is the perfect contrast to his.

He has her caught right where he wants her, but in some ways, she’s got him too. She’s not blind to his reactions when her warm hands massage his aching shoulders or fiddle with his coarse hair, feeling him lean into the sensation and soon expect more doting. The secret to getting “back at him” is affection he doesn’t ask for, being quite obviously touch starved.

Unknown, who very much like herself was so closed off at first, has grown used to a new presence in the dismal work room. That tiny woman’s existence now fills up the silence which previously engulfed his; from the sounds of her breathing, to her nagging, to her lips casually brushing against his skin for a soft peck. He rationalizes that Uyu is useful to him like this, since she can’t code worth a darn and refuses to, she can at least keep him going. As annoying as his assistant can be, forcing him to break from his many duties, he’ll admit he feels less lethargic now, although never aloud.

He’s survived on so little everything for so long, it’s irritating that she can’t understand him from her point of view, being so much weaker than he is. Quite frankly, with how strong he’s become in the powerful position he holds, he lets her get away with too much.

Almost daily, he’ll catch himself wondering why he does so.

She’s allowed to be so close to him, touching him and speaking to him without the same terror held in the lusterless eyes of the believers. Perhaps this is where the biggest shake up in his life lies, fear seeming to be the only thing those around him are capable of, unlike her. They all equally tremble in wake of the bark and bite of the savior’s guard dog.

Even now, as his lovely assistant rests in his lap, melatonin pouring from within her hands hard at work on getting out the knots in his back; she touches him with comfort and familiarity.

Uyu earlier shifted positions to sort of awkwardly wrap around facing him, head down resting on him to keep from blocking his vision of the monitor. In response to this, Unknown untensed and slumped forwards with his chin on her small shoulder, snaking his arms past her to type.

Dan understands she’s doing a decent job acting as his masseuse, not because he verbally praises her, but instead because when she finds a good spot, she’ll earn a gentle grunt from him.

Her ‘boss’ isn’t much for words, but actions and reactions make his truths readable. That is how she knows he likes it when she sits with him in the dead of night like this, even if she nods off doing so, which she’s already beginning to do.

If she can just get him to relax a bit more, perhaps dragging him to bed won’t be a challenge today.

She picked up her head and arms slightly, fingers finding their way to the back of his head to tangle in his locks and pet him with a soothing rhythm. She spoke in a whisper by his ear.

“Come now, let’s get some rest.”

No response.

“Unknown…?”

Calling his “name” (which he still refused to tell her, thinking it was so cute that she’d refer to him by a silly unchanged username in the first place), earned a low grumble this time. He was actively ignoring her, as well as his need for rest, which just wouldn’t do.

If he wanted to play stubborn, so be it.

She moved in to bring herself down to his throat, this time calling for his attention in a hush he could warmly feel against his skin.

“Unknown..”

He shifted in his seat, but Uyu wouldn’t stop there. Next came a kiss to his sensitive skin, and then another, and another, trailing from his throat up to the side of his neck and back down momentarily to go over spots that made him shiver, including his collar bones.

She wasn’t stopping her game of testing and he wasn’t ending his silence, although he was stiffening up a lot. This man surely was damn headstrong.

“Unknown..”

The next brush of her lips came to his earlobe, then moving to string along his jawline, soft and delicate as butterfly wings fluttering on each part of his cool skin. This time she finally earned a flinch.

“Feeling a bit kissy now, are we?”

He pulled away a tad, ending the little contest by taking her cheeks in one hand with a small squish, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“If your goal is to wind me down or seduce me into falling asleep, it’s not working.”

He smirked witnessing the red tinge he brought to her face now giving her the time of day. Without fail, she could act confident until he stepped in to change that, and Unknown quite liked the feeling of control over situations it gave him.

“If this isn’t working, then what will?”

“Not teasing me, that’s for sure.”

She gave him a fake pout.

“So you’re telling me just go straight for the lips next time, then?”

“Next time?”

His gaze changed to linger on her lips as he released her cheeks.

“Correct the mistake now, doll. Then we’ll talk.”

And with that, Dan went red as a ripe strawberry on a sunny day, but no amount of stuttering and stammering would wipe away his smug look. Knowing her awkwardness, she’d just make a fool of herself trying to stay calm and collected.

With no room for arguments, she just captured his sugary tasting lips as he had asked within a pleasurable kiss, hoping the oxytocin would do the trick and knock him down a peg.

Their kiss was tender and long, him moving his hands down to hold her by the waist with her legs straddling him to his rolly office chair. He was the one to pull her in deeper, making it more intense as his round cheeks flushed up to his ears with a burning heat. It felt more natural to do now, their eyes both shut as they untensed and melted together. Uyu pressed into his chest to feel closer, winning an escaped muffled groan from him.

He felt tense at first, maybe not 100% expecting the collision to happen so immediately, solid before he warmed up like butter in a microwave. She too let out a soft “mm”, hands then working down his arms with a ticklish motion to fuss with the clasp of one of his spiked bracelets, removing it from his wrist. This made him pull away gently, catching his breath before speaking.

“And what are you doing now, princess?”

“Well you can’t sleep with that on, can you? It might poke you when you roll over in bed…and now that I’ve corrected my mishap, that’s exactly where I’m dragging you. You need to get some sleep.”

For now, Unknown will let his good little helper believe she’s in the clear for taunting him and pulling him away from his duties. For now.

#saeran choi #unknown saeran #Uyu #Dan Byeol #mystic messenger cmc #cmcs

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goldandlights · 4 years

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Some shameless size kink/body worship featuring THICC chubby Witchers and a hoplessly smitten Jaskier -also: baths. Because what kind of Witcher fanfic does not have a bathing scene?

mature - 2.6k - geraskier (established) + lambert and eskel (aka bard sandwich)

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Jaskier has barely settled into the blissfully hot water of Kaer Morhen’s mineral springs when the door to the large cavern bursts open to admit three sweaty Witchers returning from a good day’s work.

They don’t seem to notice the bathing bard at first, hastily tugging off their clothes and dropping them carelessly to the floor. It’s been terrible outside; stormy and dark with freezing rain and Eskel nearly falls over in his hurry to get rid of his soaked, mud-splattered boots. Naturally, Jaskier averts his eyes to give the men some privacy -or, hm, he makes a fair attempt of it.

For you see, Jaskier has spent the last few weeks in an acute state of deprivation.

Weeks he’s been surrounded by burly handsome men that lift man-sized tree trunks without breaking a sweat. Men that tussle like pups in the courtyard, casually showing off their fearsome strength and speed. Men that insist on being all gruff and mysterious yet become endearingly flustered when Jaskier returns their shyly interested gaze.

It’s maddening. Yet Jaskier hasn’t been able to explore the bubbling attraction between himself and Geralt’s brothers, hasn’t seen more than tantalising glimpses of bare skin even of the White Wolf himself, whose body he usually explores every other night.

They’ve all been just so dreadfully busy.

A year’s worth of storm damage has to be repaired before the first snows set in; trees have to be cut and brought in to make planks and struts, debris has to be cleared from the crumbling curtain walls and boulders broken apart for re-use as building material. It’s hard work, even for Witchers. And so, after the nightly rich supper, everyone has been falling straight into bed.

Jaskier is not exempt, of course. Vesemir has set him to care for Kaer Morhen’s livestock and gardens, collecting eggs, milking goats and bringing in the last, late harvest of beets and cauliflower.

So really, you must excuse the bard’s little indiscretion. How can he resist temptation when the pale skin of his lover beckons in his peripheral? He means to take just a little peek before Geralt slides into the water. A glimpse of the magnificent body that has been hidden from his sight for much too long.

Oh, Jaskier looks. Means to turn his focus back towards his soaps. But at the vision greeting him, he freezes, stares, and a bolt of arousal snaps down into his gut so strong he almost doubles over.

Sweet Melitele-

The last time he saw Geralt in the nude, the Witcher had looked pretty much as he always does shortly before winter; wiry and as lean as his coin purse. Jaskier is used to Geralt seesawing between sickly emaciation and healthy-but-still-stick-thin, only putting on a bit of weight when Jaskier insists on bolstering his rations. The sight of scarred skin stretched thin over protruding ribs is a painfully familiar one.

But good gods,now Geralt has filled out. Where you could once count the Witcher’s ribs, there is now nothing but a smooth expanse of skin, the plump, fatty tissue rolling and bunching generously when Geralt leans down to untie his boots. His normally trim waist has expanded too; gone are the strongly defined abs and the sharp cut of his hip bone, both replaced by full, supple mounds of flesh that threaten to spill over the hem of Geralt’s trousers with just another good meal or two.

Jaskier’s hands twitch reflexively with the need to touch, to grab, to sink his fingers into the inviting softness of his lover’s body. The bar of soap jumps out of his grip and Jaskier yelps, splashing and scrambling to contain the slippery object.

The noise finally draws the Witcher’s attention. When Jaskier looks back up, three pairs of cat-like eyes are watching him with varying degrees of amusement.

Jaskier stifles a whimper of distress at the view afforded to him.

It’s not just Geralt with whom the weeks in Kaer Morhen have agreed.

Jaskier had obviously noted the wolves' ravenous hunger during mealtimes -it was hard not to. And he had remarked to himself with a bit of sadness that this might be the only time in the year where they could stuff themselves without worrying about making ends meet should the next contract not pay well or at all. It certainly explained the overflowing stores of the keep, kept full like Vesemir was looking to house a whole army instead of just a few Witchers and the White Wolf’s pet bard.

Right now, staring at the evidence of Geralt, Eskel and Lambert’s enjoyment, their powerful bodies thick and soft with weeks worth of good food and hard work, Jaskier can feel no sadness at all.

No, the poor bard is downright dizzy with how fast his blood rushes south, prick stiffening in harsh, throbbing pulses that tear a breathless little moan from his throat. He knows Witchers can smell arousal, hopes that the mineral-rich water will somehow cover the spike of his pheromones. He can’t stop staring, is sure he’ll die if he takes his eyes off the tempting display of flesh.

There’s so much to see.

The broad set of Lambert’s shoulders catches Jaskier’s attention first, then the swell of his chest, bulging obscenely because Lambert is still caught in the process of shucking off his shirt. A trail of fire-red hair leads Jaskier’s eyes lower over a beautifully rounded stomach and he momentarily curses the continued presence of Lambert’s pants but thankfully Eskel had started undressing bottoms-first.

It’s not that the tight leather these men favor usually does much to hide their bodies, mind you, but the unrestricted view of the scarred Witcher’s massive, tree-trunk-like thighs still hits Jaskier hard

[read the rest on ao3]

thank you @buckybabyboyzzz for making me see the light about chubby!geralt, tagging @eclectic-garbage since this may be of interest to you :3

#geraskier #the witcher #jaskier/any witcher going = otp #jaskier x witchers #jaskier x lambert #bard sandwich #weight gain #size kink #my writing

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effodiantcorvi · 4 years

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Numerology and the Tarot.

—Tarot post 1.

——Using: The Antique Anatomy Tarot(Claire Goodchild).

Numerology is the study of the spiritual significance and symbolism of numbers.

This guide will give you an easy way to blend Tarot and Numerology and improve your Tarot reading skills.

TAROT AND NUMEROLOGY: KEEPING IT SIMPLE

The best way to learn the correspondences between Tarot and Numerology is to keep it simple and begin with the digits.

If it’s been a long time since math class or if math was never your favorite, recall that digits are the singular version of numbers. Dating back to ancient times, they were the numbers that could be counted on fingers, which also gives fingers that name.

Some consider them 1 through 10 but for our purposes here I will reduce the 10 to its digits, 1 and 0. So 0 through 9 are the digits we deal with first.

Rather than memorizing seventy-eight numerical combinations, right away we can see it is easier to deal with the meanings of the numbers 0 through 9.

0 – Beginnings, purity, innocence

1 – Manifestation, creativity, and attraction

2 – Balance, unity, polarity

3 – Abundance, fertility, expansion

4 – Structure, stability, sturdiness

5 – Shock wave, challenge, conflict

6 – Communication, harmony, mutual aid

7 – Stagnation, introspection, reflection

8 – Stability, protection, sturdiness

9 – Expansion, growth

Let’s start with Zero. In most versions of the Tarot, the Major Arcana begins with Zero, the Fool. If you understand the archetype of the Fool, then you understand the power of Zero.

But if you don’t that’s ok. Let’s reverse-engineer this interpretation. Zero is round, it forms a circle and thus represents totality and cycles. Yet it’s also empty and represents emptiness, openness, and nothingness.

Zero is the beginning. It is purity and innocence. It is defined by absence.

One is the individual. If you know it as the Magician, then you know it is the power of the mind, creativity, and attraction. Where does manifestation begin? It begins with One.

Being of One mind about a subject rather than divided. Singular focus. It is an individual act.

One is the starting point, the first number to be defined. It is the definition and formation given to open thought (Zero).

