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imtryingmybeskar · 3 years ago

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New chapter of the Marcus fic. This is not so much smut as angst and sadness. Sorry to bring down your Saturday. I would also like to add that the rose gardens referenced are where Pedro and Boyd hung out when they were in London recently.

18+, 4.7k words

The branches above you sighed softly in the breeze, their leaves whispering against each other and filtering the sunlight into dapples on to your face and body. The air was warm, even with the slight wind, and it smelled of summer to you - the fragrance of the roses around you permeating everything. Marcus stroked down your arm and held the back of your hand, interlacing your fingers with his. You turned your face to the left and looked up to see the radiance of his beautiful dimpled smile bestowed upon you.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

"I was just thinking about how it smells like summer. Even though its not far from autumn." Your head was resting on his stomach and you were lying perpendicular to his body. He was also lying on his back, his head pillowed on one arm and watching the sky through the lattice of the tree branches and leaves above. You let go of his hand to flip on to your stomach and lean up on your elbows over his torso, your hands stroking softly over him and your feet kicking lazily behind you. "What about you?"

He brought his head up a little to look at you over the rim of his aviators, raising one eyebrow as he replied. "When you're in that position? With that dress on? Do you really have to ask?" Giggling a little, you looked down. There was indeed quite an expanse of cleavage on display for him and while you hadn't meant for there to be (on this occasion at least), you leant forward a little more, both to give him a show and to kiss his lips and the tip of his nose softly. Resting your cheek on his chest and breathing in the woody, spicy scent of him that you loved, you quietly and unthinkingly said, "I wish you could stay to see the autumn here." Then immediately followed that thought just as quickly with a "Sorry, sorry, I know. None of that." You had agreed several weeks ago that it was best not to mention Marcus's departure and just enjoy each other while you could. But the closer it got to him leaving, the more heavy your heart became. And his too. You had caught him looking at you sadly on more than one occasion, and when you would ask him what was wrong he would never answer with words, but would gather you into his arms and hold you tight, his lips brushing against your hair or ear or forehead as he did so.

In the weeks you had spent with him, you had explored London with new eyes, and your time together was marked by the seemingly endless halcyon days of the perfect summer that you had been blessed with. Everything seemed exciting and new again with him. Even the familiar sights of the view from Primrose Hill, or the river walk from Hammersmith to Putney, or exploring the Natural History Museum were all given new life and new laughter and new colour with Marcus by your side. He had an excellent sense of adventure and was happy to try almost anything that you had suggested to him (he had drawn the line when you jokingly suggested jellied eels for lunch one day). Today's excursion was a picnic in the rose gardens at Regents Park and you would shortly be taking the brief walk around the winding paths through the gardens to the Open Air Theatre to see a production of Much Ado About Nothing. You had taken more Saturdays off than ever before and owed a debt of gratitude to both Catherine and James for covering for you. Since it was his last few days in London, today you had pushed it even further and taken half of your Friday off too to spend it in the park with him. Catherine had given up trying to shield you from yourself and your surging emotions and was resigned to listening to you talk about Marcus every chance you got. "He's just so...good to me. I can't describe it. Its like everything he does, he's already included me in his thoughts to make me happy." She would smile sadly when you talked about him in this way, and you would have to turn away from her, not being able to bear the echo of your future in her eyes.

Most of your days were taken up with work, as were his, but Marcus had come by the bakery every evening after your shift to take you home - to his flat or yours. It would have been alarming how quickly you lived with each other, except it wasn't. It just felt right. After that first weekend together, within no time at all both of you had willingly given over space in your flats to accommodate the clothes and possessions of the other. You found yourself doing his laundry, and he yours. A jar of olives resided permanently in his fridge now, even though he couldn't stand the things. Bottles of the shower gel and shampoo he liked were on the window ledge of your bathroom.

When you got in from work, one of you would cook or call for food and after you had eaten he would usually prop himself up against the arm of the couch and you would sit between his legs and lie back against the broad expanse of his chest. His arms would surround you and he would rest his chin on your shoulder, with occasional kisses being pressed against your neck or cheek while you watched some film or other. Those nights would invariably end with hands and lips wandering over bare skin and the film forgotten, your passion taking over and your eyes and minds finding far more to interest you in the other than whatever was on the screen. If he had reignited your love of your home city, that was nothing compared to what he had done for your desire for sex. It was hard to think of a more apt word than insatiable. He had sparked a burning, driving, primal desire within you that was seemingly never doused. You had had your fair share of experience, but this was like nothing ever you had ever felt before. No matter how gently or passionately you touched each other, you both always wanted more. He could arouse you with a whispered word, a glance, and every time you satisfied each other, you could feel your love and desire for him grow. Being the sweet man that he was, Marcus had surprised you with some of his proclivities. Not only did he enjoy taking control and asserting his dominance, he had a slight penchant for touching you subtly in public, getting you hot and bothered over the course of hours, and sometimes you would barely make it through the front door before you were upon him, desperate and needy for his body. Not that it was all one sided. As much as he enjoyed touching you exactly how he wanted to, he also loved it on the occasions you took control and he had just about lost his mind the night you had blindfolded him and tied him to your bed frame. The sweet pleas that had fallen from his lips for you touch him, use him, fuck him were like music to your ears, and he also very much enjoyed the bruises your mouth sucked on him and the red trails your nails left down his back. Your indulgences were always balanced with the softness and gentleness between you and one of your favourite things was the sleepy, lazy, hazy morning sex that had so quickly become a staple. It was hard to think of a better way to begin your day than with Marcus between your thighs, holding him as close and as tight to you as you could while he slowly and steadily rocked into you, trying to get further, deeper within you, and whispering your name with soft groans as the hot pleasure flowed between your bodies.

