#he's so ascetic <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[bumblingbabooshka]

Archery Science Professor at the Vulcan Institute of Defensive Arts [Patreon | Commissions]

[kebiday]

of course ppl have no obligation to care about characters they don't like... & fandom is about doing what you want and having fun... & it's inevitable for fanon to simplify the cast into little cardboard cutouts...

but i Do wish that ppl who pour a lot of love & effort into analyzing + developing the relationships of + having empathy for the circumstances of the main characters would extend more than a fraction of that to other characters. like my favorite girl kevin day 🐈‍⬛

[harrygoeswest]

Secret Santa

At your yearly Secret Santa draw at work, you draw Harry's name.

Terms and conditions (TWs): a lot bit sweet and a little bit spicy. Penetration not included.

Word Count: 7,999

A/N: Hello hellooooo. Look at me posting a Christmas fic on the 1st December! I've been feeling very Christmassy this year so if I can get my shit together there will hopefully be another, totally unrelated, one in a couple of weeks time. Love you all, and thank you for always coming back when I decide to post something <3

~~~

“Alright, everyone gather ‘round.”

I look up over the top of my cubicle to the common area. Charles, the office manager, is standing on the coffee table—that is unlikely to hold his weight for much longer—with a plastic bowl in hand and a cheap Santa hat on his big bald head. It’s not even the end of November yet.

And yes, we do have to call him Charles. Not Charlie, because ‘adding one extra syllable is stupid and unnecessary for a nickname’.

“It’s that time of year,” he says, grinning like a buffoon.

Trying to shove down my sigh, I push away from my desk and wander around the other cubicles to where the rest of the team is congregating by Charles.

“Are we all here?” he asks impatiently.

We’re not a very big office—ten of us total, including our illustrious leader, and a supervisor.

Looking around, it seems the supervisor himself is the only one missing.

Izzy, my partner in crime in this corporate hellhole, nudges my hip with her own from beside me. I bump her back.

“Are we doing secret Santa?” she asks.

“Certainly looks like it,” I mumble, and start picking at my nails.

“Why are we only nine,” Charles muses, doing another head count. “Oh—Harry! Come on!”

“Sorry!” Harry, the missing supervisor, calls back from some hidden place in the office. 

“Time is money, mate!”

I rub a hand down my face, failing to hide my weariness.

A second later, a lanky frame hurries to join the group, wearing form-fitting pressed grey trousers and a black cable knit jumper. Something is different about him where he stands a head above the rest of us. Something I’m trying to hide my shock at.

“Oh my God, Harry—,” Izzy blurts, “where’s your hair?!”

The group titters with laughter at Izzy’s shrill horror. Even I let out a snort.

Indeed, Harry’s once voluminous curls have been shorn to a neat buzz cut. Annoyingly, while I never would have pegged him as a sexy bald, he wears it well. What I’m struggling with is why he’d choose to do it in winter.

“I’ve made a hairshirt out of it,” he deadpans.

From the practical cricket noises following his declaration, I’ll assume no one in our office knows what the fuck a hairshirt is.

hair shirt

in American English

NOUN

1. a garment of coarse haircloth, worn next to the skin as a penance by ascetics and penitents

2. self-imposed punishment, suffering, sacrifice, or penance

“It’s now hanging pride of place in my lounge.” Charles grins. “Anyway, we’re doing secret Santa for our Christmas meal this year, which is on the fifteenth of December. Times are tight, I know,” spoken like a man who has never known what it’s like to be clawing his way to payday to make ends meet, “so the cap is a tenner. It’s just a bit of fun, alright? Let’s go.”

He holds the bowl out, and one by one we pluck out a folded scrap of paper. I’m not last, which means there’s still a selection of three by the time I get there. I pick one at random, sure to hate whoever I get.

I know I won’t be lucky enough to draw Izzy again like I did last year, but I suppose as long as I don’t get Charles, I’ll be satisfied.

HARRY

Motherfucker.

I’ve already started moving back to my desk so I can’t feign innocence and try and swap the name. The second-worst name I could’ve drawn—that of the supervisor. And a more-than-occasional object of my affection.

Is it inappropriate to have a crush on your supervisor? Not really. I’m sure lots of women fancy their seniors in the workplace. I’m all for women in senior positions, but there is something inherently attractive about men in power—not including Donald Trump. Ew. Add to the fact that said man is already hot shit and (I’m talking about Harry again), well, it’s a lost cause. Never mind the fact that we were both asked to interview for the supervisor role when the last one left and I turned it down.

Harry and I used to be cubicle neighbours who shared coffee breaks and threw scrunched-up notes to one another over the wall. Once we had a cat GIF email chain going that spanned 134 emails over twelve days. Now he sits at the other side of the floor in a private office where the door is always closed and we don’t make coffee for each other anymore. We definitely don’t send endless cat GIFs to one another.

I add the slip of paper with his name on it between a document I’ve finished with, and stick the whole thing in the shredder.

~

Later that afternoon, around three o’clock—when I hit a motivational wall and have to take a walk around the office for a change of scenery—I’m standing at the photocopier scanning an abhorrent amount of paper. I really wish the people who worked here could learn to be a little greener.

“So, who’d you get?”

I look up from my scanning to find Harry leaning over the printer, looking boyish and handsome all at the same time. There’s a delighted little gleam in his pretty green eyes, and I have to wonder when I last saw him looking so… mischievous.

“Wouldn’t telling you defeat the entire purpose of a secret Santa?” I retort.

“Yeah, but this is me. I can’t keep secrets and I’m bursting to tell someone mine.”

“Please don’t tell me who you have, Harry. Not again.” Because he told me who he’d drawn last year and then Izzy also let slip who she had as well, and by the end of the day I’d worked out who everyone had. “Also, if you’re so rubbish at keeping secrets, I’m definitely not telling you.”

He pouts. “You’re no fun anymore.”

I try not to let it show how much that comment bothers me. Especially that it came from him. “Apparently not.”

“Is it me?”

“No.” I say as calmly as I can manage. Of course he’d choose himself first, and the name I happen to have picked out.

“Izzy again?”

“No.”

Harry then proceeds to list off every name in the office, to which I pointedly reply with no, each and every time.

“But I’ve said everyone’s names.”

“Exactly.”

He sighs. “Fine. Do you know what you’re going to get for yours?”

“No.” And it was a painful truth. A year ago, if I’d have picked Harry’s name out I would have been over the damn moon. Now, it feels awkward and weird to be buying for the good-looking supervisor who used to be my friend. “Do you?”

“I have a few ideas for mine.” He grins.

Lucky for some.

“Well, that’s good,” I answer noncommittally.

I start to move away from him, but I’m stopped by a hand around my elbow.

“Hey,” he coaxes, and I meet his frowny gaze. “You good?”

If this were my friend of a year ago, I’d tell him it’s Friday, I’m bored and want to go to the pub to start my weekend early. But because he’s my supervisor now and I don’t know where to draw the line, I decide to keep the line very low and say, “All fine. Just tired.”

His frown doesn’t ease when I make a poor attempt at a smile. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, yeah?”

Nope. “Yeah, of course.”

“Alright,” he releases my arm. “Well, if you’re really stuck on what to get your secret Santa person, you could look in the magazine I’ve left on your desk.”

I raise a brow at him and he grins again, all white teeth and dimples.

Ugh.

“Is it inappropriate?” I ask, feeling nervous.

He feigns offence. “Of course not, that would be very wrong.”

I narrow my gaze but start to move back to my desk again. “Yes, it would. But I appreciate the help.”

“Any time!”

In my cubicle I find a company magazine on my desk, tabbed two-thirds of the way back. The page opens to a website specifically for Secret Santa gifts. With a sigh, I follow the link and start mindlessly scrolling through the options. There’s everything from oversized mugs to slippers and swear socks, whiskey cubes to coffee table books, candles and incense to bath sets and body creams. I am not short on options.

None of this really feels appropriate for Harry.

Still, since I’m bored out of my mind and have nothing better to do, I waste a good thirty minutes more scrolling mindlessly. Even though I’m struggling to find something for Harry, I do manage to find a present for Izzy—bed socks with cats all over them—and for my mother—a Lazy Susan.

I’m about to give up my search for something fun for Harry and think I’ll just stop by the crafty beer place down the road from my flat—he said he liked a certain one once—when I spot it: The Holy Grail of Secret Santa gifts.

I don’t even hesitate, adding it to my online basket before I can talk myself out of it. It’s only a couple of quid, so I can get him something else as well.

I spend the rest of the day feeling oddly smug, and when five o’clock rolls around I snatch my things up and head straight for the shop that sells the craft ale Harry likes. Then I walk to the pub to meet Izzy.

~

Our office Christmas meal is held in a tapas restaurant around the corner from the building we work in a couple of weeks later. I’ve never particularly cared where we eat—I’ll always find something—but I do struggle to marry up Spanish cuisine with the festive period. Apparently the general consensus was that no one really wanted a traditional Christmas dinner because they’d be getting that on the 25th December. I’ve always just thought of it as a roast dinner on acid but what do I know?

Our dress code for this year is ugly Christmas jumpers, so our table is crowded with colleagues wearing everything from traditional 70s muted-tone cable knits to Charles at the head of the table in a bright red jumper with a light-up Christmas tree on it. I do have a little giggle every time I look at him. It’s awful.

I’m somewhere in the middle of the long banquet-style table, sandwiched between Izzy and Craig, the new guy in marketing. He only started on Monday, has spent the entire week looking like a startled otter, and is already dangerously close to crossing the line from tipsy to drunk. He doesn’t look old enough to be tipsy but I keep that to myself. I’ve been subtly adding more food to his plate anytime it looks close to empty and I don’t know if he genuinely hasn’t noticed or is too polite to say anything because he just keeps on hoovering it up. Also, the dangerous thing about tapas is you always think you’ve eaten more than you actually have, and end up hungry again when you get home. Or, I do, anyway.

“Are we all about finished?” Charles’s voice booms from the end of the table.

There’s ten of us here in all, so his volume also attracts the attention of every other patron in the restaurant.

As if we’re not raucous enough already.

A chorus of mumbled yeses echoes around the table.

Charles claps his hands together. “Excellent! Harry, bring the bag.”

Pink-cheeked, Harry manoeuvres his way out of his seat directly opposite me—I’ve been avoiding looking at him for most of the night in favour of Izzy—and locates the bag with everyone’s Secret Santa gifts inside.

When we got here, Charles was waiting by the door with a large gift bag—you know the ones children get on Christmas morning? This one’s got Peppa Pig on it, which was comical in itself—that we were promptly instructed to leave our gifts inside as subtly as possible. 

Harry places Peppa Pig on Charles’s chair and waits like a faithful servant for his next instructions.

The next five minutes are spent watching Harry flit up and down either side of our long table as he drops presents into laps, a true Christmas elf. 

“Nicely wrapped,” he comments as he places mine in front of me.

I pull a face while Izzy chuckles beside me, and inspect it for a moment. It’s two presents taped together—one tiny and solid, no bigger than a credit card. Hey, wouldn’t that be a nice gift. The other is bigger and heavier—a cubic box. I desperately want to shake it but it feels like it could be breakable.

Izzy just has one—short and cylindrical and, again, heavy. But it’s slightly smaller than mine. I don’t know why that makes me smug. Bigger doesn’t always mean better. In most circumstances anyway. I’m not sure anyone has ever said that about a penis.

“Alright everyone,” Charles barks when the last gift is given out, “start unwrapping.”

A little shiver runs down my spine.

Here’s the thing about me—I love getting presents. Whoever decides to marry me one day needs to be a giver, because I get a little thrill any time I open up a gift. I think I’m equally as generous, but this is exciting for me.

What’s not exciting is that attention keeps flicking around the table. I don’t like being the centre of attention. A hard line to balance. Basically, I’m sitting here slowly picking apart my gifts while trying to keep the joyous little smile my lips are itching to make off my face.

I open the big present first, which seems to be the opposite of what everyone else does. I’m also trying to be subtle about watching Harry open his gifts.

God, this is torture.

The big present evokes a barking laugh out of me.

It’s well-known in the office that I’m a lover of Tesco, in any form. Primarily a Big Tesco or a Tesco Meal Deal. The big gift is a mug that just says ‘Tesco Value Secret Santa Mug’ in the supermarket’s old branding.

“Nice,” I mumble. I’m grinning like an idiot. I genuinely love that mug.

“Someone knows you well,” Izzy says with a nudge. 

She’s already opened her gift—a candle that apparently smells like mashed potato.

It’s disgusting.

“Someone doesn’t know you at all,” I say, nodding at the glass jar with a cork lid in front of her.

“Or they know me well enough to know I hate these candles and find it funny,” she retorts.

I snicker and pick open the wrapping on my smaller gift. I tug it out from the opened end, and with every new inch revealed, my mouth opens a little further.

I look up at Harry, whose expression is the mirror image of mine.

“You are joking,” Izzy says, and follows it up with a loud cackle.

~

Approximately 1 Year Earlier…

“Are you sure you don’t have me for Secret Santa?” Harry asks, pouting at me around the edge of our cubicles.

“Yes, Harry, I’m sure.”

I picked Izzy this year, who is the best person I could’ve possibly got as my favourite work colleague. Harry is a very close second, but I’d never tell him that.

“But you know who does have me,” he says matter of factly.

I do. In an office of ten people, I have managed to work out exactly who has who, only because Izzy told me who she has, and Harry has already told me he picked out the woman in Human Resources. I’ve deduced from there everyone else’s picks, including that I must be Charles’s. I suppress a shudder at the thought of what he might give me.

“Why does that matter?”

“Because I know what I want from them and I need you to subtly suggest it to them.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I mutter. “What is it?”

Harry rolls his chair around the cubicle partition, phone in hand. “Funny you should bring up Jesus, actually.”

He puts his phone on the desk in front of me, and at the same time he rests his chin on my shoulder.

He.

Rests.

His.

Chin.

On.

My.

Shoulder.

I try not to outwardly react to it, even though it’s setting off every single butterfly living in my stomach. I haven’t had sex in far too long if the simplest thing has me heating up this way

Christ.

Anyway, I finally look at Harry’s phone, and it makes me laugh.

Hysterically.

Honestly, I can’t stop.

I’m crying by the time I recover.

“Grow Your Own Jesus?” I sputter out, still tittering.

“Yeah!” He sits back and grins.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I kinda feel I’m lacking a little faith in my life.” He shrugs, but that toothy grin is still all there, along with his dimples and shiny green eyes.

How this man is single, I don’t know.

“Shut up, Harry.”

“Just drop a hint for us, yeah?” He starts rolling away, but not before he drops me a little wink.

A wink.

I’m in so much trouble.

~

I stare at the ‘Grow Your Own Jesus’ in my hands, then at the matching one in Harry’s.

“You remembered?” Harry asks, clearly fighting a smile himself.

“So did you,” I accuse.

“Well, I just kind of hoped if you didn’t want yours that I could have it.”

I gasp and hold the small cardboard box to my chest. “No. He’s mine.”

“Wait,” Craig pipes in from beside me, “did you two get the same thing?”

“They got each other the same thing,” Izzy corrects. “The same weird thing.”

“It’s an inside joke—you wouldn’t get it.” Harry pretends to flip his now non-existent hair.

Izzy sticks her tongue out at him.

“I’m going to grow him in my Tesco mug,” I decide.

Harry quips, “At work, I hope.”

“Obviously. Pride of place on my desk.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he says proudly.

“And what about yours?”

“Oh,” Harry pats the box on the table, “he’s coming to bed with me.”

A laugh bubbles out of me.

“Ew.” Izzy’s nose wrinkles.

~

After dinner is settled, we head out of the restaurant and to a pub near Soho Square. A couple of people drop off and head home, but Craig is still soldiering on, bless him. He’s more stable when in motion than when stationary, and as soon as we find a group of tables together, we shove him in the corner.

Charles offers to buy a final round before he heads home for the night, and when Craig asks for another beer, I make sure Charles comes back with a non-alcoholic one.

“Why are you so protective over the new kid?” Harry asks as he sandwiches himself between me and another colleague.

“I’m not,” I retort. “I just don’t trust anyone else to look after him if he’s too plastered to get home by himself.”

“That still seems quite protective,” he argues.

“Well, put yourself in his shoes for a second. It’s your first real job, you’re young, you have one too many drinks on a night out with your new colleagues and you’re left to your own devices when everyone decides to call it a night. Maybe you take a walk along the river to sober up, and the next thing you know, you’re toppling over the wall and drowning in the Thames.”