Two is balance. This is also symbolized by the number Two of the Major Arcana, the High Priestess. She balances the opposites: the intuitive and the rational, inner and outer, and the hidden and the revealed.

Two is also unity. It’s polarity, two ones trying to understand each other, like two people trying to figure each other out.

From a couple, from Two, comes expansion. We put our heads together and develop ideas or launch a business. A couple comes together and creates a baby.

From Two comes also the tension of polarity. This polarity is broken when a third factor is introduced. This is like a triangle creating stability because of the third point. So then we have Three.

Three is abundance, fertility, and expansion. Three is the Empress, who shows the fruits of the labor of Two.

With all these resources and abundance, family and progress you’ve generated, you now need boundaries and definition.

Three is like the wealth you’ve amassed from sharing your work by blending One and Two. Wealth needs to be put to good use. Who decides what to do with the wealth and abundance? Boundaries, structure, and protection are needed.

This is where Four comes in. Four is the Emperor. The guardian and overseer who delegates boundaries to keep things in order.

Four is another point of balance. Now, two two’s, four is able to create something stable. Four is a house where two was a plank of wood, held up at both ends. Four is a table. Four is sturdy.

Four is contentment. Four is also complacent. All the wealth in the bank, everything solid and protected, life gets a little flat.

Luckily, Five comes next. Five emerges on the scene and shakes the table Four was lazily resting on. Five is the shock wave, the challenge, the conflict.

Five is the Hierophant, challenging you to live up to your higher ideals and not just settle for basic creature comforts.

Five is also the number associated with the Pentacles which are an entire suit (more on this in a moment). Thus the number Five represents the four natural elements, Air, Fire, Water and Earth as well as Akasha, the Spirit element.

Five brings growth through disruption.

All of this disruption becomes chaotic. Six is the number of communication and harmony. The Lovers, bringing balance to each other’s lives, helping to settle the problems through mutual aid.

Six is also considered a mystical number. It is the combination of the Divine Feminine and Divine Masculine as explained in many theories and even mentioned in Dan Brown’s book The DaVinci Code.

In this book, the six-pointed star, also known as the Star of David, is explained as a combination of Feminine and Masculine principles.

The upright and inverted triangles together that create a six-pointed star represents this balance of masculine and feminine.

After the harmony and balance of the number Six, Seven awakes desire within us. It tells you that there is more to this life and tempts you to pursue a goal.

Seven in Tarot is also a number of stagnation and introspection. The Chariot asks “What do I need to change before I can move forward?”. Which direction should he go?

Therefore, before chasing your dreams, first, take time to venture deep into your subconscious mind and try to connect with your higher self.

Seven is also known as a lucky number and in some religions is associated with positive mystical experiences.

Eight is a number of infinity because of its shape. It is a number that reminds you that everything comes full circle. This is also depicted in the Strength tarot card by the infinity sign.

Eight is associated with abundance and expansion, stability, and securing your foundation. It is a number of harvest times and to some, the fall of the year.

Analyzing this number, we have the power of Two repeated Four times. So the power of unity and polarity, times Four, the power of stability, protection, and sturdiness.

Nine has great significance. With Nine things are almost perfect, almost complete. Nine is three Threes and thus has the magic and meaning of expansion and growth three times over.

The Hermit is numbered Nine. The Hermit brings us on a powerful journey to transformation from which we remember our inner power and advance spiritually and ideologically. The Hermit is not about loneliness, it is about the power of the individual to follow a unique path forward.

Then we arrive at Ten. What is Ten? The combination of One and Zero. The Fool and the Magician together but also the Wheel of Fortune. A reminder that anything is possible.

TAROT AND NUMEROLOGY: THE MAJOR ARCANA

As you can see from this outline, each single-digit has at least one Major Arcana card associated with it.

And here comes the good news: you can apply what you know about the single digits to all Major Arcana Tarot cards. So, there is no need to learn double-digit numerology.

There are a few ways to do this, but we will keep it simple. Just add together the digits, to interpret the single number of the card and its meaning.

Now consider the Devil. Traditionally, the images on the Lovers and Devil card correlate to each other, yet the Devil is considered the inverse of the Lovers. Interestingly, what is the number on the Devil card?

It is the number 15. Reduce this number and you have 1+5=6. Therefore you have a numerical link between the Lovers and the Devil. This illustrates that the Lovers and the Devil share a lesson.

When the Lovers lose balance, they become the Devil. They become addicted, obsessed, controlling, jealous, and codependent.

NEXT POST WILL BE ABOUT THE MINOR ARCANA!

Also, hello!! How’re you doing today? My name is Raven, I’m a 16 year old trans boy, and I’ve been practicing witchcraft for about five years now!

If you have any questions about something that I’ve posted; or something you’d like to see me post, send a message to me privately or ask in the ask box thingy!! I’ll answer your question(s) as soon as possible!!

Oh!! And, if you’re a beginner witch looking for some help; I’ll be more than happy to help you out!! I love helping people!

Have a wonderful day and stay safe!!

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darthspideys · 4 years

Text

antithesis // seven

din djarin x jedi! reader

summary: You expected to find another of yoda’s species, much less under the protection of a particularly stubborn mandalorian. Little do you know its that discovery that will change life as you know it, and put all three of you in danger you never saw coming.

words: ~2k

If you weren’t so in your own head, you probably would have kissed him. It feels right, you can see his face for the first time and the moonlight is drenching everything in a light glow, a breeze makes its way through the trees. It’s the kind of moment that a normal person would think is perfect , but you're too in your own head to make the most of it. You just stand there, staring, taking in every inch of his face until finally he says something.

“Tell me about your parents.”

You don’t shy away from the question for the first time. “My father never told me how they met, but I assume it was some chance meeting. They ran off together, lived on this tiny farm in the outer rim where no one would find them but she got unhappy, she missed her home, she missed her people. Instead of leaving him, she had me, and I kept her there for a while,” This is the part that you really don’t want to tell anyone, “She was never going to stay, it was only delaying the inevitable. They argued everyday before she left, I’d lay awake in bed listening to the shouting and I could feel the anger they both had, only she resented him for trapping her there. The next day she was gone, and that was it.”

He nods slowly, and takes a step towards you, “And you went to look for her.”

You laugh, but it's cold and hollow. You shake your head, wanting to push him away, “She tried to stage a rebellion against Vizsla and the Empire, it was early on in their rule and they needed Mandalore under their thumb. She died way before I could get to her.” You shrug. You feel responsible for a lot of things, for your father dying, for everyone who died under your command, for everyone who's gotten close to you and ended up in harm's way but your mother is the one person you have never felt responsible for.

“I want you,” You say suddenly, “But you don’t want me. You think you do, but you don’t. My birthright is losing love, and running and leaving. I can love someone but I can’t keep them, because I will always run. I can be with you the way you want me to be, the way that I want to be.” More than anything you just want to let out a long scream, “I am not enough for you.”

“You are everything to me,” He says, taking you aback. It seems to surprise him too.

You laugh, genuinely and loudly, “You met me three days go.”

His cheeks go pink, “You just said you loved me.”

“Love is one thing,” You say, stay smiling, “Being someone’s everything is a completely different story. I know I was going pretty fucking far into the whole trauma bodning confessional but I did not expect you to match me in intensity.” You say, “I’m not rational, if this is going to work you have to be the one who thinks about things.”

He rolls his eyes, “And now your back to admitting you want this to work.”

“Of course I want this to work.”

“You just said-”

“I just want you to know what you’re getting into.”

“Oh I am well aware-” And then he kisses you.

And all of a sudden you're kissing him back.

You’re just standing there, more vulnerable than you’ve been in a long time, kissing him and the world around you doesn’t change or anything. Both of you still have a lot of issues to sort out, and the empire is still looking for you but there’s something to be said for a kiss that doesn’t change a lot but means everything.

That night you sleep wrapped up in his arms.

He’s asleep faster than you even thought was possible. It’s like he’s been waiting for this moment for so long, and he’s ready to take full advantage. For you sleep is more elusive than that, but you're more than happy to see him so relaxed. The last couple of days have been hectic to say the least, and while you're used to that kind of constant motion you suspect that he stops and smells the roses every once and awhile.

You think about getting up and walking around, but you don’t want to risk waking anyone up. The problem is that you feel like you're just tempting fate by allowing yourself to settle down. By allowing yourself to sleep you're ignoring the fact that the empire remnant is still looking for you, that sith seems pretty intent on killing you and you still have no way to get in contact with Luke.

Even if you did, you didn’t know what you would say. Everything is so blurred now, you can’t even untangle what your mission is anymore. And maybe that’s why you can’t sleep, because now that you’ve settled down and thought about it you have no idea why you're even still here. You're in love with the Mandalorian, which is beyond any semblance of reason but that doesn’t make it any less true.

As you lay there and listen to his snores, you let your mind wander and think about how you could stay like this forever. It’s a new feeling, because you’ve never wanted to stick around one place for too long, after what happened. You’ve learned it's selfish to hold onto things, that you have to allow things to change as rapidly as they wanted to. Only you don’t want this to change, you want to hold onto this moment and somehow make it last forever.

The next morning you know exactly where you need to go to find the answer Din is looking for. “We need to go to Ilum.”

He narrows his eyes at you in the orange light of the sunrise, “That’s a wasteland, a cold barren wasteland.”

“Now it is,” You tell him, “But what it used to be was a sacred planet to the Jedi, the kyber crystals that power lightsabers are found primarily on Ilum or at least they used to be.”

“And you think that the empire left anything when they destroyed the place and all but took it off the map?”

You shrug, “I don’t know, Vader was evil but he was calculating he wouldn’t do something that wasn’t in his best interest. There could still be structures there, but even if there isn’t it’s still a place deeply connected to the force.”

“You think that’ll work?”

“Do you have a better idea?” You shoot back.

He presses a quick kiss to your lips and shakes his head.

“I’m always right,” You tease him. You stand up from the bed, and then fall right back into it dramatically with your arms and legs stretched out. “Fuck, now I have to tell Kes I’m fucking leaving.”

“I can tell you what not to do,” He smiles, “Whatever last night was.”

You narrow your eyes, “Really because-” You realize what he’s talking about, “Oh wait you mean our conversation last night not-” He laughs and then nods. “I was in a very emotional place right now, and the only other person I’ve ever admitted to having feelings for-” You wince, “-lives here.”

He looks at you for a long time, but says, “I figured.”

“You figured?”

“People don’t get that angry at each other unless they’re family or-”

“Well I appreciate you not saying that at all last night, not even hinting at it,” You say, “You and this whole keeping your observations to yourself thing will not work if we’re going to be partners.”

He smiles and you almost melt, “We’re partners?”

“I mean we have kicked ass together multiple times, and looked very attractive while doing it. Us not being partners would be a crime to the entire galaxy.”

He stands and gets out of the bed, then holds out his hand to you. “Come on, let’s do this.”

You sigh, “Seeing as I am the only one doing it I think that I shouldn’t.”

“Fine,” He says, “I’ll do it but you have to retrieve the kid.”

You roll out of the bed with a huff, “I’m getting up.” You pick up your clothes off the ground and pull them on, “I’m not going to touch that little fucking thing, I told you it creeps me out.”

“It’s a baby,” He says.

“I'm not even going to respond to that.”

You find Kes in the kitchen after Din takes the kids out into the yard.

“I’m a runner,” It catches him off guard as he stands in the middle of the kitchen. The sun has fully risen, bathing everything in the hot yellow light. When he turns to you, the sun illuminates his face. “I run from things,” You know where you're going but it doesn’t make it any easier to say, “I run when things get hard, I go away when there are things that I don’t want to do, I turn away when there is something I can’t face.”

He doesn’t move an inch, he just looks hurt, “I never thought that you would need to run from me.”

“It’s not you,” You tell him. “I didn’t want to face the fact that she’s dead, I still don’t. This is her life, and being here hurts because it reminds me of how much she wanted to be here to live it, how excited she was to finally be able to raise her son and be with you. This is hard, and so I ran.” You pause, “Now is the point where I’m going to say I’m sorry.”

A smile pulls at the edge of his lips, “You? Saying sorry? I don’t know if I believe it.” You both laugh. He leans against the counter, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

You take a breath, and smile a little. “I think I have.”

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x y/n #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin imagine #din djarin series #din djarin fanfic #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #star wars imagine #star wars series #antithesis series

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panlight · 4 years

Text

Epiphany (TWBD Pt 3)

The last two were pretty bleak, so here’s a more hopeful snippet from the Newborn Carlisle Cullen Experience. Or, well, it ends on a hopeful note, anyway!

Pt 1 and Pt 2

The irony of the situation was not lost on Carlisle, but he was in no mood to find it the least bit amusing.

He had acted to save his life, and because of that he found himself trying desperately to end it. If he had been thinking clearly, if the pain hadn't blocked out everything except basic survival instincts, he liked to think he would have known better. He would have realized why his father would have wanted to burn him, and he would have let him.