Three nights ago it had rained - a proper storm with thunder and lightning and the white noise of the insistent and driving raindrops against your windows. You had turned off all of the lights and opened the curtains, the better to see the ferocity of the natural world outside - so often absent from the grey of the metropolis that you inhabited. There was a strange, discordant beauty to be found in the fat drops of water passing through the orange glow of the sodium streetlight outside of your window and the blurring of the black and orange picture of the outside world as the water ran down your window pane. It was a rare occasion when Marcus had sat with his back against you, and you had delighted in the solid feel of his body as you slid your hands under his arms and around his chest. He had held you there with his own hands and as you had nuzzled into the crook of his neck you could not remember a time when you had been happier. The two of you had sat like that for an hour or so, a sense of quiet elation at simply being with the other and listening to the storm, and you had thought at the time that you had never felt closer to another person. As ever, it had been a struggle for you to maintain the reticence you had promised yourself about your feelings. You wanted desperately to tell Marcus how you felt about him, but how could you? It would be the height of cruelty and selfishness. It was necessary for him to go back home. He wouldn't stay, he couldn't. He had his job, a house, friends, a life there. By telling him you loved him, it would only make him feel terrible about leaving you and ruin the last few precious days that you had together. So you did nothing except enjoy him, his company, his body, and try to ignore the impending bleakness that was coming to envelop you so imminently. After the brief mention of you being his girlfriend that first weekend, neither one of you had explicitly tried to pin down what exactly you were to the other. It felt unnecessary, partly because he would be saying goodbye so shortly, but mostly because you didn't need a label attached to what you had. You slotted into each others lives as if you were always supposed to be there. It was uncomplicated, liberating and it was easy. It was easy to make him smile, to show him affection, to talk with him and laugh with him. It was so easy to love him and you did, freely and fiercely.

The only acknowledgments between you of Marcus's departure was when he had told you when his flight was and when you had asked him what he wanted to do with your last day together. He had smiled and swept you into a hug while saying that it would just be plain rude not to spend the entire day together in bed. You had laughed at that and agreed with him and now...now the day had come. And as you awoke suddenly it didn't seem like a day of smiles and laughter. It seemed like a day of intensity and pressure and wanting to commit every tiny thing to memory. You could see the sky outside was becoming a paler shade of blue and the lights in your street had gone out. Marcus's arm was draped over you and his body was pressed against yours from behind. Moving very gently, you turned over on to your other side to look at him. At some point over the last couple of weeks he had decided to stop shaving. Even though you had thought you couldn't possibly be more attracted to him, you had to admit he looked gorgeous this way. Not to mention how good his facial hair felt when it was tickling your upper thighs. You stroked his hair softly and he frowned and sighed a little in his sleep, the crease between his eyes deepening momentarily.

How could you ever let him go when he made you feel this way? As if every single day was luminescent and burgeoning with promise, like you had endless capabilities and potential, just as long as you could see his face. Like the world was better purely for having him in it, beautiful, and so alive with kindness and joy. Like your heart couldn't feel any lighter and more free and yet simultaneously could not possibly hold any more love and desire for him. Unable to resist any longer you brought your lips to his face, breathing in the scent of his hair as you brushed against his forehead, and you startled slightly as a tear unexpectedly fell from your eye. You didn't want to cry, not today. Not when there was so little time left to be this happy. You had shed some tears over the past week, mostly in private, but Marcus had been witness to a few of them and he had always held you close and stroked your hair and whispered to you that it would all be okay. On a couple of occasions you were certain you had seen his own eyes become slightly glassy, and he had gulped deeply and blinked rapidly before he looked himself again.

Not wanting him to be woken by you crying all over him, you drew back from him and as you did so, saw his soft, dark eyes looking up at you. He stroked your cheek, catching the tear on his thumb and wiping it away before his lips were upon you, somehow soft and comforting, yet also hungry. There was no need for words between you any more. Not today of all days. His hands were all over you, gentle but firm and stroking over the parts of you he now knew so well. The need for him bloomed within your heart and stomach and its soft but persistent intensity caused you to clutch at his shoulder and manoeuvre him on top of you. You wanted him above you, the reassuring weight of him bearing down on you and his eyes raking over your face and body with gentleness and sweet desire. He caged your head with his forearms and kissed your face everywhere, your forehead, eyebrows, the tip of your nose, chin, cheeks, before settling on your lips again, his tongue pushing into you with a taste of what was to come. He rumbled a hum against your lips when you opened yourself to him and he felt how slick you were already, how needy for him, how ready. He looked into your eyes as he pushed himself into you, and the warm stretch of him filled your senses. He was everywhere in you and around you and you felt so complete with him there, a piece of you restored that you hadn't even realised was missing. You knew now, of course you knew how he felt about you. He was as bad as hiding it as you were. Your eyes betrayed you, as did his. But your lips did not. As long as it was still unspoken life could move on as planned, the machinations of it all already set in seemingly unstoppable motion before you had ever laid eyes on each other - moving across continents, houses, jobs - all the big, adult things in life that would still never add up to the enormity of what was in your heart.