We’re silent for a moment. Harry is just…staring at me, probably wondering where that came from. To be honest, so am I.

“That escalated quickly,” he says after a bit.

“But am I right?”

“I doubt it.”

“Ugh, go away.”

“I don’t want to go away.”

“Well, don’t ask stupid questions. We should be looking after him as the newbie. He won’t come back if we treat him like shit. You, as the supervisor, should recognise that.”

Harry lifts his hands in defence. “Alright. Point taken.”

“Are Mum and Dad fighting?” Craig asks loudly, sitting on the other side of Izzy now.

Izzy pats his arm. “I’ve heard Mum and Dad fight, Craigy-boy, and it doesn’t sound like this.”

“We’re not fighting,” I assure him, although I’m not sure how I feel about being referred to as Mum next to Harry’s Dad. “We’re having a discussion.”

“Sounds like you’re fighting,” Craig mutters and sinks further into the corner of the bench we’re crowded on.

 I take a sip of my drink just to keep my hands and mouth busy. Harry nudges me with his elbow, and when I meet his gaze he winks at me.

Winks.

At.

Me.

I’m not sure if the dreams that wink is sure to feature in will be welcomed, or if they’ll be nightmares.

Charles eventually calls it a night, with a shiver-inducing parting comment that he “needs to give his wife the good lovin’.” The rest of us thankfully don’t dissolve into chaos—I’m not drunk enough to be patient over making sure multiple people make it home alive and safe.

It’s only just gone midnight by the time I decide to call it quits. It seems no one else has been keeping an eye on Craig’s drinking habits, because the poor kid can barely stand or keep his eyes open.

“Alright, Craig, where’s home?” I ask as Izzy and I bundle his lanky frame into a particularly nice wool coat.

He mutters something inaudible and I let out an impatient sigh. “Say again?”

He repeats himself, and I think he says Lewisham. “Lewisham?” I clarify.

Craig nods.

“Couldn’t be a little closer, aye?” I grumble.

“You’re not taking him home, are you?” Harry asks, a little tug between his brow.

“I’m not leaving him by himself, H,” I remind him. “I wanted him to sober up and no one else listened, so yes, I’m going to make sure he gets home safe.”

“How? The tube is closed and the bus will take hours.”

“Well, I’ll just have to get an extortionate taxi and deal with it on Monday, won’t I?”

“Don’t you live in Tulse Hill?”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Lewisham is farther out of the way than Tulse Hill.”

“Not really,” I argue.

“I’m coming with you.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t be daft.”

“I’m not being daft,” he insists. “By the time you manage to find a taxi willing to take you that far and actually get there, it’ll be close to two o’clock. And then you’ve got to get home from there. That’s pushing three in the morning. And while I admire your determination and independence and your incessant need to help the new kid, I am not willing to let you travel around London alone on a Friday night, whether you like it or not.”

We’re all quiet for a second—I actually think Craig is asleep on my shoulder now—and then Izzy very quietly whispers, “Damn.”

Sensing defeat, I release a pent up breath. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Harry concedes, “I’ll search for a taxi, shall I?”

“If you want,” I mutter.

We start walking, if only to find somewhere for Craig to sit down while he snoozes, and then say goodbye to Izzy, who’s boyfriend is waiting nearby to pick her up.

It’s cold and a little windy tonight. My cheeks feel frostbitten and my nose is painfully numb. I pull my woolly hat down lower to cover my ears and my scarf up higher to my nose, so all that’s visible is my eyes.

I catch Harry’s gaze, and he offers me a tentative smile. I smile back but I’m not sure if he can tell.

A taxi pulls up some minutes later, and we wake Craig up only so he can tell the driver his address. He falls straight back to sleep again, head pressed against the window.

I’m sandwiched in the middle back seat between the two men. Harry is somewhat bulkier than Craig. I can feel his thigh against mine. It’s warm, which is nice. I feel like I need the body heat.

The drive is relatively quiet, except Harry makes light conversation with the driver while I am also trying not to pass out on someone’s shoulder.

When we finally arrive at Craig’s house, the streets are eerily quiet. Harry makes me stay in the car while he wrangles Craig into his home. I move over into Craig’s vacated seat and watch out the window, a little entertained by the sight.

“Am I dropping you off somewhere else, love?” The taxi driver asks, breaking the quiet.

“Yes, it’s in Tulse Hill, is that okay?”

“No problem at all.”

“Do you know approximately how much it’ll be? And do you take card?”

“By the end of the journey, when I’ve dropped your friend off in Battersea, it’ll probably be over a hundred. But your mate has settled it already.”

“Wait, you’re taking Harry to Battersea?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I thought Harry lived in Brixton. Battersea is an even longer journey.

I rub my tired eyes.

Harry slides back into the backseat and eyes the empty middle seat now I’ve moved over, but he doesn’t say anything.

“When did you move to Battersea?” I ask quietly once the car is moving again.

Harry clears his throat, “Few months ago.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

He turns a look on me that I can’t decipher, so I decide to let it go. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.

We’re quiet again, and I decide this time around I hate the silence in the car. I hate that Harry and I don’t talk about our lives with each other anymore now that he’s in a more senior role. I hate that he doesn’t really feel like my friend anymore. And I especially hate that this is mostly my fault because I don’t know where the boundary line is.

I lean forward and ask the driver, “How long will it take to get from my house to Harry’s?”

I can feel Harry’s eyes on me but I ignore him.

“Another half an hour, probably?”

I can’t help it, I grind my teeth together as I slump back into my seat. I’ve been avoiding looking at the time, but I look now, and it’s nearly half-past two. 

My bones feel tired.

“It’s fine, you know,” Harry’s voice is like whiskey when he speaks, all low and honeyed.

“It’s not fine. You could be home and in bed by now.”

“So could you if you didn’t have the need to mother everyone.”

I don’t know what possesses me to do it—whether it’s the weariness or the level of alcohol in me—but I don’t retort with words.

I just stick my tongue out at him.

Harry laughs and shakes his head at me, turning that smile on his lap.

It’s that smile that forces me to say it, because no matter how much we bicker, I can never really be mad at him. “Why don’t you just stay at mine and go home in the morning when the tube is open again?”

His gaze snaps to me again. “Seriously?”

I don’t know where my confidence has come from. “Do you think I’d offer if I didn’t mean it?”

“But…your flat is tiny. Last I remember, you don’t even have a sofa.”

“I don’t,” I admit. “But I have a king bed. I can erect a pillow wall.”

He gives me a funny look. “I am not sober enough to listen to you use the word erect right now.”

I snort. “Seriously though. It’s so late and I’m tired and I don’t like this already, and for the sake of all our bank balances, just…just stay.”

He stares at me for a while. “I don’t have anything to wear to bed.”

I look at him, in his silly jumper and slacks and woolly hat. “I’ve got a big t-shirt I wear on my lazy days. You can borrow that.”

“How big?”

“Like, triple-XL.”

He purses his lips. “Maybe.”

“Come on, Harry. I’ll put it in the dryer real fast to warm it up, and I’ll even make you breakfast in the morning.”

His mouth twitches again, nostrils flaring as he wards off another smile. “Why are you pushing this so hard?”

“Because you didn’t have to come out all this way with me and you did it anyway.”

“Of course I did, I’m not leaving you alone with a drunk kid and a taxi driver.” He glances at the driver. “No offence, mate.”

“None taken,” he replies.

“Is there still a charge if we cut the journey short?” I ask him.

“No, you’re on a meter. If it helps make your decision any easier, I’m going home straight after this job.”

“See!” I gesture at the poor bloke in the front who we’ve subjected to this torture. “Let the man go home to his family, Harry.”

I can see the driver’s shoulders shaking, but he never says a peep.

“Alright, alright. Fine. I’ll stay at yours.”

“Good.”

Great.

Excellent.

Harry is staying the night at my place. 

In my bed.

I hope I didn’t leave the flat in a mess.

~

By the time we’re dropped off at my flat, I’m a practical zombie.

I let us inside, feet like lead, and Harry follows with just as much enthusiasm. Locking the door behind us, I dig through my drawers for the t-shirt I promised and toss it in the dryer for a few minutes. I clean my teeth, and then give Harry the t-shirt. While he changes in the bathroom, I quickly change into a matching festive jersey pyjama set. Feeling sexy is the last thing I’m trying to achieve. If anything, I just want to be warm—the flat is freezing.

Once changed, I set about making that pillow wall I promised.

When Harry emerges, I’m midway through taking my makeup off.

Looking at him, I can’t help but giggle.

“When you said you had a triple-XL t-shirt, I thought you just meant a plain one. Or, like, one with some generic wording on it. Not this,” he points at his chest.

I admire him in my pink t-shirt, which depicts Salem from Sabrina the Teenage Witch surrounded by cake and the words ‘I eat when I’m upset’. “I think pink suits you.”

Harry’s eyes narrow at me, and he moves around the bed to the side I’m not perched on. He studies my pillow wall for a while. “Do you think I’ve got the lurgy or something?”

“The lurgy?” I chortle. “No, I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I don’t think it’s me we need to worry about being uncomfortable here.”

“I’ll be fine,” I insist with a grin as I finish the last of my makeup removal, “as long as you stay on your side of the wall.”

“I would also be fine. I don’t think we need the wall at all.”

“And why is that?” I ask, tossing my used wipes in the small bin next to my bed. I slip under the covers, and Harry, with his hairy, toned legs, does the same. It’s still weird seeing him with a buzz cut.

“Because it’s half an inch tall. You couldn’t stop an ant from getting over it.”

I gasp, and reach over to smack his arm. “How dare you. Ants can vertically climb.”

“Are you sure?” Harry retaliates by smacking me too, except he completely misses and ends up whacking my boob instead.

“Ow.”

He’s already pulled his hand away and is covering his mouth, eyes wide with shock. “I’m so sorry.”

“You should be!” I hiss, rubbing the assaulted breast in question.

“I didn’t mean to. I was aiming for your arm.”

“Well, your aim is terrible.”

He rolls onto his side, giving me his best puppy dog eyes. “I really am sorry.”

“Sure you are.”

“I am! But this does prove my point that the wall is useless,” he reasons.

“Fine.” I snatch the cushion at the top of the pile and toss it at the foot of the bed. “Collapse the wall if you must.”

He grins, all pretty and green-eyed, and tugs the next pillow down the row up underneath his head. “Much better.”

Sighing, I say, “Go to sleep, Harry.”

“Yes, boss.”

I shut my eyes, burrowing into the pillows, and wait for sleep to claim me.

And I wait. 

And I wait.

Unfortunately, I am far too aware of Harry’s presence beside me.

I’m thinking about the fact that he’s currently wearing my favourite t-shirt and the shameful part of me probably won’t wash it for ages. Maybe an even worse part of me will put it on as soon as he leaves my flat tomorrow.

Fuck this crush.

Why did I think it would be a good idea to let him stay here? In my bed? In my t-shirt?

I really hate myself sometimes.

“I can hear your brain whirring,” Harry says into the silent space between us.

“It worked overtime today, the fans are cooling down.”

He snickers, and then it’s quiet again. “Can I tell you a secret?” He asks after another minute.

I open my eyes to find him watching me. It’s a little unnerving but I can’t say I hate the attention. “A secret?”

“Yeah. I haven’t told anyone yet.”

I study his face in the dark room. “Okay.”

He wets his lips with his tongue first. “I gave my notice today.”

“What? You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“End of January.”

I can’t be sure, but I think I might be about to enter crisis mode. Harry is leaving. Harry, who I’ve seen almost every day for three years, is leaving.

I let him tell me about this new job—how it’s the same position but more money in a bigger company with better benefits.

For a second I don’t know what to say, but I eventually manage to come up with, “Well, congratulations, H. Sounds amazing.”

“Thank you.” He smiles. “Are you going to miss me?”

I pretend to think about it. “No, probably not.”

He gasps. “How rude.”

I giggle. “Of course I’m going to miss you.” Probably too fucking much. Like, crying into my cornflakes every morning for the foreseeable future. That much.

“Good. I’m gonna miss you, too.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I have missed you.”

I frown. “What do you mean? We see each other everyday.”

“It’s not the same, though.”

I know what he means, but I’m too much of a wimp to admit it. Or maybe I just want to hear it come out of his mouth, because it’s been swirling around my head for months and months. “How?”

“We used to go out together, you know, me and you and Izzy and her bloke. We had a good friendship going, right? And I think I kind of fucked that up by taking that supervisor role this year.”

“Yeah, but your career is your career, Harry. You did what was right for you.”

“Maybe, but I still hated knowing I’d drawn a line somewhere.”

Funny. I thought I was the one who���d drawn the line. “Well, we’re not going to see you at all now.”

He frowns. “Don’t say that. We can still have Friday night pub time.”

“I’m not sure, H,” my tone is teasing, “you’re joining the big boys now. You’re more important than we are, you’ll forget about us in a month.”

“Don’t,” he whines, throwing me that puppy look again. “I won’t.”

“Sure.”

“I’d never forget you.”

“I’m sure you say that to all your old work friends. Soon it’ll be new ones with new pubs to visit on a Friday night, and we’ll just be a minor blip in your career path.”

“Stop iiiiit,” Harry growls, and the next thing I know, he’s reaching across the divide we made and wrapping himself around my waist, his face in my neck.

I don’t know how to immediately react, stunted into stiff silence.

“You are not a blip,” he insists, squeezing me closer to him.

“You say that now,” I mutter.

“You’re not,” he snaps, then a second later asks, “Why aren’t you hugging me back?”

Tentatively, I loop my arms around his shoulders. I don’t know where to put my hands initially, but one ends up on the back of his neck and the other between his shoulder blades.

“Better,” he says, face still shoved into my neck.

We’re back to silence again for a moment, but my mind is racing. This is not how I expected to end my night at all. Not with a man in my bed and definitely not hugging said man. Who I’ve happened to fancy for far too long.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s a good thing that Harry is leaving. Maybe now I can take time to get over the stupid crush I have on him and start behaving like a normal woman in her late twenties, rather than the perpetually single saddo that I’ve become.

Yes. I’m determined to turn it into a positive.

There will be no crying into my cornflakes.

“This is nice,” Harry whispers.

“Yeah,” is all I can come up with.

“You’re very comfortable.”

Seriously? I want to roll my eyes. “Thank you.”

“I don’t want to move.”

Don’t panic. Don’t panic. DON’T. PANIC. “You don’t have to.”

“Yeah?”

I swear there’s something blaring in my head. “Sure.”

With that ringing endorsement, he snuggles closer and pulls me flush against his front.

This is fine. Absolutely fine. Nothing to worry about here. No siree.

Except, then, his hand finds the back of my thigh, and he pulls it over his. With a pat for good measure, he lets out a satisfied sigh.

“This might be the most comfortable I’ve ever been.”

Great. “That’s nice,” I squeak.

And it is nice, in a way.

It’s nice to be held in the embrace of another warm body.

It’s nice not to spend the night alone.

It’s nice to feel someone else’s breath on my neck that isn’t just my own reverberating back into my face from my pillow.

The tantric tickle of Harry’s fingers on the back of my legs is nice, too.

Really nice.

It’s so nice, in fact, that I…

I fall asleep.

~

I wake up plastered to Harry’s chest. Harry’s chest, that is still covered in my favourite t-shirt. God, that’s pleasing.

It’ll smell like him now.

#winning

I think I’m the first one to rise, which means I have the opportunity to sneak off and start breakfast, but then I feel a warm palm against the skin of my lower back, circling, and I realise I’m not the first over the finish line into consciousness. I also feel a slight chill against my sternum and I think one of the buttons on my pyjama shirt might have popped open, which means there’s definitely the potential for a peep at some boobage.

“Morning sleeping beauty,” Harry’s voice sounds like gravel.

“Hi,” I choke out.

“Sleep well?”

I slept amazingly. Dare I say it’s the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. Maybe even months.

Fuck it, it’s the best sleep I’ve ever had.

But all I actually say is, “Yep. Did you?”

He hums, his hold on me tightening. “Like a baby.”

I like that far too much. “That’s good. How…did we get like this?”

“You on top of me?” He asks and gives me another squeeze. “No idea.”

“I am not on top of you.”

“You kind of are. But I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“You’re comfortable?”

“I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. It’s like when you have a cat on top of you—you don’t move the cat.”

I look up at him for the first time, then. He’s still sleepy-eyed, but he’s more awake than I am and he looks so soft, and so happy. “Do you need me to move, Harry?”