He tried it himself, but his attempts to produce a fire came to naught. The forest was too damp, the kindling too green. As desperate as he was to die, a part of him was relieved that he would not meet his end in flames after all.

He tried drowning, but he only emerged sopping wet, sputtering and coughing but not aching for air. He tried leaping from great heights, but always landed in an effortless crouch, utterly unharmed. He even tried a stake to the heart, but the wood shattered into splinters when he tried to push it through his chest. He didn't dare go back into the city for silver or garlic or holy water--he couldn't let himself near people, he couldn't be sure of what he would do--but he knew they would have been useless; they hadn't deterred the monster that did this to him.

If the demon had just killed him outright, if the monster had just finished what he started, Carlisle’s ashes would be resting beside his mother in his father’s churchyard and he would be at peace. He wondered bitterly what his father thought. He must have guessed what had happened to him when they didn't find his body and he never returned home. If only he had been more thorough in his research, if he had been more careful. At least three men were dead because of him, and the monsters were still on the loose--with one more amongst their unholy ranks.

It was the better part of a week before he realized he had not slept, could not sleep. The realization only increased his dread; with no periods of unconsciousness, he couldn't escape his horrific reality, not even in dreams. Ever alert, ever aware, ever thirsting.

When he closed his eyes, all he could see was the monster killing his companions. It was his most vivid human memory, and he clung to it as a reminder. A reminder that he needed to be better than that, to be stronger than that, to never let himself become that thing that killed without a second thought, without remorse. He would not allow himself to become like the creature that had condemned him.

Which is not to say that he did not want to hunt, to drink, to relieve the fiery thirst. He did, and the intensity of that monstrous urge, of that violent instinct, was the most terrifying part of the whole ordeal. It took every ounce of will-power he possessed to keep himself secluded in the forest, far away from the friends and family and innocent strangers his new nature demanded he kill. He saw it as a battle for his very soul; instinct vs. intellect, compulsion vs. compassion, hunger vs. humanity.

It was a battle he was determined to win.

And so, he resigned to starve himself to death. He didn't know if it were possible, but it seemed the only option left. He would endure the burning thirst until he wasted away to nothingness.

Days turned into weeks which turned into months and still he lived despite his desire to die. He grew weaker physically but also mentally; he could feel his resolve faltering. It was becoming harder to think clearly, rationally. To think of anything but the pain of the thirst and how to relieve it. He was terrified that some lost hunter or some unfortunate woodsman would chance across his path and he wouldn't be able to stop himself, that he would become the monster he hated and lose himself completely. Yet no matter how his throat burned, no matter how weak he became, he did not die. He sat motionless in a secluded cave, clutching his knees to his chest, his head bent in grief and prayer.

And then: a sound. A scent. His head jerked up.

There was no thought, only instinct. At last! It was so easy to overpower them; it felt so good to drink.

He dropped the last carcass and wiped the blood from his mouth.

Blood.

All over his face, all over his hands. Conscious, rational thought returned and he looked at his crimson-stained fingers in horror.

And then he looked at the carnage at his feet. Shock mixed with an almost joyful relief when he discovered that the victims of his frenzy hadn't been human after all; he had attacked a passing herd of deer.

He fell to his knees in thanks.

The craving had been very specific: humans, just humans. Nothing else appealed. And certainly the legends he had read and vaguely recalled through the haze of human memory had insisted the species to which he now belonged preyed exclusively on the blood of human beings. He had crossed paths with animals—they all ran from him in terror--since his transformation but their smell hadn't signaled 'food' like the scent of humans had. But he was so far gone, so desperate, his body so starved for sustenance that even the deer had smelled attractive to him that night.

And it was enough. Some burning lingered, but he felt. . . better. Stronger, certainly, and his mind had cleared. He felt like himself again, capable of rational thought and reason.

He was not a murderer. He was not a monster. Or, at least, he didn’t have to be. He was still Carlisle Cullen. And he still had a choice.

Perhaps if he could keep himself satiated with animals, as he had in his human life, he could keep himself strong enough to resist more tempting prey. Perhaps, one day, he could beat the temptation entirely. He could rejoin the world. He could walk amongst humans as if he were still one himself. He could go to the great universities and study the things his father had always forbade him from studying. He could contribute to the world; perhaps even make it better, somehow.

Suddenly the endless expanse of time that stretched before him seemed a just a little bit less like a curse, and just a little bit more like an opportunity.

#carlisle cullen #fanfic #tw: suicide #tw: suicide mention #tw: blood #i am so fascinated by newborn carlisle #when people are like 'oh he's so perfect and boring'#i'm like no no no he worked so hard to get to be boring!#it wasn't like a certain character who is hanging out with her human dad a day after waking up as a vampire #it was 200 years of torturous effort!#it was so many close calls!#it was grabbing the first little bit of hope and creating a whole new philosophy out of it #rather than wallowing in angst

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letaintedserpentine · 4 years

Text

ZADR WEEK: Possessive/Protective

Day 4!!!

Zim retracted the legs to his PAK, then tried to brush off the blood from his claws. “I will show you threatening, Dib-thing. I will show your world in ruins until you can no longer bear to look away at the power I hold.”

@zadrweek3 tyyy for hosting,,, omg halfway there!!! full fic below or on AO3

-----

It was easy enough to hate when given a reason.

But this?

This was just illogical.

Unlike the superior Irken skin, humans had walls of meat of decaying flesh- constantly changing cells per the second.

Zim should’ve expected that their bodies- so, very different from his, would be repulsive on another level too- they stink.

Overpoweringly so, a new, different, almost heavy scent- Zim knew from the very moment it reached his antenna that he disliked it.

Especially Dib’s.

Musky with such a sense of sharpness. One that he would become all too familiar with, as it would surround Zim’s senses during a fight.

It was a mystery how he still managed catch its scent even with how powerful the PAK worked with its filters-

And in this line of thinking, one would appear, one that he would later either deny or suppress, that perhaps the reason he was attuned to it was-

He never wanted it to be filtered out at all.

And maybe someday, that particular thought would burst, driving any other emotions to the ground while he tried to find some way to rationalize how his fatal attraction to his rival’s scent, was nothing but normal.

---

There was a particular type of triumph there, on being able to push his rival to his limits and yet still being on top, both figuratively and literally-

Zim enjoyed the way the human panted underneath him, breath heavy against the pavement.

Yet the battered, bruised and tired Dib, refused to admit defeat.

Hard, determined eyes faced upwards, searching for any weakness until he found a way to get the upper hand.

It was tantalizing, to say the least, to have all this focused intensity right under him, all the rage and animosity burning all for Zim.

Dib’s scent… so close… was clouding, intoxicating… but not nearly enough.

There had to be more of it, or maybe some way for Zim to experience it more often, or find the way to make the sensation fuel him better- Zim wondered if he could somehow taste Dib’s smell on his skin.

He watched his own slender tongue slither out, only moments away from contact, inching towards the sweet line of Dib’s neck-

Dib pushed him off.

No matter the exhaustion, Dib broke free of Zim’s grasp, breathing heavier than before, and for a different reason, too.

Zim watched red bloom in his face, leaving him wondering if he’d somehow crossed some line.

Dib left the room without so much of a barb, any quip, or threats to follow Zim if he ever tried to do something again- no, it was only quiet and lack of promises.

Zim was left staring, wondering, yearning, and not at all sure if he’d won.

---

Dib knew enough to be perceptive.

He knew Zim had been acting… weird. More so than usual. This was new.

After all, Zim had never been the type to be terrifying. Concerning, destructive, and a major nuisance, sure.

But it was a feat to be truly afraid of him, and Dib didn’t like it.

While it was in the nature of their relationship to fight every so often- with jeers and taunts, promises to bring the other down- it often came with a mutual understanding of it’s nothing personal, it’s just business.

Or at least, that’s what Dib believed.

Zim on top of him, pinning him down as he panted- that long tongue snaking his way down-

Dib had long been running away from that moment, not even facing his own mind. He didn’t know what to make of it, really. So he didn’t.

And maybe he’d gone a little overboard with not facing his confusion, general nervousness and uncertainty, because he’d begun to ignore Zim as well.

It was easy enough for him to handle; evading his gaze, not responding to his remarks- he was amazed at how he’d come to realize that he started most of their squabbles, and how tamer his life had been without them.

Zim learned quickly enough to adapt.

The alien glared at him when he thought Dib wasn’t looking, and had stopped trying to pick a fight with him as well.

And in the rare moments that Dib would take a moment to forget his resolution, he’d turn to Zim, too, as does habit, but oftentimes the glares and the scowls weren’t there. For a split second before the two remembered their places, Zim looked as if longing, and Dib got tempted to stop his silence.

But then Zim would again furrow his brow with all the intensity he could muster, and Dib would go back to pretending the alien doesn’t exist- and the cycle would continue again.

And yet even as Dib tried to suppress anything Zim related- the weird feeling that stirred inside him, one that wondered how long Zim’s tongue could be and how it would feel pressed up against him-

He couldn’t help but be aware of the alien’s presence, sitting only a few spaces from him in their high skool classroom, always a flash of green in his peripherals, as if they revolved around each other with their own special type of gravity.

Never far, never away, never without the other.

Dib knew this surreal standstill couldn’t last for longer. It was only a matter of time.

---

Zim cornered him, or maybe it was Dib that wanted to get caught, because at some point his glares became fiercer and piercing, and Dib knew he could never really stay away forever.

In either case, Dib fell right into the alien’s furious trap.

Pain blossomed in Dib’s cheeks, but Zim didn’t stop there. He slammed Dib down on the cold, white tiles of the skool floor, both thankful for the place was already deserted by then.

A scowl worked its way in Dib’s features, but he stared distinctly at the side, unwilling to face Zim still, even as his PAK legs kept him from rising, from moving, from defense.

“Dib-human! Do you finally fear me?”

Any plans to struggle fell flat as Zim spoke. Zim rarely felt the need to be quiet, much less.. cautious, which in turn made it all the more menacing to hear.

But it was the words itself that shook Dib out of his stupor, finally feeling awake after all this time. “You wish,” he mumbled, fully expecting a kick or some other pain.

It didn’t come.

“Have you given up on your heroics, then? You no longer wish to save the Earth?”

Dib felt a bit shamed. In truth, he’d barely thought of Zim’s plans for world conquest, because his mind had been pretty occupied thinking of… oh.

His skin flushed, and he kicked out, trying to get the alien out of his space. “What’s your deal!?”

“What is my deal? Mine?” Zim dug his claws into Dib’s shirt, prompting blood and a hiss of pain from the human. “This does not satisfy Zim! You forfeit and run away and refuse to look me in the eye, you’ve grown to be a useless arch rival, and it’s not like…”

A thought seized Zim as he beat down on the human, and his eyes narrowed in distaste. “Oh. I see.” The anger dissipated as easily as it arrived.

Coldly, Zim lifted his PAK legs off, making sure to draw another line of blood from Dib’s chest as he stood. “You no longer see Zim as the threat that he is. Or perhaps you’ve found that a better use of your time was fighting other lowly dirt children, suiting your pitiful rank.”

“You think I’m fighting someone else?!” Dib asked, only to have Zim stare at him without emotion.

Zim began to walk away.

Dib couldn’t let that happen.

“I never stopped looking, all right?!” He winced as the shout aggravated the cuts on his chest, but he ignored it for the meantime. “Even when I tried to think about anything else, it was always… just you.”

The thought of blood staining his clothes was making Dib nervous. He had to go.

Dib wasn’t sure if things could just go back to where they were before, but-

“See you tomorrow, Zim.” He grunted out, standing and wobbling a bit at his feet. “Make good on your promise. World ending crap. I’ll fight you.”

-he’ll just have to stop fighting change.

Zim sighed at him, long and forced, before walking over to steady him, his hand at his waist.

Dib flushed. It was awkward and he felt too messy, but he knew he couldn’t distance himself again. He leaned his body against Zim’s hold easily, their fight all but forgotten.

Zim offered no comment or explanations, but deep inside, he felt the same.

They have always been affixed to each other, whether friends or enemies, maybe it wouldn’t be a stretch to be something more than that.