********* ********* *********

You planned to stay with him that evening and accompany him to the airport for a final farewell. His flight was at lunchtime on Sunday, so you still had a little time together. You had barely got in the door when you connected harshly, fervently, bruisingly, as if you could fuck tomorrow away if you only did it hard and fast enough. But after you both came and he was collapsed, sweating on top of you, your torsos wrestling with each other from your panting breaths, he stayed where he was. And when he had recovered a little, he stroked his hands over your face and hair and looked at you with naked adoration, kissing every part of your skin that he could reach until he hardened inside you again and this time it was tenderness itself when he moved within you. That night was an exquisite and dream-like jumble of skin and heat and lips and eyes interspersed with snatches of sleep before one or the other of you would kiss or caress the other awake again, never wanting to stop, never wanting it to end - a ceaseless carousel of pleasure and love that dizzied and astounded you.

Of course, he made you pancakes for breakfast the next morning. The delicious wafting smell of them permeated his flat and you had a fleeting desire to trap the scent somehow, a tiny part of Marcus that wouldn't leave you. As you ate, he was jovial, but you could hear the forced edge to it. Not wanting to bring him down on your last morning together, you matched him in the light and breezy conversation, hoping that it your usual easy way with each other would kick in. It didn't work and a slightly uncomfortable silence fell between you, broken by him getting up to make more coffee. You sighed and turned in your chair to look at him pottering around the kitchen. You decided direct was best in this situation.

"We don't have to try to pretend its not happening," you said. His movements ground slowly to a halt and he turned to you, gripping the counter behind him as if he might fall over if he didn't.

"I know," he said softly. "I just...don't know how else to deal with it. These past months with you have been wonderful. Why does it suddenly feel awkward?"

"I think because maybe we're both trying to hard not to bring the other down?" you suggested. "And I don't know about you but I'm feeling a kind of pressure about today. To make it perfect." He let go of the counter, crossed the floor to you and hugged your head against his stomach, bending down briefly to kiss the top of your head as your arms came round to circle his lower back.

"You're probably right," he murmured. "I guess I'm feeling the same way. Which is silly, because all the time we spend together is perfect." You smiled against him and held him closer. He tilted your chin up to meet his eyes. "I guess its finally time to stop pretending." Your heart gave a little squeeze in your chest, but strangely you felt better. Like he was supporting you in your sadness because he was experiencing his own. You stood and stroked the scruff at his cheeks.

"I guess so," you murmured sadly and pulled him in for a hug. You stood there for a long time in his kitchen just holding each other, feeling the warmth of your bodies pass between you, feeling his heartbeat against your chest, feeling the material of your t shirt become slightly damp at your neck as he finally gave in to his tears. Eventually, you broke apart and you kissed the tears from his cheeks, feeling their cool salt against your lips. "It's okay," you whispered to him as your lips moved over his face. It wasn't. Perhaps it never would be again.

After breakfast was cleared away, he took you back to bed. You lay naked with each other, stroking skin, sharing kisses and smiles and in each other, the sadness of your separation still just far enough away that you could forget for a time that it was already happening all around you with every passing second.

"I've got a surprise for you. Give me a moment." You reached for your overnight bag, where a wrapped present lay nestled in among your clothes. As you came back to bed, you asked him to close his eyes. He covered them so you knew he wasn't peeking, and when you sat down next to him, you put the parcel into his lap.

"I thought we said no presents," he protested as he opened his eyes.

"I know. But I couldn't resist."

"Well, now I feel better about this," he said as he reached into the drawer of his bedside table and retrieved a small wrapped parcel. You laughed as you took it.

"Well, at least we're both as bad as each other!" you exclaimed, trying not to let too much of a wobble show in your voice.

"You first," he said softly. You tore the paper off to find a notebook within. The cover depicted The Soul of the Rose by Waterhouse and when you opened it, it contained handwritten recipes of various cakes and pastries. "I promised you recipes the first time we went out and I never gave them to you," he smiled. "If you have problems reading my handwriting, I guess you'll just have to call me," he added cheekily and you laughed through the tears that had welled up.

"Thank you," you said sincerely as you looked into his eyes. "This is perfect. I'll send you pictures of everything I make."

"You better," he smiled. He turned to your gift to him and opened it up, exclaiming softly when he saw what it was. You had put together a photo album of the places you had visited, having made sure to take pictures everywhere you went. Some were pictures of the two of you, some just of the view. On the first page was the very first picture he had taken of you both, in front of the Houses of Parliament. He laughed and chatted over the photos as he perused them, until he came to the last page. It was a picture you had taken only a few days before. You were lying on your back on your bed, Marcus half hidden from the camera with his face buried into your neck, his smile broad and his dimple deep. A casual observer would never be able to tell, but you had both been naked and giggling at a joke he had made about not physically being able to leave the bed because of how exhausted you both were and what a tragedy that was. Within minutes he had belied his own comments by easing himself back between your legs and kissing you like he had never felt your lips upon his before. He hadn't realised you had taken the picture until it was done and you had loved the natural and easy warmth that seemed to emanate from it, as well as the pleasant memories it inspired. "it's uh..." he began, his voice cracking a little, "I love it. Its beautiful. Thank you." You didn't think you could bear seeing him tearful again, so you closed your eyes and kissed him instead, the depth of your feeling flowing through your lips into his. He stroked your face and almost clung to you as he whispered breathily, "We still have some time. Can we-"

"Yes, Marcus. Anything you want. Everything you want," you found yourself saying as you pulled him close.