“Absolutely not.” He follows this comment up with a lazy grin that has my insides turning to mush. He’s always been a little bit infectious, like a good drug, and so I can’t help but smile back at him.

He lifts a hand to my face then, still holding my gaze, with his finger under my chin while he gingerly wipes his thumb in the corner of each of my eyes in turn. When I throw him a questioning look, he responds with a simple, “Eye goo.”

I want to be disgusted by that, but I’m not. Not in the slightest. If anything, it’s making this crush I was so determined to get rid of yesterday even worse. And, because I can’t help myself, I gingerly reach my hand up to his face and do the same thing, wiping the dried moisture from the corners of his eyes.

We stay like that, staring at each other with lingering touches on each other’s faces. I don’t know what we’re doing. I’m terrified and nervous and excited all at once.

My heart is telling me he’s into this the same way I am, but my head is telling me I’m overthinking it and it doesn’t mean anything.

Now, call me fucking crazy, but people who aren’t into each other don’t touch one another the way we are.

I tell my head to shut the fuck up.

Tipping my head back slightly, it causes Harry’s light grip to adjust, until his hand all but swallows my cheek.

He lowers his head, and I know, I just know I’m not imagining the pull between us anymore. My breathing becomes laboured, chest heaving with every inch his mouth gets closer to mine.

When our mouths meet I’m dizzy, but I hold onto the shred of sanity I have left, if only to enjoy the moment while it’s here.

It’s exploratory at first—a simple taste of one another. Harry’s mouth is soft and gentle. He takes his time, like he’s learning me. His hands are doing the same thing, cautiously roaming my face, my arms and my back.

I don’t know what to do with my hands, because I want to touch him everywhere. Start with his chest, and for the first time ever I wish for the absence of my damn t-shirt on him. Move to his arms just to trace the definition of his muscles and the lines of his strong veins.

He’s so…delicious. Always has been, hair or no. And the permission to touch him in any capacity has me feeling drunk. I feel more out of sorts now than I did last night.

Harry’s grip moves to the back of my legs, and he drags me over his body so that I’m straddling him.

The new position has trepidation rendering my limbs frozen, and I have to force myself to move, to keep touching him. I can feel his length between my legs—not completely hard but certainly working its way there.

“Is this okay?” Harry asks against my lips, voice hushed but still loud in the quiet room. His hands dance over my hips and thighs, like he wants to touch other places but is worried of crossing that line.

“Yes,” I breathe in answer. 

He resumes his ministrations, becoming braver now with the use of his mouth, and in turn I do too.

My hands finally slip underneath the cotton t-shirt to feel the taut skin of his abdomen, fingertips following every dip and curve. In return, Harry slides his up my shirt, taking the weight of my breasts in his hands.

“They’re so soft,” he comments, and for some reason I like that so much that I kiss him deeper.

Our tongues are involved now, licking and nipping and tasting the other where we can.

“I want to take your shirt off,” I admit.

“You mean your shirt?” He teases, and moves into a sitting position with absolutely no effort.

“Both,” I tell him.

He grins, kissing me again while I ease the cotton up his body, until we have to break apart so I can remove it completely. 

Harry’s body is…perfect. I knew it would be—toned lines, masculine, pronounced muscles. I want to lick it.

I’m kissing him again, if only to stop myself from lapping at his golden skin.

I’m kissing the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen—ever known.

I can feel him toying with the buttons on my pyjama top, slowly coaxing each one free. When the last one is done, he slips the garment over my shoulders until we’re in matching states of undress. His large hands cup my boobs, thumbs rubbing against my nipples.

A sharp bolt of pleasure zips through me, straight to the pulsing core between my legs. With an involuntary rock of my hips, I moan into his mouth.

“Oh, shit,” he groans, “did you like that?”

I can only nod, and then whine when he does it again. Helpless to the taste of him, I loop my arms around his neck. Our bodies are flush together, tongues tangled, and my centre is lined up right over his cock. His cock that is now fully hard.

I start rocking my hips in a rhythm if only to find some friction for the need growing in my lower belly.

Harry’s grip moves from my tits to my arse, squeezing tightly and encouraging my movements. “If you keep doing that I’m going to embarrass myself and make a mess in my boxers, but I don’t want you to stop.”

“Please don’t make me stop,” I beg.

“You better not stop.”

So I don’t. I keep rocking, keep kissing, keep touching.

Every roll of my hips is ecstasy and I can feel the bubble growing inside me, pushing to the surface. The heat in my body expands, not just inside me but across my back and my arms and my chest. I haven’t had any physical contact for a while, and the intimacy of this, with Harry, is setting off every single one of my nerve endings.

“I want to see you come,” he tells me.

I grip the back of Harry’s neck, and for the first time since we started kissing, he moves his mouth. He kisses my cheek, then my neck, my throat, my chest, and then he finally pulls my nipple into his mouth, licking and sucking while squeezing my breast, and, well…

I go off.

My orgasm crests in the least subtle manner—loud and hard. My core is pulsing and my legs are shaking. My body is on fire—in fact, I’m sure I can feel a bead of sweat dripping between my cleavage.

Harry’s mouth is on mine again, warm and wet and sultry, and I cling to him like I’ve got nothing else in the world.

“You’re so pretty,” Harry whispers against my lips.

My face flushes, as if I’m not already burning up, but I still manage to say, “So are you.”

He kisses me hard but chaste. “I’ve wanted to see you like that for a while.”

“Like what?” I ask, still panting.

“Undone. By me, specifically.”

I swallow the sudden lump in my throat. “What?”

He laughs, and his thumb strokes my cheek, “I’ve always thought you’re sexy as fuck.”

“No you haven’t.”

“I bloody have,” he insists. “I thought you knew that.”

I scoff. “No, I didn’t know that.”

“Well, I’ll keep telling you until you believe me. Now, I’m pretty sure I was promised breakfast?”

I give him a questioning look. “But what about…you?” I ask, and throw a pointed look at the space where our crotches meet.

“I don't believe in transactional pleasure,” he tells me, then kisses me again. “I just hope we can do this again.”

“What, sleepover?”

He laughs. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it. But I was also hoping there might be some dating involved.”

I gawk at him. “You want to date me?”

“Indefinitely.”

Well, shit.

[nrdmssgs]

Little things, they do 2 (Price, Ghost, Gaz) (headcannons)

Masterlist

Part 1 (Alex, Soap, König) here

Little things, they do, that get you every time. Silly, warm, heart-melting, wholesome things.

Captain John Price

Knuckle kisses. That's it.

Praises you not only when you succeed, but also when you fail. “I know, you tried so hard, love. This doesn't make you lesser. You don't have to prove anything to me. I'm proud of you. You're enough.”

Compliments you at the most random times. You've just woken up with an absolute mess on your head, or you walk around the house in old faded sweatpants and a dirty T-shirt because the rest of the clothes are being washed? John takes your hand, brings it to his lips and whispers "You are incredibly beautiful." or “How did an old git like me ended up with the most gorgeous, hottest  human being out there?”

He has this habit of going behind your back and leaning close to your very ear while telling you something. Maybe he just likes to feel you close and uses it as an excuse, maybe he wants to “envelop” you in a way, hide you from the whole world, sharing his knowledge, feeling, how interested you are in a topic.

One of those people to actually use paper and envelopes, that some hotel still provide their rooms with. You get these long 3-5 page letters from different corners of earth every now and then. They can be absolutely platonic - he can literally describe, what he's seen or overheard on the streets lately or rant about how he wants to hear seabirds voices, but they are interrupted by the unceasing roar of engines and roadworks here… But you see it: every line screams “I love you. I freaking love you so much, it's almost 4 am here, and I'm still wide awake, because I need to write to you, to communicate in any way that will be safe for you.” 

Simon Ghost Riley

He is no stranger to triggered stress or panic. So if you have any phobia, and he finds out about it - he starts protecting you from its triggers. Let's say, you're scared of spiders and scorpions. Even a picture of one can absolutely freak you out. Simon goes above and beyond to shield you from any type of appearance of these creatures in your life. In summer, he'll escort and even tiniest spider out of your apartment, before you see it.

He even shares a googledoc with trigger warning time codes for every piece of media, you wanted to see. Even if it's a long series - he just checks every episode of it on a fast rewind and writes you, if it's fully safe to watch or not. 

Ghost has a wealth of experience in dealing with insomnia and is willing to help you, if you come across this issue. Just don't hesitate to ask - he is ready to spend all the night helping you out. Will definitely start with pressing your back to his chest and guiding you through a breathing exercise.

If you had a bad day and dropped him a message - he`d surely call you as soon as he can to talk you through everything that happened and soothe you. 

“I`m always there for you, you know?” “I know, Simon…” “No, thats not the way, we do that.” “...” “Come on. Say it.” “I remember, ok?” “Say. it. I need you say it out loud.” “You are always there for me, no matter what.” “And?” “... and I can call or text you any time and you'll reach back asap.” “Good job. I'll call you again before you go to sleep.”

Despite his ascetic way of life, he likes nice things and gradually accustoms you to the same preferences. 

It all starts with tea. One day, you go grocery shopping together. You walk between the rows of shelves while Simon stays by your cart. Returning to the cart, you find him skeptically examining the box of tea you dropped into the cart earlier. "What is this?" "It's tea, Simon, stop pretending you can't read." Ghosts gaze eloquently demonstrates his attitude towards this product. "It's trash." He pulls out a simple but elegant box from the top shelf. "This is tea." You try to convince him that with the money spent on that "good" box, you could drink tea all year, but he is relentless. Simon ends up buying the tea himself and brewing it at your place. When you first try it and roll your eyes in pleasure - he smiles contentedly. “Told you.”

Kyle Gaz Garrick

“Babe this is delicious, wanna try it?” - say yes and firstly he will kiss you. You absolutely need to try that ice cream, his tongue is just a nice bonus. Ofc shares his food with you afterward.

One of the most supportive human beings out there. Encourages every your hobby, hella proud of you and not shy to demonstrate it. “Have you heard her singing? RNs got a voice of a songbird!” “Kyle, please, I just went to a few vocal lessons and learned like… 2 songs.” “Those are my favorite ones from now on, love.”

If you work from home, he'll walk into your room randomly (but only when he is 100% sure, you're not on the call), sit beside you and just stare silently at you. Ask him, what's up, and he'll give you a quick kiss on the forehead and walk away grinning. 

Slow dances with you on streets, when you two pass by street musicians. Doesn't care if everybody looking, even if someone pulls out a phone and starts filming this wholesome scene. It's only you in Kyles hands, that matter right now to him. 

If you have a pet - he definitely becomes its new dad. When Kyle is around - your four-legged friend absolutely forgets about your existence, because Gaz is an expert in best scratches!

By the way, your pets birthday is now Kyles official holiday!

[ceilidho]

no worries if you're not feeling this! I know you said your wrist is giving you trouble so I would so much rather you prioritize yourself and your health over any writing!!

that said, I am so digging this knight ghost situation. after reading the last prompt about it, I'm seeing some potential for a battle of wills situation. ghost waiting for the princess to ask (beg) for what she wants but she's too prim and proper to say it and she's confused as well, all like why has this dude who I'm married to not made a move on me?? and ghost has so much patience, he'll just wait and wait until she absolutely can't take it any more and then idk, you're the master!!!

again again, I hope you're feeling well soon and if this is not your vibe it's all good in the hood. btw I love all of your writing and I wish I could grind it up and make a delicious shake out of it❤️❤️❤️

Thank you for being so kind!!! Wrist is feeling a lot better today because I did some exercises with it yesterday <3

Ghost's patience is endless, of course. He endures month and sometimes year long campaigns with little creature comforts. Even when he comes home, he doesn't really indulge in any of the comforts of home because he knows that it's temporary. He'll be called upon again by his king the next time there's a need for his service.

So at home with his princess, it's easy to deny her. It's almost a game, whether she'll break first (anticipated) or whether he finally will (not likely, but the odds never quite hit zero).

She's the first thing that ever really made him question his ascetic code; if anything was going to tempt him to indulge, it would be his pretty new wife wrapped in her winter furs and badgering him about repairs to the stables (he loves listening to her complain; she's so tight lipped around her family and doesn't really speak her mind, but after months as his wife, she's gotten comfortable expressing herself with Ghost).

And it's so so cute watching her struggle to bring up the subject of their marriage bed with him. She hints at it and talks circles around it, about how it's not proper for her to have her own chambers and how her parents expect her to be with child by the spring, but she doesn't just come out and say it. She's always on the verge of a temper tantrum, like she might stomp her foot about it because her warrior husband won't take her to bed even though she worried for days before their wedding that she'd have to endure his appetites.

Ghost knows he's going to give in eventually, but they'll never be able to wait like this again so he enjoys it while it's happening :)))

[bcacstuff]

Exploring the Hunku - By Jake Norton (part 1)

I guess part of me has always been an explorer.

No, not that kind of capital "E" Explorer - I haven’t discovered new lands, walked off the map, completed bold first ascents or any of that headline-grabbing stuff. But, I’ve been fortunate enough in my travels and adventures to wander off the beaten path somewhat, to explore terrain that, if not new to the world, is new to me, unfamiliar in all ways, be it on Everest’s North Face, the slopes of Gurla Mandhata, my own back yard, or elsewhere.

Our venture up the Hunku Khola from Chheskam to Kongme Dingma was just such an exploration. Sam and I and our team were not in uncharted waters; if we’re being honest, there is little in Nepal outside the extreme alpine realm that has not seen the feet of a herder or the staff of wandering ascetic over the ages. No, the Hunku is well known to the Kulung Rai and other locals, but not so to the outside world. I know of only a handful of people who have been up there before, one being Tim Macartney-snape, and if you know him and his history he’s not one for following the known path. So on December 6, we headed off into the somewhat unknown.

Sunset at camp 1 on the Mahakulung Muddhi-Kongmedingma Trail at the Mangan Khola.

Sam hikes up through lush forests of the Hunku Valley.

Our amazing team taking a breather.

New ways to traverse cliffside trails.

Steep and slick but full of beauty.

The new trail - dubbed by the excited community of Mahakulung as the Mahakulung Muddhi-Kongmedingma Trail - follows the Hunku Khola as it roars through a narrow canyon of its own creation. Unlike many treks in the Nepal Himalaya - and quite different than its nearby neighbor, Khumbu - this trail ambles through dense jungle, towering forests of East Himalayan Fir (Abies spectabilis), Musure Katus (Himalayan beech, Castanopsis tribuloides), Bull oak (Quercus lamellosa), Himalayan birch (Betula utilis), and rhododendron (both falconeri and arboreum). It’s a misty place as well, with afternoon cloud wafting up the valley, enshrouding the landscape in mystical ether turning to ethereal ice during the night.

While the Hunku finds its source up high in the melting ice of the Hunku Glacier on Baruntse and the alpine lakes of Seto Pokhari and Paanch Pokhari, its power is fed downstream by countless tributaries large and small, azure cascades coming down from numerous unnamed 5,000 meter peaks and larger, named ones like Naulekh and Mera. Thankfully, the municipalities of Mahakulung (Gudel, Bung, and Chheskam) built bridges across most, ranging from simple trusses to deluxe covered bridges and simple sticks-on-rocks for yet others still.

Sam shows his excitement at finding scat of a large leopard on the trail.

Bamboo tickets and high peaks.

A new bridge on day 3 crossing a tributary to the Hunku Khola. Bridges were built by locals from Mahakulung.

A new suspension bridge crosses the Hunku Khola on day 4.

Chilly mornings.

The boys on a break. Left to right: Sam Heughan, Tshering Dorje Sherpa, Gopal Magar, Karka Kulung Rai, and Jhanak Karki.

Sam crosses a less-modern - and fully iced - bridge on the upper Hunku Khola.

Porters crossing an old wooden bridge on the Hunku Khola.

Our trail - choked at times with bamboo or slick with mud, glazed with ice - meandered along the Hunku’s path. Folded as they are, the Himalaya do not lend themselves to easy trails, however, and the Muddhi-Kongmedingma is no exception: a straight line from Point A to Point B is rarely possible, with Ridge C and Valley D more often standing in the way. While most days the trail had a net gain of about 1500 vertical feet, we’d easily double that with ups and downs along the way.

But, that’s not to say days were hard; they were, taken all together, about perfect. Much of that is thanks to our team, and wonderfully motley crew of folks helping schlep our gear and prepare meals and keep us company along the way. And, this being the first real commercial trip up the valley, we never knew with certainty where the next flat ground would be found and if it would have water nearby. So, some days were cut short, some were stretched longer. Vagaries of the valley forced the abandonment of one acclimatization day at Watelma Chaur, but to little consquence: we were nimble, Sam was strong, our team able.