#zadrweek3 #zadr #zadr week #mine #this is the fic that spawned the title #of my submission #aka i titled this zadr week thingy as fatal attraction #a bit suggestive

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rest-in-being · 4 years

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Sufi Psychology Part 3 - Sufis and Human Energy centres. 2) Latifat-al-Qalbi: (the Heart); This Latifa is located in the left of Chest and is dark yellow in colour, In this Latifa, a person views his deeds both good as well as evil. By awakening it a person acquires the knowledge of the realm of Jinns. In a Nutshell - (Nafs Al Lawwama - The Blaming Self); Light or Colour of Aura: Dark Yellow. Located: left of Chest - Liver and related to the digestive system. Soul: Ruh Nabati linked to Vegetable Soul. (see below) Traits: conscience, capacity for self-observation. Habits: backbiting, trickery, conceitedness, hypocrisy, self-consciousness, guilt, fearfulness, wishful thinking, intense desire to please others. Quran Ref: "And I swear by the reproachful soul!” (75:1-2) Healing Dhikr: is to Repeat Ya Allah - O The God. *Note -The Vegetable Soul: It is located in the liver and related to the digestive system. At this level transmission of energy and transmutation begins. Nourishment and growth is one of its functions. To have a healthy vegetable soul, we need healthy nourishment (at physical, emotional, intellectual and spiritual levels) Its Healing Remembrance or Dhikr is repeating the Name: Ya Allah (God). This is the self in its original state of birth into the world as Allah says, "By the One who brought the self to equilibrium inspiring it with its transgression and its consciousness." (91-7:8) This is the self that has been touched by Allah's Mercy so that when it commits a sin or falls into disobedience, it blames itself and turns to forgiveness and repents to its Sustainer. Then it holds on to obedience until it slips back into sin then it turns to forgiveness and repentance and so on. It has grasped what the Prophet (peace be upon him) said, "All humans are prone to sin and the best sinners are those who repent." It is a self that is in constant fluctuation between obedience and disobedience. One time it is heedless and falls and another it is aware and resists. This is the natural station which we start from at birth and from there we descend or ascend. Its sign is the fluctuation between the characteristics of the people of this world and the people of the next world. It is not in the same evil condition as the Commanding Self but the two desires of immortality and sovereignty are still active in it although in a much reduced or weakened condition. This is the first stage of salvation for the self and the first step toward its purification and success. The word Qalb, stands for heart. In Sufi terminology, this spiritual heart (not to be confused with corporeal organ) is again variously described. Some consider it to be the seat of pure vision. Others consider it the entrance of Ishq or Divine love. Some thinks that it is the battleground of two warring armies: Those of nafs (where nafs-i-natiqa/rational soul is equated with aql/intellect, the "better", rational part of the soul as opposed to animal/passionate ), and ruh/spirit, who will be the object of analysis in the next point. In short, cleansing of the Qalb or heart is a necessary spiritual discipline for salik (traveller) on the Sufi path. The term for this practice is Tazkiah-I-Qalb and the aim is the purging of everything that stands in the way of God’s love or Ishq-e-Khuda. Recitation of Kalima or the name of Allah/ Ya Allah is practised by the seekers To awaken this Latifa. When the name ‘Allah’ vibrates in the heart, an awareness of Right and Wrong, and wisdom follows. It is then called Qalb-e Salim. (the content Heart). Then the status of the meditation by Qalb changes its direction towards God; it is called Qalb-e Minib (the penitent Heart). This heart can prevent a person from mischief, but it cannot make a right judgement. When the theophanies (Tajalliyat) of God begin to fall on the Heart, it is called Qalb-e-shahid or the witnessing Heart. Qalb and Nafs form the "Rooh-e-haivani" (Animal Soul). This part of the soul has the record of every activity of life. 2. Nafsi Lawwama - ( Blaming Self or Self-accusing soul) This is the second step in the development of man, when man becomes aware of his actions, is able to differentiate right from wrong, and regrets his wrong doings. Yet he is not able to totally stop doing wrong because it is very difficult to break the habits of his previous state. He tries to follow the obligations of his religion and he prays, fasts, pays alms and tries to behave properly. But he wants to be known as a reformed person. He publicizes his piety, his good deeds, and expects appreciation from people. This makes his behavior hypocritical. Sometimes he realizes this, regrets it, and tries to change. Hypocrisy, a major sin, is the principal danger in this state. There are two other grave dangers as well: Arrogance and Anger. Every little attempt to be good, compared to the previous state, seems like a major achievement. So we think we are the best, and get angry with others who do not seem to respect us. Arrogance, lying to ourselves, hypocrisy, anger, and intolerance are the soldiers of the devil. At the level of Nafsi Lawwama we are (not safe from the devil), who injects his character of arrogance into our veins and whispers into our ear: “You are as good as your teachers now; not only do you know as much as they do, the way you behave is better. If they were able to apply what they teach in their own lives they wouldn’t be half what you are. You don’t need their preaching or their advice. Now let people see your wisdom and your deeds so that you will be an example to them.” Not only the whisperings of the devil, but all worldly life, is against the seeker at this stage. Certainly the world cannot lose its attractiveness for him; it calls to and tempts him. If the resolve of the seeker is weak, he will be afflicted with arrogance, not listen to good advice, and in fact, fight with the ones who wish for his well being, thinking they are belittling him and behaving in a superior manner. In anger, he may attempt to do much greater deeds than he is incapable of, and fail. Failure will further anger him. His mood will become dark, disappointed; he will think he took the wrong way, that he was better off before, and he may blame the ones who led him to this Path, falling back to his previous condition of being an animal in human shape. If he is warned at the beginning of the second step of Nafsi Lawwama of these dangers, and if he is intelligent enough not to release the hand which leads him, and if he follows the advice on how to fight the three enemies of hypocrisy, anger, and arrogance, he will pass this stage quickly. The longer one lingers in this transitory stage, the worse will be the trials. The cure for hypocrisy is to realize how the value of everything in the world, including the opinions of others, is temporal, inconstant and subjective, changing from minute to minute, from place to place, from person to person, and finally disappearing. Therefore, one should opt for that which is permanent, eternal, and powerful instead of something which may be here now and gone tomorrow. What fool lights a candle when the sun is out? Do not count on the respect and the praise of others, and do not fear them. For it is said, “Whoever praises you is your enemy because he is the ally of your enemy, and whoever points out what is wrong with you is the enemy of your enemy.” The cure for arrogance is to remember that your beginning came from a drop of semen from your father and an ovum in your mother’s belly, and that your end will be as a rotten corpse in the ground. Beauty, strength, intelligence, will soon dwindle and disappear. All your fortune, properties, reputation, and friends will be excluded when you are lowered alone into your tomb. Your prayers, piety and good deeds, if performed to impress others, will evaporate, and worse still, may turn against you. Realize that all you have, including your body and your very life, is not yours, but lent to you and entrusted to you by your Creator. Your actions are also His if they are good, and when they are bad, it is you who are tyrannizing yourself. Offer thanks for everything, and feel shame your wrongdoings; then you will be humble. The fall of the one who stands low is much less painful than the one who falls from high. The cure for anger is basically accomplished if you can cure your arrogance. It is the arrogant one who becomes angered by adversity, or even by lack of sufficient rewards which he thinks he is owed. The negative emotion of anger, when it flares up, is faster than the rational effort to suppress it. Once anger has caught fire it is difficult to extinguish. Like fire, it burns all that is human in us; compassion, love, gentleness, generosity, the ability to communicate, to think of consequences, and intelligence are all reduced to ashes. All that remains is a dangerous wounded wild animal. As a remedy to recall and remember our humanity, The Messenger of Allah (peace be upon him) suggests that when anger strikes, immediately you should change your posture. If you were standing, you should sit. If you were sitting you should fall to your knees. It is difficult to shout and curse in the most humble position of kneeling. Or you should lie on your back and pray: “Oh Lord, enrich me with knowledge, beautify me with kindness, give me the gift of piety and the fear and love of You and sanity and health, Amin” Or you should go and take ablution with cold water. If we could avoid these dangers, with Allah’s will and the guidance of our religion, and the help of our teacher, and our wish to advance, we might rise to the third level where we receives the Lord’s inspirations

#sufi psychology #3 #dear seeker #spiritual psychology

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depenacharm · 4 years

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Reflection (chapter 1 to 11) De Peña, Erniel Charm Ubas. BsEntrep

A persons self-concept is their understandin of who they are and what makes them unique. This can include the physical self and the social self, the competent self and the inner, or psychological self, meanwhile, a persons self-understanding is about knowing what motivates his or her actions. Understanding the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual, The main objective is to understand the meaning, importance and various factors related to self concept and self esteem.

Philosophical Perspective of the Self

Philosophy in " Greek Words" is "Philos" and "Sophia" (means: love and wisdom) study of acquiring knowledge through rational thinking and inquiries that involves in answering questions regarding the nature and existence of man and the world we live in.

•Socrates

-Happiness motivates us to act towards or avoid things that could have negative effects in our lives, he is the first martyr of educatio, knowledge and philosoph, for him, men's goal in life is to obtain happines.

•Plato

-Wrote several literature that that tackles politics, human nature, and established the idea of virtue and intelligence. According to him, a person who is a follower of truth and wisdom will not be tempted by vices and will always be correct, moral and ethical.

•St. Augustine

-Emphasized that we may not be able to give our agreement to everything other people tell us but we can still agree to those who we are from our own perception. We need to establish relationshi with God throug being virtuous.

•Rene Descartes

-Body and its perceptions cannot fully be trusted or can easily be deceived. We should focus on the mind in order to perceive as who we are or the essence of our existence because we cannot always trust our senses.

•John Locke

-The experiences and perceptions of a person is important in the establishment of who that person can become.

•David Hume

-There is no permanent self, because impressions of things are based from our experiences where we can create our ideas and knowledge. Self is accumulation of different impressions, and does not exceed the physical realm.

•Immanuel Kant

- Awareness of different emotions that we have, impressiona and behavior is only a part of ourself. We experience but still be alone to become aware of.

•Sigmund Freud

-Man has the different levels of conciousness that provides an idea how a person develops a sense of self. He believed We are a by-product of our experiences in the past and that are actions are driven by the idea of resisting or avoiding pain. And are molded from our need for being happy or pleasure.

•Gilbert Ryle

- Behavior that we show, emotions and actions are the reflection of our mind and as such is the manifestation of who we are.

•Paul Churchland

-Understanding the different neural pathways, how they work and what Implication are those movement to people is a measurable classification on ones behavior.

•Maurice Jean Jacques Merleau-Ponty

-Self-regarded that the body and mind are not separate entities but rather those two components is one and the same perception guides our action based from our experiences. One's actions, behavior and language used could be said to be the reflection of our united perception of the world.

•Aristotle

-Each individual has built-in patterns of development, which help it grow toward becoming a fully developed individual of its kind. Happiness depends upon ourselves.

Sociological Perspective: The self as a product of Society

-According to Gerry Lanuza, the self in the modern world societies is freely chosen, because of the demand of the different societies where social contexts or issues are also belong.In this chapter I learned that, it also talk about the freedom, opportunities and problem of the self. The self develops with the Social experience and within the environment. The self also develops with help of the people he/she communicate with.

An Anthropological Conceptualization of Self: The Self as Embedded in Culture.

Embedded means to enclose or in as if in a matrix. to make something an integral part and culture is a system of human behavior and thought. Referring to a complex whole which includes the following and other capabilities acquired by a man as a member of society like knowledge, belief, arts, morals, law and custom cultural differences exist when groups of people assign different meanings to different life events and things. It is concerned with how cultural and biological process interact to shape human experience.

Western and Eastern Concept of the Self

I learned that western philosophy, is based on self-dedication to be of service to others. Life is Service to God, money, community, and so on. Due to its christian influence, there has to be a beginning and end to find meaning. Eastern philosophy also thrives on virtues. this would be explained with the selfless approach to life. Meanwhile, Eastern philosophy is also more about the spiritual while, Western philosophy is more of a hands-on style. The difference is the “i” of the west, and “we” of the east, as one focuses on finding truth and meaning. both philosophies center on virtues.

Psychological Perspective of the Self

The psychology of self is the study of either the cognitive, conative or affective representation of ones identity or the subject of experience. Current views of the self in psychology position the self as playing an integral part in human motivation, cognition, affect and social identity. Self perspective is a collection of beliefs about oneself. Generally self-concept embodies the answer to “ who am I? “

The Physical Self

Physical ability includes concepts such as physical strength and endurance, while appearance refers to attractiveness physical self is the individuals perception of themselves in areas of physical ability and appearance. I learned in this chapter that body image is the perception that a person has of their physical self and the thoughts and feeling that result from that perception.These feelings can be positive, negative or both, and are influenced by individual and environmental factors.

The Sexual Self

I learned that sexual self-concept refers to the totality of oneself as a sexual being including positive and negative concepts and feelings. Love is defined as to show or have deep attraction, affection or emotional attachment to a person, people or thing. Social exchange theory is like asking someone out on a date if the person says yes, you have gained a reward and are likely to repeat the interaction by asking that person out again.

The Material Self

According to William James, material self pertains to the objects, places, or even people which have the label “mine”. I learned in this chapter that materialistic person, is excessively concerned with material possessions, money oriented, or is a person who is focus on objects, ownership and wealth. An example of someone materialistic is a friend who is focused on only buying/wearing brand new shoes. Materialism is the philosophy that everything can be explained in terms of matter or the idea that goods and wealth are the most important things, example of materialism is explaining love in terms of material thing.