********* ********* *********

"You'll come back, won't you? There are still so many things I want to do with you here. And if we're both single we can have some fun too." Your words were light, your spirit was not. The injustice that you could only accompany him so far through the airport and that he would still be in the vicinity but that you wouldn't be able to see him rankled deeply. That he would spend his last hour in London alone, when all you wanted was to be together.

"Of course. Hey, you can always come out to D.C. There's a world of things to see and do out there too." His tone matched yours, light but heavy with the effort of making it so.

"Can I have your address? I can send you over English treats that you miss. Like Marmite. I know you love it really."

He laughed heartily at that and pulled you close, your head resting on his shoulder. "I swear to God, if you send me that stuff I will tell the FBI that there have been threats made against me and I'll get them to do a controlled detonation on the package!" You laughed as well, and even through the very real threat of tears that wanted to make an appearance, it was genuine mirth. He broke the hug and held your hands in his. "I already put all my details in the notebook. If there's anything else you need, call me. Any time. Please." His eyes were shining a little too much and his voice cracked on the last word. He was so vulnerable, so beautiful. Your resolve broke at the last minute.

"Marcus, I..." you said shakily. "I have to tell you..." He was shaking his head and your words trailed away.

"I know," he said thickly. "I can't. Please. I can't say goodbye like that. It's too much. It was perfect. We were perfect." His use of the past tense tipped you over and the tears fell hotly and uncontrollably down your face. He brought your hands to his lips to kiss them and you could feel his mouth tremble as he did. "I told you once that I didn't think a relationship existed where people are happy all the time. I was wrong. But I guess...this is our unhappiness." You couldn't respond. By this point the more you tried to stop the tears, the faster they fell and your throat felt bruised and sore from stopping yourself from sobbing out loud. You were pretty sure you were bright red and God only knew what faces you were pulling trying to get yourself under control, but he drew you to him again and held you close, his breath warm over your cheek and neck. "You're beautiful, you know." he whispered to you as his lips came to meet yours one last time.

********* ********* *********

It was ridiculous. You were ridiculous. And pathetic. But still here you were, an hour after you had watched his plane take to the sky and carry everything you ever wanted thousands of miles away, sitting in the sickly glow of the airport lighting and still fighting back your tears. Hoping against hope that he would emerge, smiling, laughing, to take you into his arms and reassure you that he could never leave, not you, not us. He had called as soon as he was through security, and you had talked about everything and nothing while he waited to depart. When you heard the announcement for the 13.45 flight to Washington D.C. it may as well have been the toll of a death knell in your heart. You had insisted that he call as soon as he could once he had landed, and he had agreed despite some weak protestations from him about time differences and you needing your sleep. But for now, it was time to go. Back to your empty flat, your shell of a life. As if she had heard your thoughts, Catherine's name flashed up on your phone. When you answered, she correctly guessed that you were still at the airport and her words were kind and soft to you.

"Stay there, I'll come pick you up." You agreed and ended the call, settling back against the uncomfortable airport chair once again. Opening your bag, you took out Marcus's gift to you, debating the wisdom of doing so in public when you were already an emotional wreck but needing something, anything of his to be close to. As you flicked through the pages, you discovered a loose leaf of paper at the back and when you pulled it out it nearly broke you anew. Marcus had told you that he had been to art classes in his youth, but he had never followed up on it and you hadn't pressed him, assuming that he wasn't terribly good, or had lost interest in pursuing it. Apparently you had been wrong on both counts. In your hands was a beautifully crafted pencil sketch of a familiar couple, the man with his back to a tree looking down at the woman resting her head on his lap, and even on paper the love shone like a beacon from their eyes and their smiles.

Next Chapter

#marcus pike angst #marcus pike x you #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike fanfic

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ninjabelle · 4 years ago

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Key-points in Berserk if Guts was allowed to act on his emotions where Griffith’s involved - Meta

There is a theme with regards to Guts always wanting to run to Griffith when he is feeling emotionally shaken up and vulnerable and though it happens a bunch of times in a lot of subtle ways all throughout Berserk the 3 that majorly stand out to me are - going back in time - the hill of swords, primrose hall and after the Zodd fight when Griffith’s recovering.

Let’s start there, and this is also a direct (long winded lmao, forgive me) response to this reply by @bthump about what I wish had gone differently.

When Griffith gets injured after fighting Zodd together Guts wants to see him. I forget the exact timeline but I’m pretty sure this is effectively immediately after. As soon as he’s able to, but he’s stopped by Caska and whatever it was that he wanted to say or do gets put on hold until his talk with Griffith outside later on when, surprise surprise, they get interrupted again. This is also a theme and another recurring, deliberate one. Guts never gets to have a true heart to heart with Griffith and vice versa and this is something that drives the plot forward because otherwise those two would’ve run off into the sunset together long before the eclipse ever had a chance of happening. The whole of Berserk rests on the fact that Guts and Griffith have unfinished business and the entire story takes a nosedive into the dark and depressing once Guts overhears Griffith’s speech to Charlotte at primrose because, again, he’s stopped by Caska (again!! poor girl gets done so dirty every time she gets used like that but that’s meta for another time) and he does not have the opportunity to speak with Griffith about how deep that affected him either.