Six days of fairly magical, mystical trekking took us through climatic zones from forest to alpine, through sun and snow and ice, mornings of frost to afternoons of heat and frigid nights tempered by a blazing fire. We found scat from jungle cats (Asiatic wildcat? Maybe, but quite doubtful.) and leopards (common or snow, we do not know), enjoyed unspoiled nature at its best, and barely a trace of humanity - not a lodge, not a house, not a helicopter or plane. The only person outside our team we encountered until Khumbu was a resourceful Sherpa named Gelu from near Bung who heard of our affinity for both jhway kathe (raksi heated and adorned with sauteed fenugreek) and tongba (fermented millet prepared as a delicious hot drink) and decided we were a good business proposition, hauling several liters of both in his doko up valley. (Note, his instincts proved remarkably correct.)

Jhanak Karki, skull shaman.

Keeping warm by the fire at camp on day 4.

Misty morning majesty.

Fresh snow helped make day 5 on the Mahakulung Muddhi-Kongmedingma Trail even more stunning.

Steep and slippery demands creativity.

Sam enjoys a cold head shower along the trail.

Sun, shadow, and cloud play on the shoulders of Naulekh.

Sunset at our tiny cliff camp on the Hunku Khola.

Eventually, we emerged from the forest some 2500 feet below Kongme Dingma and entered the subalpine zone. Here, along with incresingly majestic views of Naulekh and Peak 41 and Chamlang and more, we bushwhacked for an hour through sprawling hillsides of sunpati (dwarf rhododendron, or Rhododendron anthopogon), which is used in most incense from South Asia. So strong and fresh, every step released a burst of aroma making the whole valley akin to walking around Bodhanath during times of prayer. Amazing.

And then, the pain began.

Not bad pain, but certainly some, the hurt of altitude and the cold that comes along with it, the toll extracted physiologically, penance for the privilege of the high country. And, like a first marathon or a first drunk, it hits the uninitiated hardest. We made it to Kongme Dingma, a small, vacant settlement at 15,750 feet, windswept and austere beneath the towering giants of Peak 41, Naulekh, and Chamlang. For Sam and Jhanak, each step of the last 3000+ feet was an altitude record, and inevitably the night brought with it headache and lassitude, the hallmarks up here. But, they fired back with their own hallmarks - grit and positivity.

We spent the night sheltering from demonic, 60 mph wind gusts under Gelu’s tarp-roofed hut. Dung-seasoned dust whipped about as we ate dal bhat, played cards with the team, laughed and talked and smiled and knew that this too would pass, tomorrow would dawn another day.

Altitude is a fickle thing, each person’s specific physiology responding differently to it. Until you’ve been up high, it’s generally a mystery as to how you’ll do, how your body will adapt - or not - to the dearth of oxygen. Some do well, some less so, but most will get it sorted out if given time and tools. Time is the keystone, as the body is working overtime to produce red blood cells and increase hypoxic efficiency; thus, a day off, an active rest day, at Kongme Dingma was essential to let the body do its thing.

Sam taking it all in as we leave the forest and enter the alpine.

Chamlang - the sentinel of the Hunku - was hidden for days but finally shows itself in the upper valley.

Gelu, our friend and beverage purveyor, stops for a tea and dal bhat break on the trail.

Sam Heughan taking it all in high on the Mahakulung Muddhi-Kongmedingma Trail.

Enjoying the views high on the Muddhi-Kongmedingma Trail.

(more in part 2 of this article)

[enlitment]

Some Julius Caesar x The Danton Case Parallels to Celebrate the Ides of March, Frev Style 🔪🥳

Firstly, both Przybyszewska’s Danton Case and Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar are obviously (excellent!) tragedies that are set in a dying republic on the brink of collapse.

Here are some other interesting parallels I was able to trace:

1. Brutus and Robespierre:

Both of them are driven to execute an important figure even though they initially do not want to do it. They are both conflicted but feel like they have no other choice and have to commit the violent act for the good of the republic.

They are also arguably quite alike in terms of character: you have the „noble Brutus“ and then Robespierre, who is consistently referred to as „the Incorruptible“. Both are seen by others as selfless and committed to the good of the state (the people in the crowd very much emphasise this fact in both of the plays, I do have the receipts)

There is even the scene in which Brutus chastises Cassius for taking bribes, which plays into the idea of him as being (literally) “incorruptible” as well. And vice versa, traces of Brutus’ famed stoicism can then certainly be found in Maximilien.

2. Cassius and Saint-Just:

Both are characters who convince the protagonists (Brutus/Robespierre) to go along the violent act while not necessarily being portrayed as antagonists (at least Saint-Just definitely can't be seen as one in Przybyszewska’s play).

There are also parallels in the close relationship between Brutus and Cassius and Robespierre and Saint-Just, where they are very much portrayed as each other’s closest confidants. Of course, this idea can easily be pushed even further if one wishes to read between the lines. (There is no Camille Desmoulins in Shakespeare though)

3. Manipulating the Crowd:

I'm perhaps the most fascinated by how both Brutus and Mark Antony as well as Robespierre and Danton have the necessary rhetorical skills to manipulate the crowd of commoners (Robespierre being able to “play the crowd like an organ” very much came to my mind when I was reading Act 3 Scene 2 of the Shakespeare’s play).

Both Shakespeare and Przybyszewska portray “the court of public opinion” and how it can easily be manipulated - how opinions can be changed in the matter of minutes - in a way that is genuinely fascinating.

Specifically, the similarity between A3S2 in which people first listen to Brutus only to be immediately swayed by Mark Antony’s speech shortly after and the scene in the court in which Danton manipulates the crowd were in fact so similar in some respects that it was borderline uncanny.

The problem arises when looking for a mirror to Danton’s character in Shakespeare’s play.

4. The Case for Danton x Caesar:

It is Caesar who gets killed for being perceived as a danger to the republic

Both Caesar and Danton are portrayed as being very much beloved by the common people

Also, the idea of Danton being immortal is expressed at the end of Przybyszewka’s play, and while he does not come back literally as a ghost like Ceasar does, Robespierre nonetheless explains to Saint-Just that Danton’s spirit never truly dies.

5. The Case for Danton x Mark Antony:

If we see Danton and Robespierre as foils, Mark Antony makes more sense as a parallel to Danton (even though he does not die), since both Robespierre and Brutus as the classic ascetic/stoic archetype while Danton and Mark Antony’s are well-known for their appetite for drinking, women (or, you know, people, in the case of Mark Antony) , and the pleasures of life overall.

Both are also severely underestimated by their enemies at first, yet they prove to be quite cunning and are able to use their words skilfully to win over the public

Overall, reading both of the plays – especially the parts about manipulating the Roman public and the citizens of Paris just with the power of words – really makes me wonder if Przybyszewska read Shakespeare’s play and used it as a source of inspiration. It would make sense, especially given how the parallel between the French Republic and the Roman Republic was well-established long before her time (even, somewhat tragically, by the revolutionaries themselves).

I promise I think about Przybyszewska's and Shakespeare’s play and the Roman Republic along with the French Revolution a totally normal amount of time & that it definitely does not consume my every waking thought that should be very much going towards the exam preparation.

[mysticbisexualxtian]

Christ’s Descent into Hades (Hell)

Chapter I (17).

Joseph says: And why do you wonder that Jesus has risen? But it is wonderful that He has not risen alone, but that He has also raised many others of the dead who have appeared in Jerusalem to many. And if you do not know the others, Symeon at least, who received Jesus, and his two sons whom He has raised up — them at least you know. For we buried them not long ago; but now their tombs are seen open and empty, and they are alive, and dwelling in Arimathaea. They therefore sent men, and they found their tombs open and empty. Joseph says: Let us go to Arimathaea and find them.

Then rose up the chief priests Annas and Caiaphas, and Joseph, and Nicodemus, and Gamaliel, and others with them, and went away to Arimathaea, and found those whom Joseph spoke of. They made prayer, therefore, and saluted each other. Then they came with them to Jerusalem, and brought them into the synagogue, and secured the doors, and placed in the midst the old covenant of the Jews; and the chief priests said to them: We wish you to swear by the God of Israel and Adonai, and so that you tell the truth, how you have risen, and who has raised you from the dead.

The men who had risen having heard this, made upon their faces the sign of the cross, and said to the chief priests: Give us paper and ink and pen. These therefore they brought. And sitting down, they wrote thus:-

Chapter 2 (18).

O Lord Jesus Christ, the resurrection and the life of the world, grant us grace that we may give an account of Your resurrection, and Your miracles which You did in Hades. We then were in Hades, with all who had fallen asleep since the beginning of the world. And at the hour of midnight there rose a light as if of the sun, and shone into these dark regions; and we were all lighted up, and saw each other. And straightway our father Abraham was united with the patriarchs and the prophets, and at the same time they were filled with joy, and said to each other: This light is from a great source of light.

The prophet Isaiah, who was there present, said: This light is from the Father, and from the Son, and from the Holy Spirit; about whom I prophesied when yet alive, saying, The land of Zabulon, and the land of Nephthalim, the people that sat in darkness, have seen a great light.

Then there came into the midst another, an ascetic from the desert; and the patriarchs said to him: Who are you? And he said: I am John, the last of the prophets, who made the paths of the Son of God straight, and proclaimed to the people repentance for the remission of sins. And the Son of God came to me; and I, seeing Him a long way off, said to the people: Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world. And with my hand I baptized Him in the river Jordan, and I saw like a dove also the Holy Spirit coming upon Him; and I heard also the voice of God, even the Father, thus saying: This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. And on this account He sent me also to you, to proclaim how the only begotten Son of God is coming here, that whosoever shall believe in Him shall be saved, and whosoever shall not believe in Him shall be condemned. On this account I say to you all, in order that when you see Him you all may adore Him, that now only is for you the time of repentance for having adored idols in the vain upper world, and for the sins you have committed, and that this is impossible at any other time.

Chapter 3 (19).

While John, therefore, was thus teaching those in Hades, the first created and forefather Adam heard, and said to his son Seth: My son, I wish you to tell the forefathers of the race of men and the prophets where I sent you, when it fell to my lot to die. And Seth said: Prophets and patriarchs, hear. When my father Adam, the first created, was about to fall once upon a time into death, he sent me to make entreaty to God very close by the gate of paradise, that He would guide me by an angel to the tree of compassion and that I might take oil and anoint my father, and that he might rise up from his sickness: which thing, therefore, I also did.

And after the prayer an angel of the Lord came, and said to me: What, Seth, do you ask? Do you ask for oil which raises up the sick, or the tree from which this oil flows, on account of the sickness of your father? This is not to be found now. Go, therefore, and tell your father, that after the accomplishing of five thousand five hundred years from the creation of the world, you shall come into the earth the only begotten Son of God, being made man; and He shall anoint him with this oil, and shall raise him up; and shall wash clean, with water and with the Holy Spirit, both him and those out of him, and then shall he be healed of every disease; but now this is impossible.

When the patriarchs and the prophets heard these words, they rejoiced greatly.

Chapter 4 (20).

And when all were in such joy, Satan the heir of darkness entered and said to Hades: O all-devouring and insatiable, hear my words. There is of the race of the Jews one named Jesus, calling himself the Son of God; and being a man, by our working with them the Jews have crucified him: and now when he is dead, be ready that we may secure him here. For I know that he is a man, and I heard him also saying, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death. He has also done me many evils when living with mortals in the upper world. For wherever he found my servants, he persecuted them; and whatever men I made crooked, blind, lame, lepers, or any such thing, by a single word he healed them; and many whom I had got ready to be buried, even these through a single word he brought to life again.

Hades says: And is this man so powerful as to do such things by a single word? and if he be so, can you withstand him? It seems to me that, if he be so, no one will be able to withstand him. And if you say that you heard him dreading death, he said this mocking you, and laughing, wishing to seize you with the strong hand; and woe, woe to you, to all eternity!

Satan says: O all-devouring and insatiable Hades, are you so afraid at hearing of our common enemy? I was not afraid of him, but worked in the Jews, and they crucified him, and gave him also to drink gall with vinegar. Make ready, then, in order that you may lay fast hold of him when he comes.

Hades answered: Heir of darkness, son of destruction, devil, you have just now told me that many whom you had made ready to be buried, be brought to life again by a single word. And if he has delivered others from the tomb, how and with what power shall he be laid hold of by us?

For I not long ago swallowed down one dead, Lazarus by name; and not long after, one of the living by a single word dragged him up by force out of my bowels: and I think that it was he of whom you speak. If, therefore, we receive him here, I am afraid lest perchance we be in danger even about the rest.

For, lo, all those that I have swallowed from eternity I perceive to be in commotion, and I am pained in my belly. And the snatching away of Lazarus beforehand seems to me to be no good sign: for not like a dead body, but like an eagle, he flew out of me; for so suddenly did the earth throw him out. Wherefore also I adjure even you, for your benefit and for mine, not to bring him here; for I think that he is coming here to raise all the dead. And this I tell you: by the darkness in which we live, if you bring him here, not one of the dead will be left behind in it to me.

Chapter 5 (21).

While Satan and Hades were thus speaking to each other, there was a great voice like thunder, saying: Lift up your gates, O ye rulers; and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting gates; and the King of glory shall come in!

When Hades heard, he said to Satan: Go forth, if you are able, and withstand him. Satan therefore went forth to the outside. Then Hades says to his demons: Secure well and strongly the gates of brass and the bars of iron, and attend to my bolts, and stand in order, and see to everything; for if he come in here, woe will seize us.

The forefathers having heard this, began all to revile him, saying: O all-devouring and insatiable! open, that the King of glory may come in. David the prophet says: Do you not know, O blind, that I when living in the world prophesied this saying: Lift up your gates, O ye rulers?

Isaiah said: I, foreseeing this by the Holy Spirit, wrote: The dead shall rise up, and those in their tombs shall be raised, and those in the earth shall rejoice. And where, O death, is your sting? where, O Hades, is your victory?

There came, then, again a voice saying: Lift up the gates!

Hades, hearing the voice the second time, answered as if forsooth he did not know, and says: Who is this King of glory?

The angels of the Lord say: The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle. And immediately with these words the brazen gates were shattered, and the iron bars broken, and all the dead who had been bound came out of the prisons, and we with them. And the King of glory came in in the form of a man, and all the dark places of Hades were lighted up.

Chapter 6 (22).

Immediately Hades cried out: We have been conquered: woe to us! But who are you, who has such power and might? and what are you, who comes here without sin who are seen to be small and yet of great power, lowly and exalted, the slave and the master, the soldier and the king, who has power over the dead and the living? You were nailed on the cross, and placed in the tomb; and now you are free, and have destroyed all our power. Are you then the Jesus about whom the chief satrap Satan told us, that through cross and death you are to inherit the whole world?

Then the King of glory seized the chief satrap Satan by the head, and delivered him to His angels, and said: With iron chains bind his hands and his feet, and his neck, and his mouth. Then He delivered him to Hades, and said: Take him, and keep him secure till my second appearing.

Chapter 7 (23).

And Hades receiving Satan, said to him: Beelzebul, heir of fire and punishment, enemy of the saints, through what necessity did you bring about that the King of glory should be crucified, so that he should come here and deprive us of our power? Turn and see that not one of the dead has been left in me, but all that you have gained through the tree of knowledge, you have lost through the tree of the cross: and all your joy has been turned into grief; and wishing to put to death the King of glory, you have put yourself to death.

For, since I have received you to keep you safe, by experience shall you learn how many evils I shall do unto you. O arch-devil, the beginning of death, root of sin, end of all evil, what evil did you find in Jesus, that you should compass his destruction? how have you dared to do such evil? how have you busied yourself to bring down such a man into this darkness, through whom you have been deprived of all who have died from eternity?

Chapter 8 (24).

While Hades was thus discoursing to Satan, the King of glory stretched out His right hand, and took hold of our forefather Adam, and raised him. Then turning also to the rest, He said: Come all with me, as many as have died through the tree which he touched: for, behold, I again raise you all up through the tree of the cross. Thereupon He brought them all out, and our forefather Adam seemed to be filled with joy, and said: I thank Your majesty, O Lord, that You have brought me up out of the lowest Hades. Likewise also all the prophets and the saints said: We thank You, O Christ, Saviour of the world, that You have brought our life up out of destruction.

And after they had thus spoken, the Saviour blessed Adam with the sign of the cross on his forehead, and did this also to the patriarchs, and prophets, and martyrs, and forefathers; and He took them, and sprang up out of Hades. And while He was going, the holy fathers accompanying Him sang praises, saying: Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord! Alleluia! to Him be the glory of all the saints!

Chapter 9 (25).