Spiritual Self

Spiritual Self is the activity we engage in to find and nurture a sense of connection to a higher power and deeper meaning for our lives. I learned that Religion is connected with spirituality, we need religion to be moral to give us a sense of right and wrong, and help us to be good. It sets a standard for good behavior and punishes the bad.

Political Self

Aristotle define politics “ He who has the power to take part in the deliberative or judicial administration of any state is said by us to be a citizen of that state and speaking generally a state is a body of citizens sufficing for the purpose of life” I learned that we should care about politics, because the decisions people make will affect many lives. Politics are very important and very complicated.

Digital Self

Digital self, exploring the complications and conflicts that technology presents in personal and professional relationships. We all have digital self like emailing or chat rooms. I learned that we should manage digital self and ensuring that should aware what we published about ourselves online. Time we spend using digital technology could well be spent in other more creative and productive ways.

I learned in this lesson that is a process by which can grow my understanding of who am I and what my values are. It is a form of personal analysis that allows us to bring our life into alignment with what we wish it to be.

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the-lupine-sojourner · 5 years

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Chestnutfest 2k19 Prompt 2: Summer Festival/Height Swap

Why can I not get these done before midnight?! >.<

Ah well. For this one, I thought it might be fun to combine the two prompts. This probably doesn’t make sense, but, um, hope you like it!

Once again, this Krillan/18 fest is all thanks to @chestnutisland! Go show them love for setting this awesome event up! :)

And, again, Here is the Link to the post with more info on this event.

Okay now onto the story!

P.S: I wanna see if anyone can guess what I’m not-so-subtly hinting at with 18 here, okay? :)

God Bless and Good Day!

~The Lupine Sojourner

“Why are we here again?” Android 18 asks. She never knew Krillan to be the fair or festival type, but...here they were.

“Aw, c’mon honey.” Krillan urges. “We need a break, right? We’ve been training and working a lot lately. I think it’s about time we took a night off and had a little fun.” He explains. Android 18 smiles. She could agree that they needed a break, but a festival?

“Alright, but why this festival?”

“The farmer that’s been buying Goku’s crops set it up and runs it.” Krillan confesses. “So I thought we’d check it out.” 18 nods.

“Alright then.” They walk together, hand in hand. 18 looks down at their joined hands, smiling a little.

It was always a little odd, the height difference between them. Of course, neither of them would hold it against the other (aside from light teasing every once in a while), but they could see the stares they got, choosing to ignore them.

The festival grounds weren’t super crowded, but there were a decent amount of people wandering around. The aromas of the food stalls hit 18’s nose and she was surprisingly tempted to try some of the food. Normally, she wasn’t too keen on eating. Mainly because she didn’t need food. But recently her appetite was slowly increasing. More and more, she was wanting to eat. Which was a little odd.

So far, Krillan just took it as his wife simply wanting to try a few new foods.

But 18 was mystified. Why was her interest in food suddenly increasing? Regardless, she could wait a little while to eat. First, she’d see what Krillan wanted to do.

This was a martial arts and food festival, so there were big bough guys for overconfident husbands to attempt to defeat to show off to their wives and earn a bit of cash. Likely, Krillan would want to defeat a few of those burly men as a light exercise to work up a bit of an appetite. She walks with Krillan, eyeing some of the stalls selling cheap gis for higher prices than they were worth because this was a festival and people would buy them. The only problem was they were way too small.

Maybe if they ever had a child...18 smiles. The thought was also becoming ever so slowly more attractive to her. She envisioned a little child running around their house, laughing and running as Krillan attempted to tag her in a game as 18 made dinner.

When did she become such a domestic housewife?! Regardless… “Krillan, what do you think of this gi?” She asks. It was labeled as a ‘Dusty Rose’ color, suitable for a girl. Krillan stops, blinking.

“...It’s cute, honey, but way too small for you.” She almost gets angry, then remembers in the nick of time that he couldn’t read her thoughts and she hadn’t actually verbalized her subtly growing interest in having children.

So she smiles, moving to a more gender-neutral, orange-colored gi. “I was meaning...if we ever happen to have a child.” She mumbles. Now that she’d accidentally opened the door to the conversation on children, she may as well go all in. Krillan was stunned.

“Wait...you want a kid?!” He asks. She sighs, turning to face him fully.

“It’s just...something I was thinking about recently. What if we had a child?” Krillan’s head tilts.

“...Not to seem insensitive, but, uh...is that even possible for us?” She nods. Until now, she had been reluctant to discuss a lot of her past with Gero.

“Yes it is. All Dr. Gero did was remodel me and my brother to be superior warriors. I still have many of my internal organs, including...the reproductive ones.” Krillan blushes, and 18 feels a little uncomfortable. They hadn’t talked about this before, so they walk somewhere a little more private to continue the talk.

“I had no idea.” Krillan mumbles, fiddling with his fingers. She nods.

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t think it mattered.” Krillan laughs.

“Well, now I know, I think it’s a great idea! If you are really okay with it…” He deferred to her, and that was why she loved him so much. He was always making sure he got her input and respected it, discussing things with her rationally and as equals.

Android 18 nods. “I think I am.” They return to wandering, happy in the revelations they’d shared. 18 felt relieved she’d gotten it off her chest. She was still learning that it was okay to talk through her emotions with people who cared about her, and especially with her husband.

Krillan then noticed a particularly burly man challenging anyone for 1500 zenni. He turns to 18, smiling. “What d'ya think? Should I?” He asks, amused. She chuckles.

“Why not? Just don’t hurt him too bad.” She replies. A few people overheard and snickered.

“Oi, you won’t last ten seconds in that ring.” One bystander notes, laughing. Krillan scoffs.

“You know it’s rude not to look at the person you’re talking to.” he replies. “You should be facing my opponent.” The man starts in shock.

“You are a cocky lil’ one, ain’t yah?” Now his voice was testy, aggravated. Krillan smiles.

“No. I just know I’ll win.” With that, he squeezes his wife’s hand, strutting confidently into the ring. His opponent put on a show of getting ready, but Krillan couldn’t sense much of a power level at all. This wouldn’t last long at all.

“Let’s get this goin’, shall we?” The man snickers, getting into a stance.

Krillan smirks, hands in his pocket. “You can have the first move.” His opponent, fed up listening, charged, roaring mindlessly. Krillan sighs. Predictable. His eyes close for a second as his legs bend. Then his eyes open as he leaps out, sending him soaring up and toward his opponent. His foot slams into the man’s ample shoulder. He goes soaring into the poorly made fencing making up the ring, crashing through it and into a few unlucky bystanders. Krillan lands and jogs over to help the people up. “Sorry about that.” He says, smiling at the stunned onlookers. “Tried to hold back. Obviously, it didn’t work too well.” Everyone was stunned. The man who held the prize money was shaking as he handed Krillan the 1500 zenni. “Thank you.” Slipping it into his pocket, Krillan dips his head in respect before taking 18’s hand again and walking away. “That was kinda fun!” He chuckles.

18 smiles. “And we have extra cash.” Krillan nods. 18 was always worried about money, so it was nice to bring home some extra zenni when he could.

The next thing he stopped at was an adult gi stall, the fabric and manufacturing seeming of a higher quality.

He then spotted an orange one similar to his in what appeared to be 18’s size. He grins and pulls it off the rack. “Hey honey look at this! We could match!” He laughs at her expression. Part confusion and part ‘hell no’. “Aww c’mon! It’s just a joke.” 18 then surprises Krillan by walking over and taking it from him. She kisses his cheek (the secret to making him do whatever she said) and smiles.

“Want me to try it on?” She asks. He grins dopily at her and nods a few too many times.

“Yes please.” He replies, sounding incredibly dopey. She chuckles and walks over to a small changing area with a curtain for privacy. She slips in and Krillan comes out of his trance when he sees stilts a little ways off in a different stall, with built-in shoes to make using them easier. He grins.

This should be fun. Running over and pulling out the money for it (more than he knew he should pay for stilts, but hey a prank was a prank) and purchasing them eagerly. He slips them on easily and clumsily walks back over to where he’d left 18, conveniently just as she walks out of the changing room.

“What do you thi--uh...what are you doing?” she asks, more than a little surprised at the sudden change in height before she notices the stilts. Krillan laughs.

“Saw these and thought ‘what better way to get to your eye level’, but, um, I didn’t judge the boost very well and here we are.” He now stood as tall over her as she stood over him normally. She smiles, cranking her head back to smile up at him.

“Please tell me you didn’t pay money for those.” His nervous laugh was all the answer she needed. She shakes her head amusedly at her husband’s antics.

Sometimes he could be so...unusual. He did and said things sometimes that didn’t appear to make sense, but also made her laugh, which she supposed was the entire point. “Well, enjoy it while it lasts, honey. Those are coming off when we leave.” Krillan nods.

“That’s probably as long as I can stand them.” He replies, leaning down to kiss her. “Love you.” She smiles, cupping his cheek in her hand.

“Love you, too.”

#chestnutfest 2k19 #chestnutfest #fanfiction #KrillanXAndroid 18 #Krillan #Android 18 #Height Swap #Summer Festival #I had fun with this one #And as a bonus I took the time to proofread this time! XD #Hope y'all like it!

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ruminativerabbi · 4 years

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Seventy-Five Years In

I was very moved last Monday to take note of the seventy-fifty anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz by the Red Army in 1945. As all my readers must surely know by now, the Shoah is the backdrop against which I’ve lived out both my professional and spiritual lives for as long as I can remember. And although I could make some sort of semi-rational argument for not feeling personally involved to that degree—my own people, after all, came to these shores long before the First World War—that is not at all how things have played out. Nor is it at all difficult for me to explain why the Shoah looms so large in my thinking: surely no one who professes belief in a just, caring, God can just wave Auschwitz away as a mere aberration in a millennia-long narrative featuring God as the ever-watchful Guardian of Israel who neither slumbereth nor sleepeth. That thought, of course, comes directly from the Bible—from the 121st psalm, to be exact—and has been recited by so many rabbis (including myself) at so many funerals so as almost to sound more like a truism to be embraced than a challenge to be faced. And yet that is precisely not how it works—or has ever worked—for me: in those few words lies the weight that has been pressing down my shoulders from above for my entire adult life.

The summer after I defended my doctoral dissertation but before I began work in earnest on preparing my thesis for publication, I attempted to write a book of post-Holocaust theology. In retrospect, it feels like just so much youthful hubris to have allowed myself blithely to wander into a maze which even rabbis scores of years older than myself had failed successfully to negotiate. On the other hand, surely one of the great gifts of youth is the willingness to run a race merely because it exists and wholly without reference to other people’s successes or failures at running it! Nor was this just a gauntlet I wanted to take up as a way of measuring myself against others, but rather a real challenge that I needed to address for my own internal reasons and not simply to see if I could do better than others in addressing them.

As I’ve mentioned before in this space, the Jewish communities of my great-grandparents’ towns in Poland and Belarus were totally annihilated during the war, the only survivors at all being not “real” survivors at all but merely people like my great-grandparents and grandparents who left decades earlier. So perhaps it was that detail—combined, I admit, with the seminal experience of surreptitiously reading Ilya Ehrenburg and Vasily Grossman’s The Black Book of Soviet Jewry: The Ruthless Murder of Jews by German-Fascist Invaders Throughout the Temporarily-Occupied Regions of the Soviet Union and in the German Nazi Death Camps Established on Occupied Polish Soil During the War 1941–1945 as a boy of eleven or twelve, the single experience that, at least in retrospect, I think probably affected my adolescence more profoundly than any other—it was the contemplation of the fate of the Jews our “our” towns in Europe that created the context for me to feel called personally to attempt to create a plausible version of Jewish theology that specifically led through, not around, the gates of the camps.

I cast around for a long time trying to find a way in. I read all the standard books of post-Shoah theology and found most of them all to be wanting in some specific way. (And some I found wanting in every way.) The best of them, I noted, were predicated on the supposition that the Holocaust was basically a cosmic riddle in need of a solution. If God knew about Auschwitz as people were being murdered there in such unimaginable numbers, then either it either was or was not beyond the scope of divine power to save them. If it was within the scope of God’s might to save them, then either they were not saved for a real, cogent reason or they were left unrescued for no particular reason at all. But because both of the above apodoses—the “then” clauses—are fully inconsonant with traditional Jewish belief, most of the authors I read ended up proposing that the Jewish people in the post-war era simply make their peace with living on the horns of the terrible dilemma that requires supposing either that God could have saved the millions but didn’t (which effectively negates the notion of divine mercy enduring forever), or that God would have saved the millions but couldn’t (which negates the notion of divine omnipotence), or that God would have saved the millions and could have but was simply unaware that they needed saving (which effectively denies the notion of divine omniscience). There was, I admit, a certain wistful cogency to this line of reasoning. But the thought that Jews in the post-Shoah era are condemned by their own history—by our own history—to live forever balanced on the horns of an unresolvable dilemma did not sound like something I could imagine myself teaching others or, to speak frankly, embracing as my own theological stance either.