So, back to just after the first Zodd fight, though he doesn’t seem as deeply wounded and emotionally raw as he was after accidentally kebabbing Adonis while trying to get to Julius, I believe he was deeply shaken up by the whole Zodd encounter regardless, not to mention the thought of Griffith being injured, the guilt - god, the guilt, between the two of them I don’t know who would win when it comes to sheer amounts, but the key difference is that Griffith’s guilt morphs into self-loathing and ruthless actions and Guts’ guilt manifests as self doubt and a recklessness and disregard for his own safety that gets thrown back into his face when Griffith shows time and time again that he’s willing to put himself at risk to protect Guts in spite of all that. Imagine what a shock to Guts’ system that was, to be seen like that. It’s what he still wants, even now wayyyy post-eclipse.

If he hadn’t been stopped that very first time, I imagine him storming into that room and demanding Griffith explain why he risked his life again. His handling of the guards earlier and the fact that he never, not once during the golden age gave a single shit about politics and standing and propriety and would only participate for Griffith's sake speak volumes, because in that moment of intense feeling and on a quest for answers he moves on emotions alone, like he does in battles, where he goes with his gut instead of strategizing, and it helps the Hawks win, because he is the perfect wild card and so complementary to Griffith's more analytical nature. You could argue that emotive Guts = best Guts, but when it comes to directing them at Griffith in a productive way he always gets stopped one way or another, and I mean every. single. time.

In a perfect world Guts gets to storm into the room, where they’re alone and they do not get interrupted and instead of a non answer like ‘do I need a reason?’ Griffith would tell him exactly why, and the only you made me forget my dream is said to Guts’ face instead of thought during Griffith’s despair event horizon. Guts probably wouldn’t even know how to process that and would promptly leave the room to think that over, or not think about it and swing his sword some in frustration, but crucially that would have created an opening and a version of Berserk where Guts is mercifully allowed to seek out Griffith when his emotions dictate that he should.

So then, even if the story unfolds the same after this and Griffith still makes his speech to Charlotte and Guts still wants to see him that night because he just did something horrible and needs comfort, even if Caska gets thrown in front of him again to stop him there would be an opening - because it was allowed to happen before, and last time he learned he meant more to Griffith than he could have ever imagined, maybe he would know to take Griffith’s words about equals and see them for what they really are instead of feeling so horribly incompetent and resolving to leave.

In a perfect world he seeks Griffith out afterwards, and tells him he overheard, and Griffith would probably panic and start babbling politics as damage control, and Guts would throw in a ‘what are we?’ and Griffith would look into his eyes and say ‘you’re so much more to me than an equal’ (I’ll write the fic someday, I promise) and then... well. All I’m saying is when Guts is allowed to be emotionally vulnerable when he’s alone with Griffith that would give Griffith the boost of confidence he needs to finally open up and tell the truth about his own feelings. Because Guts isn’t alone there, Griffith’s just as emotional, just as fragile, if he allowed someone close. He’s just better at pushing all that down until his indifference becomes a mask he wears and a weapon he wields.

He could overcome it, but it starts with Guts, he’s the catalyst, as the only one that could have ended Griffith’s dream that’s only fair.

Now last but not least, the hill of swords.

In a perfect world, the eclipse never happened because Guts, knowing his true worth in Griffith’s heart, would never leave. And even if he did, for whatever other reason, having opened up to someone would have made Griffith a hell of a lot less repressed, and less likely to hit a point of despair so strong it triggers the behelit. After all, it wasn’t the torture that broke him.

But.

The eclipse does happen, and even then, with all the bad blood between them and al that hurt and anger Guts still want to run to Griffith. There is a reason why my favorite moment in the whole entire manga is that scene. It’s just- mwah. Kissing my fingers. So good. I almost have no words. Almost.

Guts, for a moment, forgets that he has to kill Griffith. And I say has because wants does not feel right to me. I don’t believe Guts, nor Griffith, nor Caska or anyone in the story for that matter really ever gets to do what they want. In the world of Berserk desire is a ticket that leads straight to tragedy. But Guts has to kill Griffith, and he forgets himself for a moment and is ready to run to him, and in that moment I see the echo of all the moments before where he wanted to do the same thing and was stopped.

Again it’s Caska that jolts him back to reality and his rage and away from Griffith, who even as Femto draws Guts in. Who even after everything he’s done has Guts standing there with wide eyes and the whole of his body straining towards him. Now if this sounds overly romanticized to you I say this, look again. That’s Guts, again, vulnerable and raw and hurt, and to who does he want to go? I guarantee if Zodd hadn’t whisked Griffith away when Guts went on his mad dash to run him through with a sword under the pretense of rescuing Caska it would not have been her he’d locked eyes with first.

Do I believe they would have talked heart to heart, even in that setting? I doubt it. But if Caska hadn’t been involved, and Zodd was nowhere to be seen I wonder what could’ve been said. I imagine Griffith as Femto wouldn’t have let Guts come close enough to physically harm his brand new body, but perhaps if he was slightly less in denial about no longer feeling anything he would have let Guts rant and rave and cry out all his anger instead of flying off, and maybe in seeing the pain in Guts for what it truly is - betrayal over hatred, a broken heart over unstoppable righteous fury - that would have made it easier for his heart to thaw, and perhaps then at least he would know that he meant more to Guts, like Guts meant more to him. And Guts, would he admit that to himself? That it’s not just anger and hatred he feels for Griffith? It gets hinted he knows that damn well several times post-eclipse, that the anger and hatred is just a front, the beast of darkness whispers it to him all the time. But it never gets to go somewhere, because he’s not alone with Griffith when it happens. Even now, even as enemies instead of comrades he’s still not allowed to be near Griffith when his emotions demand of him that he should be.

And that’s a damn shame.