And setting out to paradise, He took hold of our forefather Adam by the hand, and delivered him, and all the just, to the archangel Michael. And as they were going into the door of paradise, there met them two old men, to whom the holy fathers said: Who are you, who have not seen death, and have not come down into Hades, but who dwell in paradise in your bodies and your souls?

One of them answered, and said: I am Enoch, who was well-pleasing to God, and who was translated hither by Him; and this is Elijah the Thesbite; and we are also to live until the end of the world; and then we are to be sent by God to withstand Antichrist, and to be slain by him, and after three days to rise again, and to be snatched up in clouds to meet the Lord.

Chapter 10 (26)

While they were thus speaking, there came another lowly man, carrying also upon his shoulders a cross, to whom the holy fathers said: Who are you, who have the look of a robber; and what is the cross which you bear upon your shoulders?

He answered: I, as you say, was a robber and a thief in the world, and for these things the Jews laid hold of me, and delivered me to the death of the cross, along with our Lord Jesus Christ. While, then, He was hanging upon the cross, I, seeing the miracles that were done, believed in Him, and entreated Him, and said, Lord, when You shall be King, do not forget me. And immediately He said to me, Amen, amen: today, I say unto you, shall you be with me in paradise. Therefore I came to paradise carrying my cross; and finding the archangel Michael, I said to him, Our Lord Jesus, who has been crucified, has sent me here; bring me, therefore, to the gate of Eden. And the flaming sword, seeing the sign of the cross, opened to me, and I went in. Then the archangel says to me, Wait a little, for here comes also the forefather of the race of men, Adam, with the just, that they too may come in. And now, seeing you, I came to meet you.

The saints hearing these things, all cried out with a loud voice: Great is our Lord, and great is His strength.

Chapter 11 (27).

All these things we saw and heard; we, the two brothers, who also have been sent by Michael the archangel, and have been ordered to proclaim the resurrection of the Lord, but first to go away to the Jordan and to be baptized. Thither also we have gone, and have been baptized with the rest of the dead who have risen. Thereafter also we came to Jerusalem, and celebrated the passover of the resurrection. But now we are going away, being unable to stay here. And the love of God, even the Father, and the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the communion of the Holy Spirit, be with you all.

Having written these things, and secured the rolls, they gave the half to the chief priests, and the half to Joseph and Nicodemus. And they immediately disappeared: to the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen

[rzyraffek]

Haiii! If ur requests are still open would you do the Sinclair brothers reacting to having a goth so?Like also ftm cause me too and I’m totally not projecting. Like all the characters in house of wax dress pretty normal and as someone who dresses out of that ordinary I’d love to see how they would react the them. Thanks for reading my ask! Have a nice day <3 I uh love your writings sm

Ello yes I am still open for request (for 2years now! How fast time flew by!) And hello fellow ftm! I love goths🥰 anyways I had few ideas so here you go! and you too have nice day anon!!

He/him, sfw, Request open

Slashers with goth ftm s/o

Vincent Sinclair

Dude is stealing his clothes lol

Like litteraly, that nice black shirt you bought? You thought you lost it? Nah he has it

Man does s/o make up (the cool goth one) and vice versa

Painting each others nails and shit talking Bo>>

About s/o being ftm. Man doesn't care, he loves him and that's the most important!

Also when he first met s/o he felt a bit shy cuz he looks so epic and menacing. Vince wants to look like it too

Bo Sinclair

Dude often gets jumpscared by s/o. Like imagine him in whole black gothic outfit just eating stuff from fridge at 3am and the only light is coming from fridge. Bo was sure he just witnessed ghost stealing from his fridge

Thinks s/o looks dope asf

Called s/o 'emo boy' once :(

S/o has to explain to him the all difrences between subcultures

Lester Sinclair

Dude ain't complaining, but boi? U will struggle in Forest in those shoes

He is starstruck! You look so stunning man!

He gonna be a bit worried for your outfits cuz they look dope and here you can get easly dirty especially if you want to travel to forest or just go into Bo (or lester) car, its a mess inside

Micheal Myers

👍

He ain't caring

U trans? Cool

U goth? Alright

Dude doesnt care what gender s/o is anyways

But tbh I think that Micheal likes and is more attracted to people who stand out of crowd. The less 'normal looking' he is the better

Man loves his goth bf

Once he was in goofy mood and gave s/o pair of bright pink socks (they are new dont worry). They totally match his ascetic

Billy Lenz

🧍

Sooo

...

Can he borrow those cool shoes?

Can s/o do his make up?

If s/o answers 'no' to any of those questions he gonna have a tantrum and hide under bed untill he calms down

Ate his black lipstick/eyeshadow/idk what goth make-up looks like, you make something up idc

Hacked his Spotify account to lisen to judge s/o music taste

Waaah sorry for few day wait, I died 3times and bought Gta5 so yeah I been busy

[asksythe]

MXTX Interview with Risa Wataya for Subaru Magazine P.3

Risa Wataya: So that’s how it is. Although Lan WangJi is very quiet, he always uses practical actions to protect Wei WuXian's feelings. He’s a character that makes people feel sincere and earnest. I also really liked the scene where he couldn't beat the alcohol and drank until he lost self-control.

Mo Xiang: Lan Wangji is a cute person! Although he is stubborn and cold and not easy for strangers to approach on the outside, but when he loves someone, he is innocent (*) and sensitive, like a teenage girl. He will cry. He will be shy, jealous, and hesitant. He will worry and fret by himself... I like gong like this! The weakness to wine is to show this cute side of Lan Wangji. I think childish gongs are very cute.

(*: the word used here is chun de 纯的. It means ‘pure’ in the mental and emotional sense. As in his love and his feelings are pure and have no other motives or agendas. It’s not pure/innocent as in... well... we all know Lan Wangji’s sexual awakening involves a dream about him r***-ing Wei Wuxian so... It’s not that kind of innocent.)

Risa Wataya: On his forehead, he wears a forehead band, like a headband in Japan. The fact that the forehead band symbolizes self-restraint is also very interesting.

Mo Xiang: In reality, the forehead band also frequently appears on the costumes of classical Chinese literature. So I think it is a kind of ancient Chinese aristocratic jewelry, to emphasize Gusu Lan Shi's nobility (*) but without giving too much meaning at that time… However, later upon investigation, I found that in ancient China, there was a "ceremonial stoicism" (**) of ethics and etiquette, which is also reflected in clothing and jewelry. For example, "hairpin", which means "proper/virtuous posture"... When walking, if the hairpin makes a sound, you need to adjust your posture. Although the exposure of the forehead does not seem to have special meaning, "binding" is reminiscent of "self-restraint.” After considering the behavioral ethics of the ancient Chinese, I developed this “restraint oneself” setting.

(*: the wording here does not actually mean nobility as in a ranking or social class of the time, but in the feelings evoked by Gusu Lan Shi, in the way they conduct themselves, restrain themselves, deny themselves extreme power, in the goals and standards they set for themselves, in the ways they treat other common people in a time where China had an extremely rigid nine-ranked caste system and extensive slave class and slavery system. A sense of beyond the petty squabbles of common mortals. In other words, nobility from the bones)

(**: 礼服克己 Lifu Keji: an ancient manifested philosophy and a type of Asian ascetism where a practitioner must conduct his life, from the smallest, most insignificant details, with extreme restraint and control.) 

Risa Wataya: Ah, so that’s how it is. The plot related to the forehead band is quite interesting. Although looking at the full text, there are a lot of sorrowful, tragic parts, but after adding such interesting details, the mood becomes much lighter.

Mo Xiang: If it's all torture (*), my readers will run away. By the way, the “Aside from the destined person, other people cannot touch the forehead band” detail is something I suddenly thought of during the writing process. I often read classical Chinese martial arts novels (wuxia). The female characters often appear on screen and say: "You have seen my face. You must marry me." "Or "You touch my hand, you're responsible!" (**) But I thought, "Why do women always have to say this?"

(*: modern Chinese slang. It literally means ‘reverse/mistreat.’ It denotes ‘sad, sorrowful’ tones in stories that will make you cry buckets and run away screaming or require times in therapy (Ask the folks reading Erha. They will tell you all about it). Chinese stories are often marked with either ‘mistreat’ or ‘sweet’ to tell readers the tone of the stories. Alternative slangs are ‘glass shards’ and ‘candies.’ It’s a very popular modern Chinese writing technique to mix glass shards and candies, and it’s generally believed there are no great stories without ‘glass shards’ in them. The readers need to cry to remember the stories you are telling. So the vast majority of modern Chinese literature is of the ‘glass shards mixed in candies’ variety. Have fun!)  

(**: Common trope in Wuxia and Xianxia genre. This stems from the strict sexual segregation of ancient China and the rigid customs imposed on women. For thousands of years in China, up until the last one hundred years, it was very normal for daughters of wealthy families to never step foot outside their house, or even their personal wing inside their house, until the day of their wedding. And after their wedding, this process is repeated in their husband’s house.

The traditional saying is that there are only three places for women in this world: the ancestral hall, the kitchen, and the bedroom. This saying is even repeated by Jiang Cheng when talking about Jiang Yanli in the novel.

There’s a lot of emphasis on women maintaining extreme unstained virtue. So there used to be ridiculous things like if you see an unwed woman’s face, then you must take responsibility for her, and so forth. In particular dynasties, it also wasn’t strange for blood feuds or even all-out war to occur because some random dudes saw some particularly protected woman’s face… or touch her hair or that sort of thing.)

"So I wanted to try the same setup on the male character Lan Wangji, adding meaning to the forehead band. That moment when one’s ethics and ceremonial morality codes are broken. This feeling of hysterical panic and discombobulation applied to a male character might be very interesting indeed!” (*)

(*: tone / word choice is especially gleeful at seeing Lan Wangji metaphorically having his chastity slip being stolen by Wei Wuxian)    

Translator note: Hmm, this part the vocabulary is a bit more complex and needing extra explanations than the previous two. I worry that a lot of lingual concepts don’t match up to the English words, or that the same concepts don’t exist at all. Ergo, the abundance of notes. I hope it’s not too disruptive.

That said, after this part 3, I will have to stop for a few days. The reason is because... I have to wait (and beg) for the scan of the next page in the interview. You might not know this, but this interview with MXTX was rumored by Japanese fans for a long time. The result is when it was confirmed, the May-June edition of Subaru magazine was sold out in minutes! People queued up for hours and could not buy it. The magazine originally retails for about 10 USD. But now there are people reselling it for 70 USD and there are plenty of people queuing up to buy those too! So of course... even had I tried... I still would not be able to get even a finger nail on this edition. 

Luckily! I am in this Vietnamese MXTX fan group. A “rich sister” in there was able to acquire a copy and shared a scanned page with the rest of us. The magazine is something of a collector item now, much clout, very envy!! That kind! So the rest of us peons have to wait for the next scanned pages. 

To Be Continued (Pray for me...) 

[sag-dab-sar]

This is an Anti-Robert Graves Blog

While researching Robert Graves White Goddess thing to make sure I understood the claims I have realized just how intensely stupid it is, more so than I realized.

Ableist: "Graves believed that one could be in the true presence of the White Goddess when reading a poem, but in his view, this could be achieved only by a true poet of the wild, and not a classical poet, or even a Romantic poet, of whom he spoke critically: "The typical poet of the 19th-century was physically degenerate, or ailing, addicted to drugs and melancholia, critically unbalanced and a true poet only in his fatalistic regard for the Goddess as the mistress who commanded his destiny".[3]" — From wikipedia's page on the book

Racist: "The whiteness of the Goddess has always been an ambivalent concept. In one sense it is the pleasant whiteness of pearl-barley, or a woman’s body, or milk, or unsmutched snow; in another it is the horrifying whiteness of a corpse, or a spectre, or leprosy…. [p. 361]" & "The Goddess is a lovely, slender woman with a hooked nose, deathly pale face, lips red as rowan-berries, startlingly blue eyes and long fair hair [p 10]" .... dude what the fuck.

Eurocentric: "Poetry began in the matriarchal age, and derives its magic from the moon, not from the sun [p. 372]" Art comes from the moon! And the moon is a woman! Meanwhile Anatolia and Japan both have Female Sun deities. The Supreme deity of the Hittite's is The Sun Goddess of Arinna. One of the highest Kami, rulers of Japan trace their ancestry to her, is the Sun Kami Amaterasu-Ōmikami. But those cultures don't count, they don't have deathly pale faces with red lips, and startling blue eyes like the White Goddess does. Also what about the cultures with male moon Gods. Again Japan has Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto, Mesopotamia has Nanna and Sin, Elam has Napir. No poets came from those cultures? Robert are you just that fucking unlearned—while pretending to be a learned scholar—and racist?

Extremely Anti Semetic: "The third stage of cultural development–the purely patriarchal, in which there are no Goddesses at all–is that of later Judaism, Judaic Christianity, Mahomendanism and Protestant Christianity…. [p. 322]" & "Now the Jews are fast turning “liberal” and both they and the Christians are further away than they ever were from the ascetic holiness to which Ezekiel and his Essene successors hoped to draw the world, and after many theological ups and downs we have come to be governed by the unholy triumvirate of Pluto god of wealth, Apollo god of science and Mercury god of thieves….Unless the ascetic Michael can quickly reorganize his scattered legions of angels for a new puritannical campaign of sexless unworldliness, there can be no escape from the present more than usually miserable state of the world [pp 390-1]" did he seriously just say that the shitty state of the world is all the Jews fault because of their male God .... in 1948.

Part of me wants to actually read this book to appreciate how fucking stupid it is. I don't want to waste my money I don't have a digital copy on my library app :\

Wikipedia

Quote Source

[nicklloydnow]

Illustration by @steve_fagiano_art

“Chigurh stands up to God with an unflinching, uncompromising belief in predetermination—no free will or human choice, no mercy or sentiment, no giving in or letting go or giving up. Principled in the purity of his work, he defies sentiment and falsehood and betrayal. A pure born-again agent of death, anti-Christ Calvinist Chigurh is a man of his deadly word, a relentless avenger, an implacable killer defying God, no less than the diabolic Judge in Blood Meridian. "How to prevail over that which you refuse to acknowledge the existence of" lago was never so clear-minded, Ahab no more manically fixated, Kurtz no less obsessed with his mission to exterminate losers. "The horror! The horror!" What more can a man say of pure evil?” - Kenneth Lincoln, ‘Cormac McCarthy: American Canticles’ (2010) [p. 144, 145]

“Chigurh again adopts the Socratic method in his final encounter with his fellow hitman Carson Wells. Although Wells isn't given the privilege of a coin toss, Chigurh nevertheless engages in an incisive dialogue with his victim. While holding Wells at gunpoint, Chigurh asks, "If the rule you followed led you to this of what use was the rule?" When Wells replies, "I don't know what you're talking about," Chigurh elaborates: "I'm talking about your life. In which now everything can be seen at once." Knowing that the moment of death has arrived, Chigurh wants Wells to examine the path that led him here, claiming that the present situation "calls past events into question" (175). Even though Chigurh admits that he and Wells are in the "same line of work," he finds it necessary to distance himself from the other hit-man: "You think I'm like you. That it's just greed. But I'm not like you. I live a simple life" (177). This distinction between the two hired assassins suggests that Chigurh transcends mere criminality. The "simple life" he leads imbues him with the ascetic austerity of a monk pledged to evil, a satanic reversal of traditional, spiritual roles hinted at by other descriptions of Chigurh as a "faith healer" and a "prophet of destruction" (7, 3). In his study of the portrayal of evil in literature and cinema, Paul Oppenheimer points out that evil often "begins in criminality" but then "surpasses criminality, and finally, by comparison with criminality, overwhelms and belittles it, causing it to seem oddly cumbersome and even childish" (21). Chigurh lives by a different "rule," not motivated by the usual spectrum of human desires and thus remaining largely inscrutable.

It is significant that Wells is given a premonition of his own death exactly three days before it takes place. While examining the damage caused by a shootout between Chigurh and Moss at the Eagle Pass motel, Wells notices "two bulletholes in the windowglass" of a "second floor level" apartment across the street. After knocking on the door and receiving no answer, Wells lets himself in and finds the corpse of an old woman: "She'd been shot through the forehead and had tilted forward leaving part of the back of her skull and a good bit of dried brainmatter stuck to the slat of the rocker behind her. . . . A second shot had marked a date on a calendar on the wall behind her that was three days hence" (147). The path of the stray bullet converges with the path of the unsuspecting woman, much as Chigurh's coin converges with the equally unsuspecting gas station owner earlier in the novel. The woman's death reminds Wells of the inexorable machinations of fate: "Not what you had in mind at all, was it darling?" he asks (148). Wells correctly interprets the mark on the calendar as a portent of the day of his own impending death.