I needed to take a different tack, therefore, one that would sidestep the Shoah-as-a-cosmic-puzzle motif entirely. For a while, I considered my options. And then, when I felt I had no real choice but to rise to my own challenge, I began to write about the Shoah as the shadow cast on the earth by the demonic realm.

When most moderns think about demons, they think about Halloween-style imps with pitchforks and devilish horns. But that is just the paper-thin veneer that somehow manages to obscure millennia of speculation about a demonic realm and the dangers too close proximity to its boundaries can pose to unwary travelers. It’s hard to think of another area of Jewish culture that has more totally been forgotten, however. The ignoramus who wrote that “Judaism does not have a demonology, or any set of doctrines about demons” in the Wikipedia article on demonology, for example, could not possibly have been more wrong. But he or she is in good company!

The Bible is full of demons who function as evil spirits sent from on high to tempt, to seduce, or to test the moral mettle of uncareful mortals. Some of their names are almost well known, while others are obscure. But Mavet, Lilith, Reshef, Azazel, and Dever—among many other unnamed sheidim of various sorts—are a real part of ancient Israelite heritage. The Talmud is even more full of demons and malevolent sprites, but it is in kabbalistic literature that Jewish demonology reaches its fullest flower: entire works, some many hundreds of pages long, were composed to describe the world of demons, to speculate regarding the relationship of King Samael and Queen Lilith, and to muse about the plausible ways the demonic realm exists as the dark edge of all existence, as the shadow cast by life itself on the living, as the living embodiment of the evil inclination and the almost irresistible will to behave sinfully to which all but the greatest tzaddikim occasionally succumb. (Readers interested in learning more can profitably consult Joshua Trachtenberg’s Jewish Magic and Superstition, published in 1934 but still in print and still very readable and useful.)

So that was the vineyard in which I chose to labor. It allowed me to avoid the theology-as-unresolvable-paradox trap and instead to imagine the Nazi hordes as an army of unholy demons in the thrall of King Samael, as the embodiment not of German imperialist chauvinism or even of German anti-Semitism but of the dark forces of evil that only the moral force of those committed to the service of God can keep at bay…and that even so occasionally overwhelm their opponents just as the sea occasionally rises up over beach and sea wall to wreak havoc on those unfortunates who live too close to the sea always to escape its wrath. I imagined the Einsatzgruppen that travelled across Ukraine and other parts of Nazi-occupied Eastern Europe with the sole mission of murdering the entire Jewish population in whatever town or village they found traces of Jewish life—I imagined the members of those killing squads not as men or even as beasts, but as part of a demonic horde that exists in the first place to destroy any who serve God and who promulgate God’s word in the world.

I worked for almost a year on that book and eventually finished it. But I never published it, never felt confident enough to show it around to publishers or, even, to too many colleagues or friends. Eventually, I took one chapter, the one about King Samael, and published it in the margins of the Sabbath and Festivals volume of Siddur Tzur Yisrael. But I abandoned the rest of the project, uncertain of my own conclusions and yet unable seriously to come up with an alternate explanation of how men and women who in their “regular” lives were bakers, schoolteachers, and letter carriers could suddenly turn into the kind of people who could shoot babies in their mothers’ arms, who could murder entire villages of people, who could display a level of cold-hearted cruelty that cannot even be referenced as “bestial” since it is impossible to imagine actual animals displaying that level of callous brutality and heartless malice towards each other.

As I read about the symposium in Jerusalem that attracted so many international personalities and then about the parallel commemoration last week in Poland at Auschwitz itself, and I read the stories of survivors and their descendants in article after article on-line and in print—I was brought back to that project. I called the book then The Dark Lamp, a phrase used in the Zohar to denote energy that exists to obscure rather than to illuminate, to cast shadows rather than light. I even re-read a few chapters, curious to see how my prose would stand up after all these years. I haven’t ever shared the details of that project with anyone before. I’m not even sure that I’m doing the right thing by sharing them now. But I find myself more sure than ever that I was right, that the sole way to keep faith with traditional Jewish beliefs without feeling obliged to look away from the details surrounding the Nazi war against the Jews is to seek refuge in the realm of the demonic and to cultivate the sense that it surely must be as important to note that the forces of evil were eventually beaten back and defeated as it is that they surged forth in the first place, briefly—and unimaginably tragically—overwhelming the barriers erected in the first place to protect the world from their fury, from their rage. Should I publish my book now? I suppose I might! (But maybe not.)

#Auschwitz #Jewish demonology #Red Army #Shoah #Holocaust

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sodalitefully · 4 years

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This is the result of me being a slut for demon AUs, and also for Slash’s ridiculously pretty face. I wasn’t planning to write this 'cause uh it’s definitely got similarities to some of my other ideas and also because I’m not really satisfied with the characterization, but it wouldn’t leave me alone so here it is:

Summary: Slash is a pretty lil incubus who escapes from Hell. He gets roughed up a little on the way out, and Duff finds him lost and hurt on the street in LA. He helps Slash, takes him home, cleans him up, and hears him out. Duff lets Slash stay the night, and he can already tell that he’s going to let Slash stay as long as he wants. Slash latches on to Duff immediately, he’s convinced that Duff is the kindest, most beautiful being that could possibly exist and he absolutely adores him. Duff is crushing hard on Slash, but he can’t fathom why Slash likes him so much, he’s not pretty or exceptional while Slash is stunningly, inhumanly gorgeous. But Duff is compassionate as hell, and he does his best to ease Slash into life in the mortal plane.

Duff finds Slash on his way home from work on a Friday night, Slash looks completely lost and he’s bleeding a little and he’s not completely dressed. Everyone else is avoiding him in case he’s tripping or crazy or something, but Duff goes up to him cause he seems to be dressed like a rocker (no shirt or shoes, just tight leather pants and some jewelry) so like, solidarity from one wasted rocker to another.

Duff goes up to him, notices that he’s like, insanely hot but decides not to say anything about it, and asks if he’s lost or something. Slash shies away and eyes him suspiciously, he’s not used to people freely offering help. But then something comes running at them from down the street, at first Duff thinks it’s a dog but as it gets closer it’s obviously not a dog, not any kind of animal he recognizes, so he kicks it as hard as he can into a wall and it vanishes on impact in a puff of sour smelling smoke. That’s fucking weird so Duff looks around to see if anyone else saw that, but the people around them don’t seem to notice anything unusual. Instead, Duff spots a pack of four more creatures coming towards them. Slash sees them too, and he changes his mind about trusting Duff – he looks up at him and tugs on his arm, “Please help me!”

So Duff basically scoops Slash up (he’s way too skinny) and sprints for his car around the block. He throws Slash in the passenger seat and guns it. “What the fuck are those things?!” (classic action movie line). Slash explains that they’re hellhounds, vermin of the underworld, they followed him here. There’s a lot to unpack there, but Duff starts with the most important question: “Are they going to keep coming after us?” “Well, they can’t pass between planes on their own, so either we lose them or we get rid of them.” “How do we get – Oh shit!” The hellhounds are suddenly right in front of the car, half a block away. “Just hit them! They’ll re-spawn in Hell and they won’t be able to get back!” So Duff braces himself and drives straight through the pack, they disintegrate just like the first one did.

“Holy fucking shit. Was that all of them?” Slash affirms, and Duff pulls off the road next to a sketchy little park that’s mostly empty at this time in the evening. He and Slash get out of the car, and Duff is on the verge of panic, nearly yelling as he questions Slash about what the fuck just happened. He stops dead when he realizes that Slash looks scared (all big eyes and quivering pout and hugging himself defensively and damn if it doesn’t yank Duff’s heartstrings more than any sad puppy ever has), and immediately backtracks, apologizing and asking more gently for Slash to explain what happened.

So Slash does, he introduces himself and explains that the hounds won’t come back, they followed him here when he escaped from Hell. Slash is a demon and they spend a few minutes establishing this fact (he probably proves it by demonstrating that he can shapeshift). Duff asks if there’s a chance that more will come after him, Slash says he doubts it, he’s a little embarrassed as he admits he’s just an incubus, there’s a million others like him, no one will come looking now that he’s gone. Duff has a hard time imaging that anyone else like Slash exists in the world. He asks why Slash escaped and Slash explains that Hell is the worst, he just gets kicked around by more powerful demons (who treat low-level incubi like funny little pets because they’re not very powerful and they look mostly like humans instead of like terrifying demons) and sent off to seduce humans (he’s sick of it: shifting into their ideal, tempting them with whatever sick fantasies they have and then basically drugging them with his demonic power of irresistibility; it’s all-around terrible sex really, they act like they’re in a trance and he doesn’t get any say in what they do). It occurs to Duff eventually that Slash is basically telling him he had a demon pimp.

“So... you’re not going to try to steal my soul or something?” “I don’t make deals, just tempt people. And I don’t want to do that anymore, I don’t… I don’t really like hurting people.” He whispers the last bit like it’s some terrible secret. “It’s so violent in Hell, I just want to be left alone…"

“What are you going to do now that you’re on Earth?” Duff asks. He knows where he’s going with this, and he knows it’s a bad idea – inviting a demon into his own home?? It’s a recipe for disaster, but Slash seems so sincere and Duff rationalizes that he should be fine as long as he doesn’t ask for or agree to any sex. Easier said than done, because Slash is the most stunning being that Duff has ever encountered in his life and just being around him scrambles his mind a little.

But Slash looks so lost and uncertain when he admits that he doesn’t know much about the mortal plane and he has nowhere to go, and he lights up with a combination of relief and genuine shock and awe when Duff offers to take him home with him.

So they get back in the car and drive home, where Duff runs Slash a bath, helps clean up the blood and soot (sure, Slash could probably handle it himself but Duff is firmly in mother hen mode), gives him some comfortable clothes to wear (seeing Slash wearing his softest t-shirt and a pair of tiny shorts is almost too much for Duff) and something warm to eat (as an immortal demon, Slash has never eaten real food before and frankly it’s life-changing – this tastes so much better than dick. He might cry. Duff now understands why he’s so thin).

When it’s time to go to bed, Slash is uncertain. He’s been in people’s beds before, though he’s never actually slept in one. In Hell he had a little place to sleep but nothing like the homes that humans have. Duff offers Slash the options of the bed and the couch. Slash cautiously clarifies that Duff doesn’t want to have sex with him? “Oh no, I couldn’t.” Slash looks confused and a little uncomfortable. “I mean, of course I think you’re attractive, shit you’re the most beautiful – Uh, but you said earlier that you didn’t want to do that anymore, I would never ask you to. I didn’t offer to help because I wanted something in return.”

Slash stares at him. “Duff, you must have the kindest soul in this realm.” Duff tries to deflect (of course he doesn’t have the kindest soul that’s ridiculous, all he did was offer a little help, anyone could have), but Slash just looks at him affectionately. “And the prettiest face. I might be done with seduction, but with you, I wouldn’t mind.” Duff can’t even comprehend that Slash of all people could find him beautiful with his scars and his terrible dye job and all the other things he’s secretly insecure about. Instead he focuses on the last thing Slash said, “I wouldn’t mind” isn’t exactly an enthusiastic come on so Duff will stand by his vow not to fuck Slash.

Duff helps Slash make a little nest of blankets on the couch and then they both go to bed. In the morning, Duff wakes up first, so he tries to very quietly put together breakfast without waking Slash in the tiny apartment. They spend the rest of the weekend trying to acclimate Slash to living with mortals – it’s quite a learning curve. Slash needs lots of help with things, but Duff doesn’t mind at all, and by the time Monday comes around, he feels confident that Slash can mind himself in the apartment for a while when Duff is at work. Slash is very impressed that Duff has a job and earns money, but he’s also a little nervous to be alone – he wakes up early to send Duff off with a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and Duff is entirely distracted through his whole shift.

When Duff gets home, Slash announces that he missed him, then starts excitedly telling Duff about his day: It was so quiet, he’s never experienced that before! There were animals on the TV for a while before it changed to people talking about things! He looked out the window for two hours and at one point he saw a man drop his sandwich across the street and it reminded him of Hell!

Over the course of that week, Slash has no trouble keeping himself entertained when Duff is out. He systematically attacks Duff’s music collection, takes up guitar, starts writing down notes about humanity in a little notebook (Duff finds it open one day, and reads a couple hilariously endearing entries). He also discovers porn, and is immediately obsessed with it. So many ways to have sex, and he gets to choose what to watch or look at whenever he wants! Duff soon learns that Slash has very diverse and somewhat unusual tastes in erotica.