Ninja out~

#berserk #berserk meta #griffguts #damn this was nostalgic lmao #i'm not real good at writing speculative meta and im better at talking about griff but here goes #rant rant #crying at 2am because the boys dont get to talk about their feelings #here we go again

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outoftowninac · 3 years ago

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THE PRIMROSE PATH

1939

The Primrose Path is a play by Robert L. Buckner and Walter Hart. Although it went uncredited, many believed the story was based on Virginia Lincoln’s novel February Hill.

“Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads, and recks not his own rede.”~ Hamlet I;iii

The story tells of a young woman determined not to follow the profession of her mother and grandmother, prostitution.

~ WALTER WINCHELL

The original production was produced and staged by George Abbott. It opened at New York’s Biltmore Theatre (now the Samuel J. Friedman) on January 4, 1939. It ran 166 performances.

The action is set in a small town near Buffalo NY, in and around the shanty home of the Wallace family. The original cast boasted two Bettys. Betty Garde (Clare Wallace) would originate the role of Aunt Eller in Oklahoma! just three years later. Betty Field (Emma Wallace) married dramatist Elmer Rice in 1942 and had three children with him.

Also in 1942, Helen Westley (Grandma) died, The Primrose Path being her final Broadway play. She died at her home in Middlebush, NJ, a suburb of Franklin Township.

“She had a theatrical appearance and manner, and dressed rather like a femme fatale—coal-black hair and black, slinky dresses. A little like Charles Addams’ young witch.” ~ Theresa Helburn, about Helen Westley

Television fans will probably recognize the description as Mortitia Addams on “The Addams Family”. Before the TV show, the sexy young witch had no specific identity. Coincidentally, when the film version of Primrose Path was made, the family surname was changed from Wallace to Adams (one d).

It was also the final show for Broadway veteran Phillip Wood (Homer Wallace). The uniquely named Florida Friebus (Maggie Wallace) was also a writer who penned a much-loved stage adaptation of Alice in Wonderland.

“Short on inhibitions, ‘The Primrose Path’ at its rosiest is all downhill and no brakes.” ~ TIME MAGAZINE

Instead of trying out in Atlantic City, a practice that thrived in the 1920s but was all but dead by 1939, the play was presented there after its Broadway run concluded as a stop on a multi-city tour.

The new cast played The Garden Pier Theatre on the Boardwalk on August 14, 1939. Although the ‘primrose path’ of the play’s title was metaphorical, the ‘garden’ in the pier’s name was not. The forecourt entrance of the pier was actually a garden with trees, grass, and flowers!

The Grove Theatre in Pennsylvania hosted the tour, but were cautious enough to limit attendance to adults. Curiously, it was programmed right after the wholesome Our Town. The controversy continued into 1940...

When a film version was made starring Ginger Rogers and Joel McRea. Although softened for cinema, and punishing one of the prostitute characters by killing them off, the film still made headlines.

The City of Detroit banned the film, along with Clark Gable’s new movie Strange Cargo, labeling them both ‘obscene’. Not so in Atlantic City, where illegal booze, gambling, and loose women were second only to the obvious attraction of its sandy beaches.

In August 1950 The Primrose Path was presented in a summer stock engagement at the Somerset Theatre in Fall River, Massachusetts. Ann Corio played the role of Emma.

#The Primrose Path #George Abbott #Broadway #Play #Theatre #Robert Buckner #Walter Hart #Betty Garde #Betty Field #Ginger Rogers #1939 #Atlantic City #Boardwalk #Garden Pier Theatre

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beautyreviewqueen · 3 years ago

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I was gifted this palette from @bzzagent and @anastasiabeverlyhills for review purposes. I have been so excited for this Palette since Anastasia Beverly Hills announced their New Launch! The Packaging on the Palette, is remarkably beautiful and embossed with a uniquely, raised, 3D quilted look. If you are wondering how this Palette compares to other @ABH 14 Shade Palette’s. This Holiday Palette is much bigger, wider, and has bigger eyeshadow pans that contain more product and this Palette has 2 huge beautiful Blushes. Now, let’s get to the Eyeshadow. The Primrose Palette has such a mesmerizing color story of 10 highly pigmented and beautiful Eye Shadows, Pressed Pigments & Amazing Metallics, that should compliment all skins tones. There are a few things that I do want to point out about this Palette. The Palette does have some fall out, which that’s not a don’t make or break thing for me. One of the shades, out of many of the shades that I’ve used was kind of patchy. I did have trouble blending a couple of the Purple shades as well. I didn’t recognize that 9 out of the 12 Shades in this Palette, is not eye safe. Now, I’ve always heard that’s just because their Pressed Pigments or that they will stain your eye. How, I discovered that 9 shades weren’t eye safe, is after I created and wore a look, that made My eyes feel irritated, agitated, cut and have burning sensation. Now, to be fair I don’t know if just one shade caused it or if using all the combined shades caused it. However, I do wish that ABH would’ve choose shades that were eye safe, since this is an eyeshadow palette. I would recommend this Eye Shadow Palette to ppl who understands that most of the shades aren’t eye safe, ppl that do face an body makeup, and Collectors of course. I’m a Collector & Makeup Lover, I would purchase this Palette to add into My Collection. #bzzagent #anastasiabeverlyhills #primrose #palettes #eyeshadowpalette #palette #palettes #makeup #influencers #beautyinfluencer #beautybloggers #comment #bloggers #likeandfollow #fbpage #dolledupnikkibeauty #ig #beautyreviewqueen #beauty_review_queen #igers #igdaily https://www.instagram.com/p/CVYOMwcJRLS/?utm_medium=tumblr

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rowlondonconstruction · 1 year ago

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Transform Your House into a Dream Home with House Refurbishment

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#House Refurbishment

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chaoswillfallrpg · 3 years ago

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ORLAITH MACMILLAN is TWENTY-TWO YEARS OLD and a MAKEUP ARTIST AND BEAUTY ADVISER for the FASHION AND EVENTS COLUMN at WITCH WEEKLY. She looks remarkably like JOSEFINE FRIDA PETTERSEN and considers herself NEUTRAL. She is currently OPEN.