During the final encounter, he tells Chigurh, "By the old woman's calendar I've got three more minutes. Well the hell with it. I think I saw all this coming a long time ago. Almost like a dream. Déja vu." Well's words reveal that he had a vision of his own death long before he saw the calendar. Nevertheless, the question posed by Chigurh, namely, "How did you let yourself get in this situation?" suggest that it was still within Wells's power to make different choices, live by a different "rule," and thereby change his fate. Chigurh encourages Wells to engage in a final moment of self-reflection: "I thought you might want to explain yourself. . . . Not to me. To yourself" (178). Chigurh's questions seem to be directing Wells toward something akin to the existentialist concept of authentic existence, which, though "not clearly defined by the existentialists . . . implies an attitude of sincerity and honesty and the absence of self-deception" (de Silva 1). Furthermore, it is a mode of existence based on "a realization that one is what one makes oneself by one's acts" (Manser 20). It is worth mentioning that Sheriff Bell strives for the same realization: "It's a life's work to see yourself for what you really are and even then you might be wrong. And that is somethin I dont want to be wrong about" (295). Despite the fact that Bell and Chigurh are diametrically opposed in a Manichean battle between good and evil, respectively, both men insist on the importance of authentic existence arrived at through knowledge of the self.

Existentialist themes are also apparent in Chigurh's attempts to make his victims come to terms with the inevitability of death. He accuses Wells of believing that he can keep death at bay: "You think that as long as you keep looking at me you can put it off." Wells denies thinking such a thing, but Chigurh insists, "Yes you do. You should admit your situation. There would be more dignity in it. I'm trying to help you" (176). Behind the "existential preoccupation with the theme of death" is the belief that "living authentically is living constantly in its presence, for then alone can we attain 'freedom in the face of death" (Dutt 80). When Wells accuses Chigurh of thinking that he is "outside of everything" and reminds him that he is "not outside of death," Chigurh replies, "It doesnt mean to me what it does to you" (177). The reply can be read in two ways, the surface reading being that Chigurh has adopted an existentialist approach to death. More subtly, however, the words hint at the idea that Chigurh is no ordinary mortal and may perhaps be Death itself, albeit a modern version that carries a pneumatic stun-bolt gun instead of the traditional scythe.

Wells grows weary of the conversation, announcing, "I'm not interested in your opinions. . . . Just do it. You goddamned psychopath. Do it and goddamn you to hell." Despite the verbal command, Wells's body language suggests that he is not quite ready: "He closed his eyes and he turned his head and he raised one hand to fend away what could not be fended away. Chigurh shot him in the face" (177). Although there is some discrepancy between Wells's words and his reaction to the shot, the fact that Wells commands it enables him to reclaim a certain degree of control over his fate, however insignificant it may appear. Furthermore, McCarthy makes a point of informing the reader that the "new day was still a minute away" (178), thereby emphasizing the fact that the old woman's calendar was not entirely accurate. The fact that, by asking Chigurh to shoot him a minute early, Wells refuses to die on the prophesied day suggests that even within a universe ruled by seemingly inexorable forces of fate, minute degrees of free will and personal agency remain.” - Petra Mundik, ‘A Bloody and Barbarous God: The Metaphysics of Cormac McCarthy’ (2016) [p. 268 - 270]

“The Coen brothers built a story of war between two teams: one team represent the human mind wish to understand the world and the second team represent the universe as a chaos. During the first half of the movie the war looks good for the human mind team but then the human mind team lose – a beatiful metaphor for absurdism.

(…)

Result of the war:

Anton kills Carson, Llewelyn is killed by Mexicans, and the sheriff is retired loosing hope in the world.

The Coen brothers message in this film is that they do not think humans mind will ever be able to understand the world and we are doom to internal ignorance. Depressing.”

[goqmir]

hey magic the gatheringers, ive been rebuilding my favorite edh decks and hyperfixating on them lately so i just wanted to make a pretty lil post about them offering them to anyone who wants to play em :) these are my favorite decks right now and ive just run through and adjusted the decklists of all of them in the last couple days so they're fresh and ready to perform <3

the first deck is Rocco Cast From Exile!

the third rework of this decklist with the new cards from CLU really cemented that this is my favorite deck i've ever made. Rocco, Street Chef plays kingpin to a unique Naya value pile built around playing cards from exile!

this deck is similar to Prosper, who is unfortunately the face of Cast From Exile-- but unlike Prosper, this commander and the other options for CFE payoffs you get in Naya are super interesting and cool :) you get [[Feldorn]], [[Pia Nalaar]], [[Quintorius Kand]], as well as fun cheapening effects like [[Liara Portyr]] and [[Tlincalli Hunter]] on top of the delightful cascade effects green gets!

you also get to play around with +1/+1 counters (Rocco might be the best commander of all time at like... putting +1/+1s on specific individual creatures honestly??) and the magic that is food tokens (which are getting stronger and stronger each passing set). furthermore, Rocco impulse draws for your opponents, which means you get to encourage them to make tough decisions! do they play their combo piece from exile, feeding your deck? (Rocco is so efficient that they will soon learn that the answer to that question is almost always no... but you can always pretend that you're playing group hug and giving them free cards until they figure that out!)

this deck gets a lot of mana and builds up a monstrous board state very quickly. as far as individual value pieces go, be on the lookout for [[Jaheria, Friend of the Forest]], [[Inspiring Statuary]], and [[Night of the Sweets' Revenge]] for ways to make an unreal amount of mana. [[Herd Baloth]] and [[Faldorn]] will get you tokens for every card played from exile, and i would say are the main things giving you a monstrous board. don't sleep on the cascaders and thieves either-- every extra card obtained from things like [[Bloodbraid Elf]] or the Etalis net you another Cast From Exile trigger!

Naya Cast From Exile is weird and awesome and I highly recommend playing and building in this design space :) there's a lot of Naya CFE cards that work but I cut from the deck, and they give us more cards and commanders for the archetype all the time. this is definitely my favorite deck i've ever made <3

the second deck i'd like to show off is my Oloro Control decklist!

i've always been the interaction player at the table. you might find that these decklists are a bit heavy on the interaction for you actually-- i truly believe disruption is like. so important. especially when you're playing for value rather than combos like i do ^_^

so here is my dedicated Esper Control decklist! Oloro is there to keep you topped off and to draw you cards-- by playing this deck it really does net you anywhere from 10-40 extra life in a given game in my experience just by playing him. and the card draw on Oloro is pretty insane, enabling you to find the necessary ramp and bombs to end the game after you've disrupted every combo at the table :) personally i don't like Oloro the character very much at all-- don't know why, but he's a little difficult for me to look at. i personally have a custom proxy that replaces Oloro with Grusha :3

this Control deck is all about gaining slow and steady value while ensuring the bad things aren't sent your way. there are some stax pieces here, but not very strict ones-- your goal is to remain innocuous while you get the mana and cards to play your bombs and your opponents hopefully go at each other. the bombs in question are things like [[Debt to the Deathless]], [[Expropriate]], [[Torment of Hailfire]], planeswalkers like [[Sorin Markov]], and creatures that amass you value quickly like [[Drogskol Reaver]] and [[Sunscorch Regent]]. you gain life, shut down your opponents, and force unwinnable situations or knock out opponents with big bombs. it's fun!

the third deck is Vadrok Inevitable Betrayal Combo!

Vadrok here is the final fruit of my obsession with the 0 cmc suspend cards I went through a few months back. after toying with pretty much ever one in turn, Vadrok is the one that stuck around because he plays so interestingly and truly warps your table's metagame if you bring him out enough times.

let's get into the weeds: the combo here is a pretty simple one-- Vadrok is one of (and the only legendary) engine that allows you to play cards from your graveyard without exiling them after, done by mutating. [[Inevitable Betrayal]] is a 0 mana cost blue spell that takes a creature from an opponent's deck and puts it onto the battlefield under your control. The combo, then, is a gradual one: use a spell to discard Inevitable Betrayal, and mutate onto Vadrok. each mutate plays Inevitable Betrayal for free, allowing you to cheat out an opponent's creature each time. this is strong.

the deck features a suite of tutors, a variety of ways to discard cards, and every mutate card in Jeskai (except the one whose mutate cost is six mana :P). the combo is surprisingly low to the ground and quick, allowing for turn one/two discards and turn three Vadrok mutates at times. however, it's often worth waiting to mutate Vadrok onto a creature with Hexproof to ensure little interruption as you swarm the board with your opponents' best hits.

this deck, of course, relies heavily on your opponents' decks then. which is why this deck is so metagame-warping-- even at more casual tables, you'll probably see your friends take their funny eldrazi and craterhoofs out of their decks because you're so prone to winning with them. personally, i find that delightful! i tend to cycle deck usage anyway, so it's cute to steal a bunch of things for a couple weeks, have my opponents edit their decklists to remove my hits, lose interest in the deck, and come back a couple months later and steal the good hits in their new decks, repeat :) its fun having a deck that warps metagames with its presence alone.

the final deck id like to talk about is my Silvar and Trynn Humans decklist!

mardu is delightful and for the longest time i couldn't find a mardu commander i ever wanted to build! finally though, i stumbled across these two :) the art on them is so gorgeous! i love ikoria.

this deck is very fun! the only typal deck on the list, humans is a very fun type to build around and you get access to so many bangers in mardu. this deck is all about building a board of as many humans as you possibly can, then sacking them all to put 17 +1/+1 counters on Silvar and start swinging for commander lethal. how that is done is different every game, with so many fun human pieces and interaction pieces that each game feels very distinctly different from the last more so than any of the other decks discussed on this post. furthermore, mardu offers my favorite interaction suite of all time, so it's always a pleasure to play with.

teehee anyway thats my decks ive been hyperfixating on! feel free to give em a try :) sqrrk!!

[incorrectmahabharatquotes]

HI! I've been reading through some old posts and i was wondering if you could explain how Arjun did raas with lord krishna? <3

Hello!

So the bit you're referring to is not actually from the Mahabharat. It's from the Padma Purana's pātāla-khanda.

This tiny story is a part of the dialogue that occurs between two people in the future as is the typical narrative style of these tales. It goes something like:

Arjun is curious to know all sorts of details about the raas-leela- where does it happen, how many gopis are there, who are they etc etc. Krishna is cryptic, as usual, and tells him that a man simply cannot perceive it even if the said man is more precious to him than life itself to him. Therefore, it's no use asking. Arjun is Disappointed™. Krishna is soft for him so he tells him it's fine and that he shouldn't worry about it because he'll see for himself. Then he instructs him to go to a goddess(Tripāsundari, to be exact) who will help him.

Arjun goes to her, prays to her and calls to her. She appears, pleased by his devotion and adoration. She also asks him a rhetorical question, that I personally find funny, which basically is along the lines of "What makes you so special that Krishna is letting you have this one thing that no other mortal, deity or ascetic can have?" She doesn't wait for an answer, because I think she already knew and then proceeds to give Arjun a list of prayer related tasks to worship her properly. After he follows her instructions, she and her friend show him Radha's house and vrindavan. Then she tells him to take dip in an auspicious lake and he does and emerges as a beautiful woman.

(At this point, I will be using she/her pronouns for Arjun/Arjuni because that's what the story says.)

Arjuni rises from the lake, having forgotten everything about her male self. There's a lot of poetic waxing about how alluring and attractive her voice, physicality and personality are. She happens upon a bunch of women(the gopis, obviously) who are equally as beautiful and charming as her. All the gopis are very lovely, actually and ask her who she is and how she happened to end up there and kind of soothe Arjuni's anxiety and then all of them introduce themselves. They say that they used to sages in their past life and are now gopis who participate in raas leela with Krishna.

They take her to lake, play with her, bathe her etc etc. It's all VERY sapphic, trust me. There's also a lot of praying involved. After the initiation is over, Arjuni meets Radha. More praying and devotion.

Pleased by all this devotion, Krishna asks Radha to bring Arjuni to him who promptly breaks out into sweaty excitement upon seeing him.

(Okay, now, I guess I'm obligated to inform you that what follows is very...sexual in nature. BUT a lot of Indian spiritual texts consider the sexual and the spiritual to be interconnected. Take from this what you will, I guess.)

The text goes on to describe Krishna's body in HEAVY detail (including equating his thighs to tree trunks?) that makes me genuinely worried that whoever wrote this was incredibly horny. He takes her hand and they um... participate in the leela.

When it's over, Arjuni is Exhausted from all the activity and Krishna tells her to go take a dip in the lake again. She does.

(Back to he/him pronouns people, keep up.)

Arjun surfaces and is dejected from the loss of something so wonderful. Krishna consoles him by saying that they are Dear Friends, as the historians say, and that only he knows something that no one else in three loka does. And if Arjun tells anyone what he has experienced he will curse Krishna. Again, hilarious because if you remember I said that this story is being told to us in a dialogue of TWO DIFFERENT PEOPLE. Which means other people already know. Clownery of the highest order, really.

And then they go home. The end?

I hope this helps. I paraphrased a lot but I couldn't just paste the entire thing here. I've given you all the tools to go search for orginal text and translation yourself.

TL: DR Arjun gets instant lake-HRT for one night, participates in the raas-leela, and then goes home.

-Mod S

[orthodoxadventure]

5th Sunday of Great Lent: St Mary of Egypt

Commemorated on April 21

In you, O Mother, was preserved with exactness what was according to the image; for you took up the Cross and followed Christ. By so doing, you taught us to disregard the flesh, for it passes away; but to care for the soul, since it is immortal. Therefore, O Venerable Mary, your spirit rejoices with the Angels.

Saint Zosimas (April 4) was a monk at a certain Palestinian monastery on the outskirts of Caesarea. Having dwelt at the monastery since his childhood, he lived there in asceticism until he reached the age of fifty-three. Then he was disturbed by the thought that he had attained perfection, and needed no one to instruct him. “Is there a monk anywhere who can show me some form of asceticism that I have not attained? Is there anyone who has surpassed me in spiritual sobriety and deeds?”

Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared to him and said, “Zosimas, you have struggled valiantly, as far as this is in the power of man. However, there is no one who is righteous (Rom 3:10). So that you may know how many other ways lead to salvation, leave your native land, like Abraham from the house of his father (Gen 12:1), and go to the monastery by the Jordan.”

Abba Zosimas immediately left the monastery, and following the angel, he went to the Jordan monastery and settled in it.

Here he met Elders who were adept in contemplation, and also in their struggles. Never did anyone utter an idle word. Instead, they sang constantly, and prayed all night long. Abba Zosimas began to imitate the spiritual activity of the holy monks.

Thus much time passed, and the holy Forty Day Fast approached. There was a certain custom at the monastery, which was why God had led Saint Zosimas there. On the First Sunday of Great Lent the igumen served the Divine Liturgy, everyone received the All-Pure Body and Blood of Christ. Afterwards, they went to the trapeza for a small repast, and then assembled once more in church.

The monks prayed and made prostrations, asking forgiveness one of another. Then they made a prostration before the igumen and asked his blessing for the struggle that lay before them. During the Psalm “The Lord is my Light and my Savior, whom shall I fear? The Lord is defender of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?” (Ps 26/27:1), they opened the monastery gate and went off into the wilderness.

Each took with him as much food as he needed, and went into the desert. When their food ran out, they ate roots and desert plants. The monks crossed the Jordan and scattered in various directions, so that no one might see how another fasted or how they spent their time.

The monks returned to the monastery on Palm Sunday, each having his own conscience as a witness of his ascetic struggles. It was a rule of the monastery that no one asked how anyone else had toiled in the desert.

Abba Zosimas, according to the custom of the monastery, went deep into the desert hoping to find someone living there who could benefit him.

He walked into the wilderness for twenty days and then, when he sang the Psalms of the Sixth Hour and made the usual prayers. Suddenly, to the right of the hill where he stood, he saw a human form. He was afraid, thinking that it might be a demonic apparition. Then he guarded himself with the Sign of the Cross, which removed his fear. He turned to the right and saw a form walking southward. The body was black from the blazing sunlight, and the faded short hair was white like a sheep’s fleece. Abba Zosimas rejoiced, since he had not seen any living thing for many days.

The desert-dweller saw Zosimas approaching, and attempted to flee from him. Abba Zosimas, forgetting his age and fatigue, quickened his pace. When he was close enough to be heard, he called out, “Why do you flee from me, a sinful old man? Wait for me, for the love of God.”

The stranger said to him, “Forgive me, Abba Zosimas, but I cannot turn and show my face to you. I am a woman, and as you see, I am naked. If you would grant the request of a sinful woman, throw me your cloak so I might cover my body, and then I can ask for your blessing.”

Then Abba Zosimas was terrified, realizing that she could not have called him by name unless she possessed spiritual insight.

Covered by the cloak, the ascetic turned to Zosimas: “Why do you want to speak with me, a sinful woman? What did you wish to learn from me, you who have not shrunk from such great labors?”