But when Duff comes home, all of Slash’s attention is on him. He loves to tell Duff about his day, and is completely engrossed in whatever Duff has to say in return. He continues to candidly compliment Duff, usually something along the lines of being extremely kind and intelligent and beautiful, and Duff continues to deflect cover up his insecurity. Slash is completely open about his adoration of Duff, but Duff can’t even begin to accept it, so he just pretends it doesn’t exist. Meanwhile Duff is at least a bit in love with Slash but still convinced that he’s not ever going to do anything about it.

Eventually, Duff’s friends are wondering why they haven’t seem him for almost a week. Duff brings Slash along to the bar and introduces him to Axl, Izzy, and Steven. The guys all give Duff a look when they meet Slash – How did one of us ever manage to land someone like that? Slash gets along well with Duff’s friends; he’s still working on the whole acting-like-a-human thing and they can tell when his behavior is a little off, but they trust Duff’s judgement so they try to be welcoming.

Duff, however, is not having a good time. Sure, it’s nice to see Slash doing so well, but all of the insecurities he’s been repressing over the past week are resurfacing all at once. Just standing next to Slash in public is stressing him out, he can’t stop imagining that everyone around them is judging him, thinking that Slash is way out of his league. He’s certain he wouldn’t mind so much if he wasn’t so helplessly gone for Slash – now he’s also worried that Slash will realize that there’s plenty of people in the world who are way better than Duff.

Duff excuses himself to the restroom, and a minute later Axl follows and corners him by the sinks. “Where the everliving fuck did you find this kid? And why the fuck are you just sitting there like a stiff corpse when he’s all over you??” Axl has always been a confidant for him, so Duff starts to explain how he’s been feeling over the past week, leaving out the bit about demons and hellhounds. “Duff, you dumb fuck, it’s obvious to anyone with two working brain cells that Slash thinks you’re God. Enough of this you-don’t-deserve-it bullshit, just make your move!"

They return to the table, where the rest have paid off their tabs and gotten ready to move on to the next bar of the night. “Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Duff says, ostensibly to the group but mostly to Slash. Then, with his heart pounding and palms sweating, he leans in to give Slash a completely casual peck on the cheek.

Slash lights up like the sun and immediately latches on to Duff’s arm and leans his head on his shoulder. He doesn’t let go for even a second as they hit the next bar, and the one after that, and then finally head home and curl up together on the couch.

(holy shit that was way longer than I thought it would be. tagging @fan-with-issues. have a good night folks.)

#the idea was distracting me so i had no choice but to sit down and regurgitate it #possibly the most i've ever written in one sitting tbh #slash #saul hudson #duff mckagan #sluff #gnr #guns n roses #sodafics

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moonbelt · 6 years

Text

strange hearts | 01

↳ hanahaki disease au | college au | reverse friends-with-benefits au

⇢ pairing: chanyeol | reader

⇢ genre: angst + sexual themes

⇢ word count: 4.977

⇢ description: maybe it was futile from the beginning to try and distance love from hate, hooking up from falling in love, but you didn’t know this. but you can’t say didn’t care... not with the dire explosions setting off in your chest.

If there is anything you hated more than losers, it is losers that have no idea when to quit.

And mind, you are not a sore loser — you just like to pride himself on your ability to know when to give up. However, you do hate losing, and if there was anything you hated more than losing, it's losing to Park Chanyeol; the worst person, in your opinion as a non-sore-loser, to lose to.

You push the keg back and will yourself to drain the contents faster than Chanyeol ever could.

Now, you are not that much a firm participant in religion but, at times like this, you find yourself pleading with a higher power for aide because you absolutely do not want to see the smug smirk that would — most definitely — be on Chanyeol’s face if he won. He won't, not if you can help it, but it’s the principle of the thing. There are a lot of things you do not acknowledge in your vocabulary. Losing to Chanyeol is one of them.

"Come on, __!" Your friend-in-arms, Baekhyun, yells over the bass pump of the music. "It’s just a few measly ounces, you can do it!"

In another life, you would have accepted Baekhyun’s somewhat half-assed encouragement with a grain of salt, but in this situation, it takes all of you — which really isn’t a lot — to not spit the beer back up on his face. You shot him an incredulous look from the corners of your eyes. It is not a few measly ounces. Your nose is dying because of the amount of fizz pressure you have been in-taking and your throat is one second away from gargling. However, you cannot lose to Chanyeol, not again.

And yes, you will admit. You hate beer and it will never be your drink of choice. You’d rather much have this competition with any other form of alcohol. Heck, even fucking whiskey. But Chanyeol decided on the match and by association, you aren’t going to whimper out now. You made the decision to attend this stupid house party that one of, admittedly few, mutual friends were hosting, and you’d rather fake an arm injury than lose to him.

Chanyeol had suggested the challenge and although you quite vehemently hate beer, you couldn't find it within yourself to decline. Chanyeol has the uncanny ability to bring out the worst competitive streak in you. You know this.

And that is why you are here now, a small table separating the two of you from each other, chugging back the keg of beer like your life depends on it. Through the prickling of tears in your eyes, you see as Chanyeol tips the container back, even more, to drain the last of the liquid contents that he would need to win.

You force your mouth open more and hope your lungs wouldn't choke on it. You are the one that accepted this farce of a competition and you would be damned if you humiliate yourself in front of everyone in attendance. Although you’ll be honest, there is not really anyone in this party that you are afraid of embarrassing himself in front of.

Jongdae, the host of this party and also by happenstance one of Chanyeol’s closest friends, chortles out. "Looks like we're about to have our winner!"

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

Tears are threatening to fall down your face, and it is taking all of you to not restrict your airways and cut the intake of the drink to your throat because you can. not. breathe. Before you realize it, you drag the edge of the keg away from your lips and collapse to the floor, spurting out coughs incessantly. Shit, you’ve gone and lost. There is still a considerable amount of liquid left in the container if the spots in your blurry vision aren’t failing you.

By the sheer volume of cheers and clapping, anyone would think someone just got crowned a Guinness World Record holder or something. No, it’s just a dumb beer drinking king. And the title has been stripped away from your lungs and handed on a bronze platter to Chanyeol. Fuck.

Baekhyun was by your side in an instant, frantically pounding your back as he tries to stop you from choking on liquid-air and coughing out in distress. "You almost had him, you know. But it's not like it matters anyway, it's a stupid challenge."

Yeah, it is stupid. But that's not how Chanyeol is going to see it. Nope. You know better than anyone else that he is going to rub it in your face as another title that he has which you lack. You look down to your shirt and see the large brown stain that has started to form on the top and center of your shirt. Ah, you are beginning to regret coming out.

Come out, Baekhyun had said, it’d be fun!

You groan as you stand up and excuse yourself from everyone to use the bathroom. You make extra sure to not make any form of eye contact with Chanyeol because who knows the kind of shit he’s planning. You don’t think you can handle that all-knowing smirk that would be gracing his cute face.

Wait, cute? You are definitely drunker than you think. You only ever think these thoughts when you are inebriated. Now, you really are regretting leaving the comfort of your apartment.

You’re tempted to chuck your shoe at him and give him a black eye or something; you have pretty stellar aim if you do say so yourself. Not that it would do much damage anyways. Chanyeol has been working out. You noticed. With biceps like the ones he has, plus his semi-good hand-eye coordination, he could flick the shoe—

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stop thinking about the biceps, goddammit, you reprimand yourself.

The bathroom is somewhere at the back of the house and it takes a while to get there. People keep giving you a snide look like they’re laughing at you. You bite the inside of your cheek to restrain yourself from flinging colorful words their way. You absolutely despise losers that don't know when to quit. Sadly, you happen to be that idiot-loser in this case and it grates on your nerves. If only your lungs had more firepower, maybe then you wouldn't be a sore loser. Ugh.

The bathroom is empty, which is luck in and of itself. But for a second, you entice the idea of saying “screw it,” and walking around with the stain on your shirt as a badge of honor. However, you feel the beginnings of a sticky night, courtesy of the horrendous splatter on your chest, and decide against it.

It’s when you’ve doused a hand-towel in water and squeezed out the excess that someone else knocks on the door of the bathroom. You sigh to himself in mild annoyance. "Someone's in here."

"Yeah, I know," the person outside scoffs. "Open up."

You’ll recognize that voice even if you were six feet under. The voice that has been plaguing your mind with no end for too long a time. The source of your pain in the last few weeks. An infestation that has blossomed deep in your bones when you thought it not possible.

"Excuse you? I'm not opening the door for the resident manwhore on campus. Keep your whoring ways away from me,” You deadpan.

Chanyeol does not find offense in your words. Maybe he should, but he's heard them as often as the wind blows around campus. It’s his unasked title. He snorts to himself a little before he tests the bathroom door's handle. Once he finds out that it is — in fact — unlocked, he jacks the thing open and for a minute, you swear he could've broken the damned thing. What with his huge biceps and all.

You stare at him through the mirror, wondering for the nth time why the one person you can't stand has to have a face like that. One chiseled out of wet dreams and soft nights. Weird combination but he makes it work.

"Are you sure about that?" Chanyeol asks, but despite his question, you can see the thrill of excitement thrumming in his eyes. He loves this. This push and pull relationship you have going on with him.

"It's not right to try and hook up with someone you just defeated," you roll your eyes, dragging the damp towel cloth against the top of your shirt in an effort to rid the stain out.

"Sore loser."

You are not that much of a vulgar person, but Chanyeol brings out the different shades of you, however many shadows of grey they may be. "Fuck you."

He grins, and it makes his already attractive face prettier. "Wouldn’t you like to do that."

You and Chanyeol have a strange relationship. Well, as weird as it can be to have your supposed arch-rival perpetually suggesting to have mindless, supposedly no-strings-attached one night stands every chance he got. You suppose it’s no longer a “one-night stand” with the number of times you have enabled it to happen, but one kissing dare led to another. You learned that neither of you have self-control. Which is why you have this win-or-lose deal going on with him. It's a stupid arrangement and maybe the two of you just lack the brain cells to decipher that. But you decided that for every pseudo-competition that you lose in, you will do whatever Chanyeol asked… within reason of course.

The same goes for Chanyeol. Although, you seem to be losing way more than him these days. You swear that Chanyeol keeps choosing the particular stuff that you suck at and like a fool, you keep trying to prove yourself to him. For what? You don’t know. At this point, you are too far gone to care. The only way you can rationalize hooking up with him is by these competitions. Otherwise, you swear you will run mad.

You did not plan on doing anything with him tonight though, especially not now that you’re in a sour mood. It’s throwing you off.

"What are you doing here?" You ask as Chanyeol shuts the door and locks it for good measure.

Usually, Jongdae’s bathroom door never quite locks properly and you haven’t attended his parties long enough to deduct the specific way to get it to do your bidding. Figures that Chanyeol has that nailed down already. Perfect McPerfect, this guy.

"Are you mad that I won?"

"No."

"Your eyebrows tend to spaz when you lie."

You drop the damp towel into the sink and huff out an exasperated breath. You shouldn't be angry over something so insignificant as a beer drinking contest and you are not mad. You know you aren’t. Okay, maybe you are… a little bit. A tiny bit. Very minuscule. Barely even there.

You shake your head to try and remove the befuddled thoughts, sighing into your chest. "What do you want?"

"You?" Chanyeol pushes away from the door and in the too-small bathroom, it doesn’t take much to reach you. You try to act like his words don’t affect you, but the increasing rate of how hard and loud your heart is pounding says otherwise.

Scoffing, you raise a slightly wet hand to keep Chanyeol at arms breadth, but it does nothing to deter Chanyeol. Your hand lands almost softly against his chest and you manage to string out your next words. "That doesn't work on me, you know this."

Chanyeol nods his head, undeterred. "Still."

“I thought you started dating someone last week? What was their name, again? Madeline?”

“You’re keeping tabs on me?” Chanyeol’s eyebrows raise infinitely higher, flying close to his hairline in shock.

You don’t answer, instead, you dragged your hand away from his body. Close contact with Chanyeol is always bad because it makes your insides heat up. Like an inferno that you can't douse out no matter how many times you drink water. You know this because you have tried.

Picking up the discarded towel, you go back to scrubbing at your chest. You want Chanyeol gone. These past few months, with Chanyeol sticking to you like glue, but not actually wanting you, has been royally screwing with your head. You know Chanyeol doesn’t want much from you. He wants a warm body. Perhaps he just wants someone else to fuck other than the numerous amounts of people that fall into his lap at his every whim. And you are fine with that. Or at least, you thought you were. Until the flowers started.

Chanyeol isn’t going to leave, so you need to take matters into your own hands. “Look, I know we decided on this sexual favor thing, but you have a girlfriend and I don’t want to be a cheater by association—”

“I’m not dating Madeline.”

You grunt.

“Okay, okay!” Chanyeol lifts his arms in surrender. “We hooked up a few times but that was it. I swear. Did Baekhyun tell you this? I bet he did. But that’s beside the point—”

“What is the point?” You halt your movements and stare at him. “Is there even a point?”