→ OVERVIEW:

Strong willed yet naive, Orlaith MacMillan is the brash brush of paint scrawling across a canvas, girlish giggles echoing down a chandelier lit marble corridor and the crackle of a sparkler in the dim of the night; beautiful yet longing for attention. With a name meaning ‘golden princess’, Orla fittingly lives up to the title. Born to PATRICK MACMILLAN and FIONA O’HARE on the coast of Ireland in County Wicklow, Orla grew with primroses adorning her hair chasing fire flies that whispered tales of romance. Longing to be a princess of her own happily ever after, creativity exuding from her fingers. Primping dolls with her mother’s beauty potions, to scrawling hearts of fuchsia lipstick across walls and tying ribbons into the stray cats tail, everyday she decorated the world to make it just as beautiful as she dreamed. While members of the Sacred Twenty Eight, the MacMillans were deemed blood traitors by many in Wizarding society due to Fiona’s liberal views. A reputation salvaged only by the lingering respect gained from the union of MELANIA MACMILLAN to ARCTURUS BLACK. Today, the MacMillan name lingers in fields rather than the grand manors Orla’s grandmother KATHLEEN spoke of that their ancestors once frolloced. Money dwindling in comparison to many other Pure-Blood families with their father abroad studying magical creatures, the family secluded themselves to a quaint cottage with crawling vines. Living a charmed life, there was never a moment that the home wasn’t filled with laughter, warmth and starlight found not from magic but in the love that they all shared.

Adored as the baby of the family, Orla grew spoiled. Attention seeking, she graved affection like oxygen; leaving sunken features and wails of tears for those that didn’t comply. Batting eyelashes and pouting lips gained sympathy from her mother and siblings MARIANNE and FIONN who were quick to smother the girl in adoration. Equally as stubborn as her sister SAOIRSE, while her family dotted around her, Sersh was left exasperated at how easily people fell to Orla’s feet. Similar in more ways than one, the sisters were equally passionate and hardheaded. While Sersh dreamed in ink swirls, Orla longed for a spotlight; pleading to play fairies dressed in shimmering golds in Sersh’s tales that they performed. While the two girls fought, Fionn and Marianne grew exasperated from pulling their siblings aside to make amends. Despite their differences, the four loved each other dearly. From rolling down hills to whispering secrets under blanket forts, they shared a golden childhood. While content in their little group, none knew they were waiting for the last missing piece. Handsome with a boyish charm, the day she caught the boy next door AUGUSTUS ABBOTT’S eyes Oralith swore her heart skipped a beat. Falling deeply, she’d spend nights scribbling their names in locked hearts with her pink feathered quill and hiding scarlet blushes of embarrassment behind soft giggles. Eventually it became difficult to remember life before Gus’ laughter and music filled their lives. An honorary MacMillan, the five dreamed in childhood nostalgia of ghost stories around campfires, ice skating on frozen lakes and whispering dreams to fireflies.

When it came Oralith’s time to join Hogwarts, it was of surprise to none that as the sorting hat graced her blonde locks, she’d too find a home amongst intellectuals joining her sister Marianne. Akin souls and the sibling she was closest to, Orla was overwhelmed with relief to share the experience with Maria who was more a secondary mother figure in many ways. Though it wasn’t long before she found chosen family. A charismatic girl, HEATHER BROWN was a fellow Ravenclaw with starry eyes, an affection for rabbits and natural gift for divination. Dorm mates since their first year, the pair joined arms and quickly became best friends. Whispering over boys, adorning their nails in glitter and gossiping about the latest Hogwarts love stories, Orlaith confided in Heather as she pined after Augustus who only grew more captivated by her sister daily. Left with fleeting jealousy, as she watched forlorn as Gus’ grew captivated by Saoirse, Orla grew green with envy at being second yet again; particularly when Sersh showed such little interest in the notion of love. Left aching in the knowledge she was begging for attention from someone who could not return it, instead of growing sour in her misplaced affection Orla turned her hand to playing popular politics longing to bask in the same glory as the elder witches she admired. Aspirational and powerful, GENEVIEVE AVERY, ANASTASIA DUPONT, ANDRESSA PARKINSON and CAMILLE ROWLE were renowned fashion icons all who easily commanded a room with a poised beauty and grace. Watching with astonishment, Orla dreamed of shining in the same light as the magnetic women; knowing even then that she was destined to befall the same glory.