Abba Zosimas fell to the ground and asked for her blessing. She also bowed down before him, and for a long time they remained on the ground each asking the other to bless. Finally, the woman ascetic said: “Abba Zosimas, you must bless and pray, since you are honored with the grace of the priesthood. For many years you have stood before the holy altar, offering the Holy Gifts to the Lord.”

These words frightened Saint Zosimas even more. With tears he said to her, “O Mother! It is clear that you live with God and are dead to this world. You have called me by name and recognized me as a priest, though you have never seen me before. The grace granted you is apparent, therefore bless me, for the Lord’s sake.”

Yielding finally to his entreaties, she said, “Blessed is God, Who cares for the salvation of men.” Abba Zosimas replied, “Amen.” Then they rose to their feet. The woman ascetic again said to the Elder, “Why have you come, Father, to me who am a sinner, bereft of every virtue? Apparently, the grace of the Holy Spirit has brought you to do me a service. But tell me first, Abba, how do the Christians live, how is the Church guided?”

Abba Zosimas answered her, “By your holy prayers God has granted the Church and us all a lasting peace. But fulfill my unworthy request, Mother, and pray for the whole world and for me a sinner, that my wanderings in the desert may not be useless.”

The holy ascetic replied, “You, Abba Zosimas, as a priest, ought to pray for me and for all, for you are called to do this. However, since we must be obedient, I will do as you ask.

The saint turned toward the East, and raising her eyes to heaven and stretching out her hands, she began to pray in a whisper. She prayed so softly that Abba Zosimas could not hear her words. After a long time, the Elder looked up and saw her standing in the air more than a foot above the ground. Seeing this, Zosimas threw himself down on the ground, weeping and repeating, “Lord, have mercy!”

Then he was tempted by a thought. He wondered if she might not be a spirit, and if her prayer could be insincere. At that moment she turned around, lifted him from the ground and said, “Why do your thoughts confuse you, Abba Zosimas? I am not an apparition. I am a sinful and unworthy woman, though I am guarded by holy Baptism.”

Then she made the Sign of the Cross and said, “May God protect us from the Evil One and his schemes, for fierce is his struggle against us.” Seeing and hearing this, the Elder fell at her feet with tears saying, “I beseech you by Christ our God, do not conceal from me who you are and how you came into this desert. Tell me everything, so that the wondrous works of God may be revealed.”

She replied, “It distresses me, Father, to speak to you about my shameless life. When you hear my story, you might flee from me, as if from a poisonous snake. But I shall tell you everything, Father, concealing nothing. However, I exhort you, cease not to pray for me a sinner, that I may find mercy on the Day of Judgment.

“I was born in Egypt and when I was twelve years old, I left my parents and went to Alexandria. There I lost my chastity and gave myself to unrestrained and insatiable sensuality. For more than seventeen years I lived like that and I did it all for free. Do not think that I refused the money because I was rich. I lived in poverty and worked at spinning flax. To me, life consisted in the satisfaction of my fleshly lust.

“One summer I saw a crowd of people from Libya and Egypt heading toward the sea. They were on their way to Jerusalem for the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. I also wanted to sail with them. Since I had no food or money, I offered my body in payment for my passage. And so I embarked on the ship.

“Now, Father, believe me, I am very amazed, that the sea tolerated my wantonness and fornication, that the earth did not open up its mouth and take me down alive into hell, because I had ensnared so many souls. I think that God was seeking my repentance. He did not desire the death of a sinner, but awaited my conversion.

“So I arrived in Jerusalem and spent all the days before the Feast living the same sort of life, and maybe even worse.

“When the holy Feast of the Exaltation of the Venerable Cross of the Lord arrived, I went about as before, looking for young men. At daybreak I saw that everyone was heading to the church, so I went along with the rest. When the hour of the Holy Elevation drew nigh, I was trying to enter into the church with all the people. With great effort I came almost to the doors, and attempted to squeeze inside. Although I stepped up to the threshold, it was as though some force held me back, preventing me from entering. I was brushed aside by the crowd, and found myself standing alone on the porch. I thought that perhaps this happened because of my womanly weakness. I worked my way into the crowd, and again I attempted to elbow people aside. However hard I tried, I could not enter. Just as my feet touched the church threshold, I was stopped. Others entered the church without difficulty, while I alone was not allowed in. This happened three or four times. Finally my strength was exhausted. I went off and stood in a corner of the church portico.

“Then I realized that it was my sins that prevented me from seeing the Life-Creating Wood. The grace of the Lord then touched my heart. I wept and lamented, and I began to beat my breast. Sighing from the depths of my heart, I saw above me an icon of the Most Holy Theotokos. Turning to Her, I prayed: “O Lady Virgin, who gave birth in the flesh to God the Word! I know that I am unworthy to look upon your icon. I rightly inspire hatred and disgust before your purity, but I know also that God became Man in order to call sinners to repentance. Help me, O All-Pure One. Let me enter the church. Allow me to behold the Wood upon which the Lord was crucified in the flesh, shedding His Blood for the redemption of sinners, and also for me. Be my witness before Your Son that I will never defile my body again with the impurity of fornication. As soon as I have seen the Cross of your Son, I will renounce the world, and go wherever you lead me.”

“After I had spoken, I felt confidence in the compassion of the Mother of God, and left the spot where I had been praying. I joined those entering the church, and no one pushed me back or prevented me from entering. I went on in fear and trembling, and entered the holy place.

“Thus I also saw the Mysteries of God, and how God accepts the penitant. I fell to the holy ground and kissed it. Then I hastened again to stand before the icon of the Mother of God, where I had given my vow. Bending my knees before the Virgin Theotokos, I prayed:

“‘O Lady, you have not rejected my prayer as unworthy. Glory be to God, Who accepts the repentance of sinners. It is time for me to fulfill my vow, which you witnessed. Therefore, O Lady, guide me on the path of repentance.’”

“Then I heard a voice from on high: ‘If you cross the Jordan, you will find glorious rest.’

“I immediately believed that this voice was meant for me, and I cried out to the Mother of God: ‘O Lady, do not forsake me!’

“Then I left the church portico and started on my journey. A certain man gave me three coins as I was leaving the church. With them I bought three loaves of bread, and asked the bread merchant the way to the Jordan.

“It was nine o’clock when I saw the Cross. At sunset I reached the church of Saint John the Baptist on the banks of the Jordan. After praying in the church, I went down to the Jordan and washed my face and hands in its water. Then in this same temple of Saint John the Forerunner I received the Life-Creating Mysteries of Christ. Then I ate half of one of my loaves of bread, drank water from the holy Jordan, and slept there that night on the ground. In the morning I found a small boat and crossed the river to the opposite shore. Again I prayed that the Mother of God would lead me where She wished. Then I found myself in this desert.”

Abba Zosimas asked her, “How many years have passed since you began to live in the desert?”

“‘I think,” she replied, “it is forty-seven years since I came from the Holy City.”

Abba Zosimas again asked, “What food do you find here, Mother?”

And she said, “I had with me two and a half loaves of bread when I crossed the Jordan. Soon they dried out and hardened Eating a little at a time, I finished them after a few years.”

Again Abba Zosimas asked, “Is it possible you have survived for so many years without sickness, and without suffering in any way from such a complete change?”

“Believe me, Abba Zosimas,” the woman said, “I spent seventeen years in this wilderness (after she had spent seventeen years in immorality), fighting wild beasts: mad desires and passions. When I began to eat bread, I thought of the meat and fish which I had in abundance in Egypt. I also missed the wine that I loved so much when I was in the world, while here I did not even have water. I suffered from thirst and hunger. I also had a mad desire for lewd songs. I seemed to hear them, disturbing my heart and my hearing. Weeping and striking myself on the breast, I remembered the vow I had made. At last I beheld a radiant Light shining on me from everywhere. After a violent tempest, a lasting calm ensued.

“Abba, how shall I tell you of the thoughts that urged me on to fornication? A fire seemed to burn within me, awakening in me the desire for embraces. Then I would throw myself to the ground and water it with my tears. I seemed to see the Most Holy Virgin before me, and She seemed to threaten me for not keeping my vow. I lay face downward day and night upon the ground, and would not get up until that blessed Light encircled me, dispelling the evil thoughts that troubled me.

“Thus I lived in this wilderness for the first seventeen years. Darkness after darkness, misery after misery stood about me, a sinner. But from that time until now the Mother of God helps me in everything.”

Abba Zosimas again inquired, “How is it that you require neither food, nor clothing?”

She answered, “After finishing my bread, I lived on herbs and the things one finds in the desert. The clothes I had when I crossed over the Jordan became torn and fell apart. I suffered both from the summer heat, when the blazing heat fell upon me, and from the winter cold, when I shivered from the frost. Many times I fell down upon the earth, as though dead. I struggled with various afflictions and temptations. But from that time until the present day, the power of God has guarded my sinful soul and humble body. I was fed and clothed by the all-powerful word of God, since man does not live by bread alone, but by every word proceeding from the mouth of God (Dt 8:3, Mt.4:4, Luke 4:4), and those who have put off the old man (Col 3:9) have no refuge, hiding themselves in the clefts of the rocks (Job 24:8, Heb 11:38). When I remember from what evil and from what sins the Lord delivered me, I have imperishible food for salvation.”

When Abba Zosimas heard that the holy ascetic quoted the Holy Scripture from memory, from the Books of Moses and Job and from the Psalms of David, he then asked the woman, “Mother, have you read the Psalms and other books?”

She smiled at hearing this question, and answered, “Believe me, I have seen no human face but yours from the time that I crossed over the Jordan. I never learned from books. I have never heard anyone read or sing from them. Perhaps the Word of God, which is alive and acting, teaches man knowledge by itself (Col 3:16, 1 Thess 2:13). This is the end of my story. As I asked when I began, I beg you for the sake of the Incarnate Word of God, holy Abba, pray for me, a sinner.

“Furthermore, I beg you, for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior, tell no one what you have heard from me, until God takes me from this earth. Next year, during Great Lent, do not cross the Jordan, as is the custom of your monastery.”

Again Abba Zosimas was amazed, that the practice of his monastery was known to the holy woman ascetic, although he had not said anything to her about this.

“Remain at the monastery,” the woman continued. “Even if you try to leave the monastery, you will not be able to do so. On Great and Holy Thursday, the day of the Lord’s Last Supper, place the Life-Creating Body and Blood of Christ our God in a holy vessel, and bring it to me. Await me on this side of the Jordan, at the edge of the desert, so that I may receive the Holy Mysteries. And say to Abba John, the igumen of your community, ‘Look to yourself and your brothers’ (1 Tim 4:16), for there is much that needs correction. Do not say this to him now, but when the Lord shall indicate.”

Asking for his prayers, the woman turned and vanished into the depths of the desert.

For a whole year Elder Zosimas remained silent, not daring to reveal to anyone what he had seen, and he prayed that the Lord would grant him to see the holy ascetic once more.

When the first week of Great Lent came again, Saint Zosimas was obliged to remain at the monastery because of sickness. Then he remembered the woman’s prophetic words that he would not be able to leave the monastery. After several days went by, Saint Zosimas was healed of his infirmity, but he remained at the monastery until Holy Week.

On Holy Thursday, Abba Zosimas did what he had been ordered to do. He placed some of the Body and Blood of Christ into a chalice, and some food in a small basket. Then he left the monastery and went to the Jordan and waited for the ascetic. The saint seemed tardy, and Abba Zosimas prayed that God would permit him to see the holy woman.

Finally, he saw her standing on the far side of the river. Rejoicing, Saint Zosimas got up and glorified God. Then he wondered how she could cross the Jordan without a boat. She made the Sign of the Cross over the water, then she walked on the water and crossed the Jordan. Abba Zosimas saw her in the moonlight, walking toward him. When the Elder wanted to make prostration before her, she forbade him, crying out, “What are you doing, Abba? You are a priest and you carry the Holy Mysteries of God.”

Reaching the shore, she said to Abba Zosimas, “Bless me, Father.” He answered her with trembling, astonished at what he had seen. “Truly God did not lie when he promised that those who purify themselves will be like Him. Glory to You, O Christ our God, for showing me through your holy servant, how far I am from perfection.”

The woman asked him to recite both the Creed and the “Our Father.” When the prayers were finished, she partook of the Holy Mysteries of Christ. Then she raised her hands to the heavens and said, “Lord, now let Your servant depart in peace, for my eyes have seen Your salvation.”

The saint turned to the Elder and said, “Please, Abba, fulfill another request. Go now to your monastery, and in a year’s time come to the place where we first time spoke.”

He said, “If only it were possible for me to follow you and always see your holy face!”

She replied, “For the Lord’s sake, pray for me and remember my wrechedness.”

Again she made the Sign of the Cross over the Jordan, and walked over the water as before, and disappeared into the desert. Zosimas returned to the monastery with joy and terror, reproaching himself because he had not asked the saint’s name. He hoped to do so the following year.

A year passed, and Abba Zosimas went into the desert. He reached the place where he first saw the holy woman ascetic. She lay dead, with arms folded on her bosom, and her face was turned to the east. Abba Zosimas washed her feet with his tears and kissed them, not daring to touch anything else. For a long while he wept over her and sang the customary Psalms, and said the funeral prayers. He began to wonder whether the saint would want him to bury her or not. Hardly had he thought this, when he saw something written on the ground near her head: “Abba Zosimas, bury on this spot the body of humble Mary. Return to dust what is dust. Pray to the Lord for me. I reposed on the first day of April, on the very night of the saving Passion of Christ, after partaking of the Mystical Supper.”

Reading this note, Abba Zosimas was glad to learn her name. He then realized that Saint Mary, after receiving the Holy Mysteries from his hand, was transported instantaneously to the place where she died, though it had taken him twenty days to travel that distance.

Glorifying God, Abba Zosimas said to himself, “It is time to do what she asks. But how can I dig a grave, with nothing in my hands?” Then he saw a small piece of wood left by some traveler. He picked it up and began to dig. The ground was hard and dry, and he could not dig it. Looking up, Abba Zosimas saw an enormous lion standing by the saint’s body and licking her feet. Fear gripped the Elder, but he guarded himself with the Sign of the Cross, believing that he would remain unharmed through the prayers of the holy woman ascetic. Then the lion came close to the Elder, showing its friendliness with every movement. Abba Zosimas commanded the lion to dig the grave, in order to bury Saint Mary’s body. At his words, the lion dug a hole deep enough to bury the body. Then each went his own way. The lion went into the desert, and Abba Zosimas returned to the monastery, blessing and praising Christ our God.

Arriving at the monastery, Abba Zosimas related to the monks and the igumen, what he had seen and heard from Saint Mary. All were astonished, hearing about the miracles of God. They always remembered Saint Mary with faith and love on the day of her repose.

Abba John, the igumen of the monastery, heeded the words of Saint Mary, and with the help of God corrected the things that were wrong at the monastery. Abba Zosimas lived a God-pleasing life at the monastery, reaching nearly a hundred years of age. There he finished his temporal life, and passed into life eternal.

The monks passed on the life of Saint Mary of Egypt by word of mouth without writing it down.

“I however,” says Saint Sophronius of Jerusalem (March 11), “wrote down the Life of Saint Mary of Egypt as I heard it from the holy Fathers. I have recorded everything, putting the truth above all else.”

“May God, Who works great miracles and bestows gifts on all who turn to Him in faith, reward those who hear or read this account, and those who copy it. May he grant them a blessed portion together with Saint Mary of Egypt and with all the saints who have pleased God by their pious thoughts and works. Let us give glory to God, the Eternal King, that we may find mercy on the Day of Judgment through our Lord Jesus Christ, to Whom is due all glory, honor, majesty and worship together with the Unoriginate Father, and the Most Holy and Life-Creating Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages. Amen.”

[Text from OCA]

Having been a sinful woman, you became a Bride of Christ through repentance. Having attained the angelic life, you defeated demons by the weapon of the Cross; therefore, O most glorious Mary you are a Bride of the Kingdom.

[circledemptiness]

Full Bloom

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairing: Abdirak x Reader Rating: Explicit +18 Tags: Overstimulation, squirting, oral, anal, aftercare, pleasure dom Abdirak

✦ Part 2 of Red Petals ✦ Read on AO3

A night spent with Abdirak, where your lover challenges your endurance and unravels the depths of your limits, bringing you closer to the edge of both pleasure and vulnerability.

You're not sure how much time has passed. All that exists is the fierce, relentless spasm of your muscles, like infernal eels writhing beneath your skin, the tight tension twisting in your stomach, rolling with a rhythmic intensity as if lightning surged through your entire being, and the raw wounds on your back searing as they press against the linens of the mattress, drenched in blood, sweat, and other fluids.