The smirk on Chanyeol’s lips falters a bit before slipping off completely. “You’re angry at me. More than usual. It’s weird.”

“I’m drunk.”

Your chest is beginning to hurt. You can feel it, the steady building of pressure. The first night it happened, you thought you were being delusional, but it was impossible to continue thinking that way when you’d woken up alone on the bathroom floor and the torn flower petals had still been there. Painting the floor and serving as a physical proof that your body was going through something that you did not understand. The process is draining and leaves you woozy and in constant pain. Like a perpetual hangover.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Chanyeol closes his eyes for a moment. “I’ll talk to you later then? When you’re… less angry at me?”

“I’m not angry at you.”

“You seem like it. But that’s whatever. You’re not in the mood, I respect that. But if you want us to cancel this thing we have, you’re going to have to say it.”

This thing, whatever it was, is the only saving grace you have. Over the past months in which your feelings began to blossom bigger than you could handle, pretending to hate Chanyeol became your only solace. It was the only thing that was normal. You had never in a billion years thought that you would be in this situation. Falling for someone that so clearly didn’t want it. Chanyeol is nice, you would give him that, but he doesn’t want a relationship. Least of all one with you. He’s proclaimed time and time again how relationships just aren’t for him. In all the years that you’ve known him, he’s never dated anyone. Not even once. There was a time that you genuinely believed that you could be the anomaly in Chanyeol’s dating ways. But now, you aren’t sure if you ever even stood a chance.

You lick your lower lip. “It’s okay,” you lie.

Chanyeol places a hand on your shoulder and a flash of adrenaline zips through your veins as his deft hands squeeze your shoulder. God, how you want to run your hands through his hair. Push him against the wall and kiss him so bad; he would have no idea what hit him. But the repercussions of spending a night with Chanyeol is always that your bed feels so much colder when he is gone.

You sucked in a breath that is intensified in the quiet bathroom. After a beat, you turn your gaze upwards, praying for strength that you’re pretty sure you do not have. Your eyes connect through the mirror, and your body coils with wanting. Despite Chanyeol’s willingness to leave you alone, there is nothing permissive about the way he is looking at you. Deep brown eyes glinting with the promise of fulfilling everything you desire and more but not enough. You clear your throat and drop your gaze. Chanyeol’s hand on your shoulder is burning through the fabric and searing your skin. Being around Chanyeol in close proximity keeps the flowers at bay but it does nothing for the suffocation you feel in your heart.

Chanyeol waits for a second, perhaps wondering if you would change your mind, and then he is gone. Out the bathroom door and back into the party. You wait for the door to shut.

You collapse onto the counter, your heart beating a million pumps a second. The feeling is coming. It’s wreaking havoc in your stomach and burning up everything in its path. You cough once and the splatter of blood that shows up on your palm should be alarming, but you’re used to it. You cough again and the overwhelming scent of deeply intoxicating aromas and the sensation of flowers flattening your insides prompts you to open your mouth wider, but the flowers just keep coming. They tear at the edges of your mouth, scratching every available area as they projectile out.

Your mind is dizzy. Alcohol and vomiting come hand in hand, yes, so you should be used to this feeling, but you can never get used to this. You bend over the toilet seat, closing your eyes as tight as they would go as you cough and spurt out frazzled forms of purple hyacinths. They mar the white marble countertop and then spill onto the floor as your frame crumples to the ground.

You hate this feeling of regret. Just as the beautiful flowers are ripping up your insides, the regret is also tearing you apart. Perhaps if you were more strong-willed you wouldn’t have fallen for someone that wasn’t in your safe bubble. The saddest part, at least to you, is that the torn-up shreds of the hyacinths are indeed beautiful. Terribly so. Any other day and in any other situation, you’d be glad to receive them. But not now. Not like this. Not with it growing in your chest.

Your mind flitters back to Chanyeol. To how no matter how much he wants your body, that’s all he would ever want. Maybe that’s why you have resigned yourself to this game of pretending to hate him with every fiber of your being. You take one look at the flowers splattered around you. Even in your teary-eyed state, you know that you are not doing a good job of extracting your feelings for Chanyeol out of the equation. And it is killing you.

You rest your head on the edge of the toilet seat to gather your bearings. This isn’t as bad as the one you had a few days ago. Conveniently after Baekhyun had told you that Chanyeol was seeing someone, although now it has been proven false at the time you didn’t know that. The second Baekhyun had left your apartment your chest had exploded. The flowers visit in erratic and bloody bursts, you’re not sure what exactly sets them off. Maybe there’s a switch you just haven’t found yet.

Someone knocks on the door, more forcefully than when Chanyeol did it and yells. “Are you taking a fucking shit?”

You can barely think straight let alone give them an answer, but you push yourself up on your feet. Your body feels like molten jelly and your bones are swimming. Ripping a section of toilet paper, you begin the process of meticulously wiping traces of your disarray. Your throat hurts, it feels like you’ve consumed hundreds of sandpapers and it hurts to swallow but you can't let anyone see this.

You’re not sure if other people have gone through what you are going through. You googled a few keywords and got a few answers but you’re not sure how accurate the answers are. After all, this thing your experiencing is something that should have caused a national panic, right? So why was every article acting like this was a part of life that everyone had so kindly left out during life orientation? Unless it didn’t happen to everyone and you’re just one of the few anomalies. You flush down the last of the flower petals. The sink is wiped off every trace of blood and flowery monstrosity that you produced. You twist the faucet and wash your hands under cold water before you wash your mouth.

One in, one out. You take three measly breaths to calm yourself. You can't go back out there looking very much like the train wreck you feel. Tonight is supposed to be fun. You’re not going to ruin Jongdae’s party and you’re not going to make Baekhyun worried about you. You look at yourself in the mirror and stretch a smile onto your lips. It looks weird, strained. But it will have to do, you don’t have the energy to conjure up something better.

Once you get out of the bathroom, the guy that has been waiting outside shoots you a gnarly sneer. What-fucking-ever, you want to say, but you bite your tongue and walk past him. Finding Baekhyun is easy, his laughter is loud and high-pitched. You follow the sound until you reach the front of the house, exactly where you left him before. Only he is more, way more, drunk than before. You’ve sobered up considerably, which is good because it’s always a bad idea when the two of you are drunk together. And by the looks of it, you’re going to have to heave Baekhyun back to his apartment. Ugh.

“You’re back!” Baekhyun’s voice is loud and he abandons his attention from the Uno game he’s playing and focuses on you, albeit blurry. “What took you so long?”

It hurts to talk but you force your mouth open anyway. “Remind me to never drink beer again.”

“Remind yourself to stop agreeing to Chanyeol’s competitions. He wins… one hundred and forty percent of the time.”

“That’s untrue.”

Baekhyun furrows his eyebrows at you. He is a cohesive drunk; can have fluid conversations for hours while inebriated but won’t remember jack shit in the morning. “Tell that to the stain on your shirt.”

You look down. “Fuck.”

The stain is marginally reduced but there’s a huge wet spot replacing the sticky liquid. Either way, it draws more attention to you than you wanted. You hadn’t thought this far ahead, clearly.

“Oh, wait,” Baekhyun blurts before he plays his card. “Don’t you have a midterm tomorrow? I promised we’d only be here for a few hours… We should go, right?”

It’s obvious that Baekhyun really doesn’t want to leave this party. Not now when he just passed the fine line of being drunk. He’d dragged you out in an attempt to ease your nerves. Also, he might have lied that he was taking you to a late-night study session at the library. And he was right, this party has eased your nerves about the exam. But in its stead, it instilled the fear of something else.

You shake your head at Baekhyun. “Nah, you stay. You can get ride back with one of your other friends.”

“Really?” He looks up at you with stars in his eyes. Yeah, he’s a goner.

“Yeah. Text me when you get home.”

“Same goes for you.”

You don’t need to be told twice, you want out of this party. Forget the fact that you have a midterm in a few hours. You don’t want to run into Chanyeol again today. You’re not sure the flowers nesting in your body will be able to take it. And for your sanity, you don’t want to test out that hypothesis.

You’re late.

Ten minutes late, your wristwatch kindly lets you know as you stand outside the gray double doors that lead to the lecture hall. Fuck, you knew you shouldn’t have gone to the party. Better yet, you shouldn’t have allowed Baekhyun to persuade you. Now, you’re late and have a raging headache to boot. Fantastic, really.

You push open the doors as silently as you can and hope your breathing doesn’t disturb anyone. The whole room is filled, and you watch, sadly, as the girl occupying your unassigned assigned seat listens with rapt attention to what your professor is saying. Fuck. Your eyes scan around looking for a seat to slink into and then your eyes slither unto him.

He is staring at you and he is smiling like he expected this. Probably did. And the killing part? There’s an empty seat next to him. As if from some alternate reality he predicted you’d be late. When you don’t move, he waves his arms in front of him. Perhaps he thinks you have yet to notice him, but you have noticed him, you just can't sit next to him. But do you have any other options? No.

Chanyeol uses a finger to point at the empty seat, he does the motion repeatedly. He’s really trying to get your attention and not only yours but everybody in the bloody lecture hall as well. You swallow your fears and start moving to where he is.

You’ve never had to sit down next to Chanyeol in class before. Sure, you’ve always known he was in the same class as you but you never talked to him in it. He had never made a point of talking to you in class before either. You don’t know where this change is coming from and you’re at a profound loss on whether you like it or not.

His body is swallowed by a black hoodie and his hair lands in poufy bouffant waves across his forehead. You wonder how he’s functioning at high maintenance after drinking that much beer last night, but you don’t ask. Instead, you slide into the seat next to him and pull your backpack into your lap.

“I saved you a seat,” he says once you’ve settled.

“I see that.” You nod your head a little. “May I ask why?”

“Why?” Chanyeol scrunches up his nose like he didn’t ever think about that. “No reason. You’re usually early to class so the fact that I came before you was a red flag. Also, Baekhyun might have warned me that you had a killer hangover.”

You scoff, your hangover was nothing compared to what Baekhyun was currently nursing. “And who’s fault is that?”

Chanyeol twists the edge of his lips into a wry smile like maybe he’s regretting saving you a seat. And although sitting next to him isn’t your first priority, you have manners.

“Thank you… for the seat.”

He shrugs, happy with your show of gratitude. “No problem.” After a moment, he adds. “Good luck.”

You nod but don’t say anything back to him. You’re not even sure what exactly to say. You’ve met Chanyeol at parties, in libraries, at your apartment, at his, but never in class. Class was barricaded zone that you never crossed paths on. The professor has started moving row by row to hand the exam sheet, you pull out your pencil and bite your lip in anticipation.

You are not going to fail this class. You studied for weeks for this particular test and one night out is not going to forfeit all your hard-worked cramming. You take a deep breath but perhaps you underestimated how close you are to Chanyeol because all that floods your mind is his scent. It’s painfully distinct; vanilla and cinnamon wrapped into one. You’d asked him one night when you’d stayed over at his place what shampoo he used, he refused to tell you. You found out then that Chanyeol likes himself distinct, it’s his MO.

Oh no, here you are barely five minutes into the process of taking your midterm and all your mind can latch onto and think about is him.

You stare at the big whiteboard in front of you. More than ever, the sense of you being irrevocably displaced is settling into your bones. Your main goal is to not fail this Psychology class, but you might be failing at something else. Something larger. Bigger than your whole-body mass in gold, its weighing on your heart and constricting your airways. You struggle to wheeze in a breath. This isn’t what you expected when you woke up this morning.

“Are you free after this?”

“What?” You stutter out, your eyes squinting at his question.

“Are you,” he slows down. “F r e e? After the exam, I mean.”

“Why?”

Chanyeol’s seat is the first on the row and so, the professor hands him the bundle of sheets to pass on. He takes his copy and puts it on his desk. As Chanyeol places the rest of the papers in your awaiting hands, however, he stalls and waits for the professor to walk a good distance away before he answers.

“I realized yesterday that you genuinely think I just want to fuck you.”

“Oh my God,” you whisper, horrified. A girl in the row in front of you whips her head back and shoots you a steely glare. You raise your hands confused all the same as her. WHAT in the world is Chanyeol talking about? Especially right now.

You are more shocked than humanly necessary, but you manage to pass the rest of the sheets to the person next to you, not taking your eyes off Chanyeol and trying your damn hardest to decipher what the heck is happening.

Chanyeol clears his throat, acting as if you didn’t say anything to interrupt him. “And I will like to change that.”

“How?” You ask, not sure if you want to hear his answer or get on with the test. Neither of the options seem like good bets to you at the moment.

“__,” he sighs your name exasperatedly as if there is something you are clearly not getting. “I would like to be your friend.”

a/n; i knowwww i said i would never again do a series after whiplash but ..... im a goner lmaoo. i hope you love this and i hope i was able to properly write something that you liked >.< so pleasee tell me what you think about this!

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