Attentive when it suited her, while Orla held great intellect, she instead spent her time swooning over the handsome features behind THE WEIRD SISTERS with MARY MACDONALD. Paying little mind to PROFESSOR MCGONAGAL who scorned them both, warnings that boys would hold little value if they held no convictions. While most professors deemed her gossiping a bother, one teacher who took a shine to Orla was PROFESSOR SLUGHORN who eagerly welcomed her into Slug Club for her renowned excellence in potions. While a sought after talent; it was her skills outside of the classroom that set her apart. Brewing beauty potions that outshined those on the commercial market, Orla became known for her craftsmanship of colour, shimmer and pigment. Once the protesgue of FLORENCE JONES, the older witch had acted as a mentor, showing with a gentle hand how to achieve the perfect potion that shined like star light. Highlight that sparkled like the sun, lipsticks that never faded unless willed and eye shadow changing according to mood, sorcerers begged Orla for her secrets and paid in sums for even a glimmer of the beauty she bottled. While her business had started small, it wasn’t long before her name was praised around the school for her creative hand not seen since the likes of SACHARISSA TUGWOOD. Decorating features with a golden shine, Orlaith basked in the praise she received as lines of witches pleaded with her to decorate their features to attend infamous parties hosted by the Marauders; JAMES, SIRIUS, REMUS and PETER. Twirling hand in hand with Heather, Mary and MAREN LINWOOD, Orla danced into the night decorated in tulle and shining like a rare gem with the rest of those adored in her makeup.

A rare beauty, Orla’s delicate features and warmth wasn’t lost by the likes of best friend DEMETRIUS MCLAGGEN who looked upon with a longing wishful eye unbeknownst to her. A ravenclaw who held a similar need for attention as she, GILDEROY LOCKHEART was a handsome charismatic boy who had an affinity for the ladies. Free with his compliments of others and himself, while at first his flirtatious advances were met with dismissal, over time his propositions began to get her attention. Catching Orlaith’s eyes following Gus, he teased that getting under someone was the best medicine to get over a broken heart. While she sneered at first, a drunken night led to interlocked lips. While popularity hindered their love affair a secret, they quickly became the aspirational couple; leaving them both basking in the attention they acquired. Though nothing was ever so simple for the MacMillan women. A wealthy ambitious widow, Orla’s grandmother, while once wished Marianne would become the adored actress she’d once dreamed, she knew the likelihood of that was slim and with Sersh a lost cause entirely, she turned to Orla; looking upon her to raise the family name high. Explaining how she’d seen the MacMillan name turn to disarray at her mother’s hand, Kathleen praised Orla as the last hope for the MacMillan name; a responsibility she took onto delicate shoulders driven by need to protect her family like they had her for so many years. Growing to believe she holds power over who she loves, marriage is more of an economic proposition than ever before in Orla’s eyes. With Kathleen insisting there would be little the family could do if Orlaith is unable to secure herself highly within society and establish strong connections.

With a growing obstinate desire to be great or nothing, Orlaith is evolving out of her once foolish ways to become a valued member amongst the elite. A sought after witch, her talents were quickly scouted by founding editor of Witch Weekly TOBIAS MISSLETHORPE who’d seen her artist hand adored the features of none other than famed actress RUBY GOLDSTEIN. An esteemed makeup artist, Orla takes deep pride in her work and excels across the covers of her favourite magazine. Approached by the famed Tugwood family to launch her very own line of beauty products to run alongside her once idol Sacharissa, Orla is working tirelessly to secure her name in shining lights. Booked solidly by sorcerers as they prepare for the parties of the season, though her name isn’t the only thing people are whispering about as her relationships reigns public gossip thanks to RITA SKEETER’S column. While Orlaith and Gilderoy play the adoring couple to the masses, behind closed doors tell a different tale. With her widely adored boyfriend’s fleeting attention, their ‘relationship’ has come under large public speculation; claiming they are simply using their love as a means to fame. Aware that the rumor could tarnish what she’s so diligently built, Orlaith is trying earnestly to tame a free willed male with little success. Openly scorned with boiled anger by Demetrius for her frivolous love, he pronounced claims that she deserved better than someone who holds such fleeting disinterest. Followed by - to her shock - frustrated harboured words of love. Caught between Demetrius and Gilderoy, Orla is left desperately trying to find an answer to what matters most; a legacy, family security and her dream or the possibility of happily ever after if only she let it in.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Blood Status → Pure-Blood

Pronouns → She/Her

Identification → Cis Female

Sexuality → Sexually Fluid (closeted/yet to understand in self)

Relationship Status → In a relationship with Gilderoy Lockheart

Previous Education → Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Ravenclaw)

Family → Fiona MacMillan (mother), Patrick MacMillan (father), Marianne MacMillan (sister), Fionn MacMillan (brother) Saoirse MacMillan (sister), Kathleen MacMillan (grandmother)

Connections → Heather Brown (best friend/room-mate/potential love interest), Demetrius McLaggen (best friend/potential love interest), Augustus Abbott (close friend/past object of affection), Mary MacDonald (close friend), Kirley Duke (object of affection), Camille Rowle (idol/work colleague), Florence Jones (close friend/past mentor), Felicitania Tugwood (friend/work colleague), Maren Linwood (friend), Gilderoy Lockheart (close friend/romantic liaison/potential love interest), Sacharissa Tugwood (idol), Cassiopeia Kim (friend), Emilia Grey (friend), Cressida Abercrombie (friend)

Future Information → Aunt of Ernest MacMillan, adopted mother of Lavender Brown (subject to change), Wife of Heather Brown (subject to change)

ORLAITH MACMILLAN IS A LEVEL 5 WITCH.

#orlaith macmillan #josefine frida pettersen #marauders rp #marauders rpg #hp rpg #open #open neutral #neutral #open witch #witch weekly #magic #open lgbtqia+

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