Abdirak finds your suffering and endurance particularly majestic, witnessing your growing evolution with each passing day. For months, since you left your hometown to follow him, he has shaped you, honing your endurance with a steadfast, almost ascetic dedication befitting a Priest of Loviatar. Throughout, he has been your guide, nurturing your faith with unwavering patience and kindness.

Each time a ritual concludes and euphoria pulses through your veins, Abdirak's role, fulfilled in the name of Loviatar, transforms into something more primal. He revels in the view of your strained, bloodied and marked body, never missing an opportunity to tell you how alluring you are in your state of exhaustion after your perfect offering to your Goddess, his eyes brimming with a now familiar hunger. His praise spills from his lips, warm and fervent, as his mouth claims yours, his mind burning with a singular desire to hold you not as a priest guiding a follower, but as a man embracing his lover.

Sometimes, your intimacy is tender, a soft union between two souls seeking to merge as one, driven by mutual desire and shared sentiment. But more often, his appetite for consensual pain and the dark edges of pleasure bleed in your shared existence. You’ve come to embrace this side of yourself; a facet that had been dormant, waiting to be awakened under his influence.

Abdirak takes pride in the changes he witnesses, the way your body learns to endure, bending but never breaking under his meticulous hand. He expertly navigates the edge of your limits, knowing precisely how far he can push without overstepping. Lately, you’ve begun to explore his boundaries as well, tentatively, still constrained by inexperience. Yet his patience and devotion make him a willing partner in your experiments, guiding you with the same fervor he uses to lead you through rituals.

But tonight, like so many before, he’s the one guiding the exploration. In the intimate clutch of the night, after another ritual that left your back laced with the sting of a harsh flogging, he claims your body in a way only he is allowed to, enraptured by your shared surrender.

For hours, your clitoris has remained taut, the flushed pearl throbbing in agony as overstimulated nerves send sharp, repeated waves coursing through your body. Abdirak's thumb keeps tracing relentless circles over it, pausing his motion only occasionally to spit, offering a thin, fleeting hint of lubrication –an inadequate imitation of true pleasure.

But the worst part of this exquisite torture might be having your stuffed cunt being mercilessly and repeatedly penetrated, for what feels like an eternity, each thrust bringing a searing pain and an intense burning sensation within your swollen core. The glass cylinder, embedded with delicate bumps and ridges that drags along your walls, pumps in and out at a steady, unyielding pace despite the guttural groans and ragged noises spilling from your parched throat. Abdirak’s grip remains unwavering, maintaining control with unrelenting care.

You can feel the puffiness and swelling of your tormented insides, even as the relentless blend of pain and pleasure from the instrument overwhelms your senses. Thick, creamy juices seep from your overstimulated entrance, trickling down your ass and smearing over the cylinder. Each thrust coats Abdirak's hand, his knuckles pressing firmly against your folds as he bottoms out.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve climaxed; you only know the searing ache that courses through your body as every nerve twitches and tightens. Your muscles tremble and weaken, your cries echo in the room as sweat drenches your skin, and your eyes roll in the back of your skull with the sheer intensity of your orgasm. 

You begged him to stop, but he doesn’t; not until you use the word you agreed on for when your intimate moments get out of hand. Your body is succumbing to the relentless pressure and overstimulation, each wave of pleasure breaking you further. Your insides tense under the onslaught of shattering ecstasy, and you feel yourself gush a warm stream of liquid, soaking the mattress, his arm, and sometimes even reaching his stomach, now glistening with what you might consider your defeat –what he would call your success.

Abdirak stifles a groan when he discovers the fountain within you, murmuring tender praises as he leans in to press a kiss against your forehead, a gesture of pure adoration.

"You’re enduring so beautifully, my lamb." His words are gentle and warm, and you could almost come once more with how reverent he sounds, but your fractured brain can barely process anything anymore. Instead, you sob pathetically, your body too drained to even resist, trembling violently as you let his torment stretch on... and on. 

Meanwhile, Abdirak coos soft, coaxing words as he tenderly nips at the pulse point of your neck, a striking contrast to the relentless pace of his fingers on your clit and the unforgiving thrust of his cruel instrument inside your violated hole. Your vision blurs as exhaustion takes over; saliva drips from your parted lips, and your body shudders uncontrollably, reduced to silent tears and ragged sobs. Overstimulated, worn out, and in searing pain, you can only wonder, Maiden –how long has it been?

Another orgasm, one of many, crashes through you, drawing an explosive cry from your lips. Abdirak quickly shifts, carefully withdrawing his torture device from your swollen core before lowering himself and pressing his mouth to your puffy, flushed cunt. The flat of his tongue traces slow, deliberate strokes over your flushed slit, guiding  the rhythm of your climax as your body spills like a fountain. The warmth and softness of his tongue feel almost merciful against your tortured hole; he swallows every drop of your release with a reverence that borders on devotion, his half-lidded eyes gazing up at you with such tender, worshipful infatuation that it nearly makes you forget the hours of torment you've endured at the hands of your lover.

Finally, his thumb leaves your sensitive pearl, and a fleeting sense of relief spreads through your strained nerves. Abdirak continues to lap tenderly at your folds and entrance; not with force, but with the gentleness of an animal tending to a wound. Your entire body quivers, and a sob escapes you, raw and uncontrollable, as exhaustion washes over you and pushes you to your limits. You don’t need to use your safe word to prompt him to stop his caresses; he senses it instinctively. Abdirak hushes you softly, placing tender kisses along the soft curls of your mound, up your tensed stomach, and across your sweat-slicked breasts. His lips eventually reach your face, trailing a series of feather-light kisses over your cheeks, jawline, nose, and forehead, calming your frayed nerves with each touch.

“My perfect lamb,” he murmurs, his voice warm and calm, grounding you as he brushes gentle kisses across your tear-streaked cheeks. His blue eyes shine in the dimly lit room, where the candlelight casts delicate silhouettes of your entwined bodies. A weak whine escapes you as you turn your head, seeking his mouth, yearning for the solace of his tenderness. A satisfied hum vibrates through him as he meets your lips, pressing soft kisses over and over, capturing your sobs until they dissolve into soft, trembling whimpers.

Soon, his hips instinctively rock against your stomach, his heavy length pressing into your heated skin as the metal beads adorning his shaft trace along your curves. His smooth, velvety flesh is slick with precum, seeping from his pierced and angry tip, needy and demanding. His breath comes in shallow, controlled bursts, having not found the release he craved during your torment.

“Can you endure just a little bit more, my lamb?” His question is genuine, each word a reassurance. You know he will do nothing without your consent, this secure cocoon he’s wrapped around you easing your tension. His words lingers, and you weigh your response, though the persistent ache of your swollen cunt clouds your thoughts. Panting, your breath skirting the edge of a wheeze, your eyes find his, searching those brilliant, familiar depths. A painful warmth flickers to life within you again; a heated desire to feel him, not just the touch of his tools, a desire to feel your souls merge together. You’re in awe of how he can stir such fierce emotions with such ease; how, despite your exhaustion, your mind still yearns for him with unwavering passion.

Your fingers gently trace your sensitive folds, assessing the extent of the soreness. A sharp hiss escapes your lips as the sizzling pain confirms that fully savoring your union will be impossible under these conditions. Determined, you slide your fingers through your slick arousal, lifting your hips as much as you can manage, and, with careful circles, you tease the delicate rim of your puckered hole. The soft caress sparks a new wave of genuine pleasure, and for the first time in the last couple of hours, you feel your body react pleasantly, letting your assaulted cunt bear all the pain instead.

“Here– I want you here,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you present your tight, eager hole to Abdirak. His eyes glimmer with dark, smoldering desire as he leans in to press a tender kiss to your dry lips. After coating his fingers in your creamy release, his digits soon trace the sensitive rim, coaxing you into relaxing fully as you surrender, collapsing onto the mattress, entrusting him wholly with your pleasure.

Your muscles are almost entirely relaxed now, offering little resistance as Abdirak slowly breaches your hole with a single finger, pumping in and out with a gentle rhythm. His eyes remain fixed on your face, observing each subtle expression as your exhaustion gives way to a delicate, fragile pleasure. Soon, he introduces a second finger, nudging alongside the first, stuffing you deliciously; the exquisite pressure in your tight entrance stirs a warmth that is free from the pain and harshness that your sex feels right now.

Instead of ragged cries, your voice releases soft moans as you surrender to his practiced touch, while he works you open for him. The walls of your sex flutter around nothing, wincing slightly at the phantom pain of the earlier ache from his glass device. Abdirak’s gaze, filled with an enraptured desire, lingers on your body as he gently fucks your ass with his long fingers, glancing at your ruined hole with tenderness

"You look like a beautiful flower, my lamb, with your flushed and engorged petals. You're still so open, I could easily slip inside of you and fecund you," he muses, the weight of his words fanning the flames of his own desire as his fingers scissors your asshole open. Basking in his loving, praising words, sweet sounds bubble from your lips.

"But tonight, I will be filling and breeding this beautiful hole. You love it here so much, don't you, my love?" he asks almost teasingly, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. You nod eagerly, a needy whimper escaping as a third finger slides smoothly into your silken warmth, thrusting with an intensifying rhythm that pulls deep moans from your throat.

"Abdirak..." you whimper, your voice still strained from the rawness in your throat. Your legs curl tentatively around his thighs in a silent plea, and he hums in response, satisfied and content. His lips find yours once again, kissing you passionately; his tongue eagerly meets yours, feeding you his taste and warmth, while you greedily suck on the red appendage. Your teeth graze his bottom lip before biting down fiercely until you can taste blood, and you hear him moan in pleasure. He slowly pulls his fingers from your quivering hole, then wraps his hand around his hardened length, pumping it to full mast. He guides the slick, adorned tip to your throbbing entrance, the anticipation building.

The metal ring of his pierced cockhead feels almost cold, despite the warmth of his silky flesh, the sensation delicious as it stretches your asshole open. Your body collapses onto the mattress, your hips bending so your thighs are drawn as close to your chest as possible, offering a deeper angle as Abdirak slowly penetrates your velvety walls. The movement is agonizingly slow, so deliciously so that you feel the metal beads adorning his length drag against your puckered hole, pulling blissful moans from you.

Abdirak sighs deeply, his eyelids fluttering shut as he sheathes himself fully inside your soft warmth. His face reflects sweet relief and devotion as he finally indulges in his own pleasure. You whimper, feeling your body cling to the last remnants of desire, your empty cunt throbbing painfully as your stomach feels deliciously full of him. You take in his pleasured expression, half-shaven hair falling over his eye, parted lips panting softly, a slight flush staining his scarred face, while you become a shuddering mess, slick with sweat, drool, and tears.

Your body aches, caught between discomfort, sharp pain, and a deep, euphoric pleasure as Abdirak slowly drags his cock out of your pulsating hole, each movement deliberate, before pushing back inside with equal care. A low, guttural moan escapes him, and in this moment, he looks breathtaking, lost in the exquisite pleasure you give him. Soft gasps and gentle hums spill from his lips, each sound rich and velvety as he moves with a careful, deliberate rhythm.

You whimper, your trembling hands finding his shoulders as you desperately search for something to anchor yourself to. Your mind feels as if it’s fracturing under the overwhelming pleasure you didn’t think you were still capable of feeling tonight. Every nerve in your body is ablaze, disoriented; but when Abdirak sets a slow, deliberate pace, rolling his hips sensually as he deeply fucks your asshole, his balls merely caressing your cleft, it’s as if your body remembers how to respond properly –how to surrender to the pleasure, to the body of your lover.

"More," you whine, lifting your hips as much as your aching body allows, contorting yourself despite the searing pain of your flogged back. You rock your hips, needy and demanding, though pathetically. Your plea draws his attention; his eyes flicker open, a playful smile curling at his split lip. But then his gaze darkens, and he hums dangerously.

The first brutal thrust of his hips makes you cry out in surprise before he sets a punishing pace, his pierced cock sending exquisite sensations through your pulsating walls. Bracing himself on his elbows, Abdirak cups your face, his mouth finding your neck as he continues to thrust deep inside your stomach, his movements wild and untamed as squelching noises fill the room. Your loud moans blend with his passionate growls, his pleasured voice sending shivers down your spine.

Your swollen, empty cunt rubs against the taut skin of his stomach, your folds screaming in pleasured agony as Abdirak fills your ass with his iron-like cock, his balls slapping against your heated and wet skin. You pant heavily, your breath raw and primal, more beast than human, as you feel him so deep inside of you it’s like he’s spearing you, splitting your guts in half, reaching a cavernous depth that makes you howl and cry out in response

The tension tightening in your gut and burning behind your navel becomes unbearable, the muscles still raw from your earlier torment. A grunt escapes you as tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes, and you instinctively clench viciously around his shaft. Abdirak cries out deliciously, his cock stilling for a brief instant in your velvety clutch before resuming his feral pace. 

“Can you give me one more, lamb?” His voice is thick with lust, dark and primal, as you feel the slick heat of his back under your fingertips. You're not sure if your body can endure another orgasm, or rather you’re terrified that it might, twisting uncomfortably on the bed. Your insides scream in protest, desperately pleading for relief. You sob, feeling your empty cunt drool, your flushed asshole swallowing Abdirak’s pierced cock, while his teeth nibble playfully at the pulse point behind your ear. You know he wants to ravage you, to bite, to push you further into pain and suffering, but he senses your limits have been reached. So, he lets you set the pace, following your desires, only pumping harder inside of you if you demand it. 

A trembling hand reaches between your drenched bodies for your tortured clit and you already wince at the sensation, but instead of truly circling it, you merely graze it, giving your nerves just enough stimulation to build a restrained desire while avoiding too much pain. Abdirak shivers at your willingness, kissing your cheek tenderly.

“That’s it, just like that. Give me one more, just one more, my beautiful, perfect lamb,” he purrs in your ear, his hips rolling sensually, pushing deeper inside your welcoming hole, and you can guess by the way his hips stutter that he’s nearing his own orgasm.

Your hand viciously grips the back of his half-shaven hair with a fierce tug, and Abdirak snarls, propping himself up on his elbows to meet your gaze with lust-filled eyes, pistoning inside of you while your other hand keeps coaxing your desire.

“And you will fill me, won’t you, my love?” Your voice is soft yet commanding, drawing a low moan from his throat as you feel him thrust into you erratically, his movements wild with abandon. He nods eagerly, soft whimpers bubbling from his lips.

“Anything– Maiden!– anything you desire, my lamb,” he pants loudly, succumbing to the intoxicating sensations of desire and pleasure. Your fingers find the perfect rhythm, the right pressure, and you feel your eyes flutter shut as a string of high-pitched moans escapes your parted lips, soon followed by deep, guttural moans from Abdirak’s throat.

Your stomach flips and contorts as your muscles and nerve work one last time to bring you to a painful, shattering completion, your cunt spasming and clenching around nothing as Abdirak buries his hard cock deeply inside of your pulsating asshole. A few thrusts more and you can feel his warm cum filling your insides as he cries out his own pleasure. 

You pant as his hips stutter to a halt, pressing his forehead against yours, eyes closed, his face and expression softening. You wince, tears welling up and slipping down your cheeks, your body wracked with agony as every nerve burns painfully, twisting and squirming. Abdirak pulls away slowly, careful not to hurt you, and you feel his come spill from your flushed hole. A soft sob escapes you, overwhelmed, overstimulated, and now, as your orgasm subsides, uncomfortable. Vulnerable and raw, you whimper uncontrollably as Abdirak gently caresses your hair, shushing you tenderly.

“You’ve done so well, my sun. You are perfect.” His whispers are soft, soothing, full of praise that wraps around you like a warm embrace. You cling to his words, each one a balm to your raw soul, desperately seeking comfort as he places gentle kisses across your face, each one more tender and reassuring than the other.

“I’ll fetch some warm water so we can take a bath. Would you like that?” he asks, his voice filled with care. You nod weakly, your form shivering, already mourning the loss of his warmth as he slowly peels himself from your body. He drapes the blanket over you, his hands lingering just a moment longer, ensuring you’re cocooned in warmth before he slips away.

He returns shortly, guiding a maid to the inn’s room, and you lie still on the now-soiled bed, your body still trembling, a mixture of exhaustion and the lingering aftermath of everything that came before.

When the linens are changed and the tub is filled with warm water, you sink into the soothing embrace of the bath, your body melting against his as he pulls you close. His arms are around you, solid and comforting, grounding you in the moment. The water, warm and gentle, calms your nerves and loosens the tension in your muscles. His lips press softly against the top of your head, and his fingers, light as feathers, trace the curve of your back, each caress a silent promise of care.

As his whispered prayer to Loviatar fills the quiet air, you close your eyes, surrendering to the peace and safety in his arms. In this moment, there is nothing but tenderness, and you feel secure, cherished, as though nothing could harm you while he holds you close.