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amynchan · 1 year ago

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The weeks pass, and your army of wickedness sweeps through the countryside, taking crops out of harsh sunlight and moving to panicked and frenzied outskirt villages.

When your generals return, it's with pitiful news of half-dead farmers, ample bones that could have been used as a force for war or for farming instead, and farming equipment that doubled as ineffective and brittle weapons.

"Not one of them had a sword?" you ask, and Jerry reviews his evil notes with diligence. After a moment, he looks up with a shake of his head.

A wave of disgust hits you. You have been taking weeks, far more than enough time to at least equip the fringe cities for defense. Instead, your armies have invaded far too easily. While the peasants are now resting in their homes while the bones of their friends and family help to cultivate the fields and feed them, it should not have happened that easily.

That will change when the princess and her chosen one are on the throne.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH!!!"

You turn to the hall, curious. "Jerry, I didn't implement anything that should fill the hall with screams of abject terror, right?"

"No, your evilness," Jerry responds. "Just the two o'clock screams of releasing stress and pent up energy to further fuel the aggressive magic of your armies."

"I thought not," you mutter, sweeping out of the war room to check on your minions. The screaming turns into gasps, and you break into a run.

Demon magic keeps you alive, sure, but it also comes with incredible physical benefits. Like being able to run from one side of the castle to the other in less than a moment.

"Gregory? Gregory! Ethan, can you turn it off?"

"I—! I—!"

"It hurts it hurts I can't I'm sorry oh my hell let me die don't do that to me oh hell—"

The room is chaos. The room is painful. The room is too bright.

There is a spell that covers an area in the inkiest night, washing all in pitch black and taking away sight and smell. You use it, and everything turns black.

"Maximus!" The three voices ring in relief, in sobs, in panic. You hear Gregory scramble to you first, and at this point he must be driven only by instinct.

It's the same instinct that saved his life. The instinct to return home, to the holder of his contract. You accept him when he crashes into you.

"My lord," he shudders, and you can feel him shake violently. "The light! The light!"

"I know," you assure him, certain of what you saw with your own eyes. You look at Gregory's eyes, wide and fearful, and cast a spell on them. Very quickly, his pupils, iris, and sclarea are covered in inky dark, and you can feel Gregory go boneless. "I will not let the light touch you again. Stay here."

Sufficiently blinded to his fears—a temporary measure to provide some calm until he is truly out of the light's reach—you adjust the darkness of the room.

The princess stands in the center of the room, her arms having dropped from where she was holding Gregory. She's turned to you, and her face is both grim and determined.

You wonder if your manipulation is coming to fruition sooner than intended. If so, then at least the throne will be secured by an ally. That leaves...

Your eyes catch onto Ethan, and he's standing on the other side of the room, his skin glowing with pure, unadulterated energy. You know from when you walked in that the darkness is dampening what would otherwise be a blinding light.

Even now, it makes you uncomfortable.

"I..." Ethan's voice shakes, and past the glow, you can see him trembling just as much as Gregory.

Something more uncomfortable than Ethan having a natural inclination for light magic settles in your sternum. Or what's left of it.

"I didn't mean to..." he confesses, and the watery tone in his voice finally cracks. Now that Gregory is away from him, enshrouded in a safety of darkness, he seems to be realizing what, exactly, has happened. Ethan gasps for breath. "I didn't mean to hurt him! What did I— What—"

The light pulses with Ethan's panic, and you quickly disregard the notion that you'd have to darken his senses as well. It might hurt him, and you're not in the business of needless torture.

You take a breath. Knowledge. Knowledge is what he needs right now.

"It's a defensive spell," you say, remembering what you learned all of those 200 years ago. Ethan, thankfully, seems to snap out of his downward spiral, looking at you.

Well, if he can look at you with such raw hope, then your manipulation must still be working. Thank the darkness.

"It's also the first spell that demonstrates a person's inclination towards light magic. The light wells up inside until it can no longer be contained, and it typically results in a soft glow. The longer a person holds their magic inside, the stronger the glow when it finally escapes." You remember just how bright the room had been when you came in, and your stomach drops. "You must have been holding it inside for, perhaps months."

You watch as Ethan gulps, and tears run down his face. He buries that face, that expression of loss and despair and regret, in his hands.

"I didn't wanna hurt anyone," he sobs, his shoulders shaking. "Light magic hurts people! It hid her majesty's scars! It hurt you! I hurt Gregory!"

This image before you looks too familiar.

"I didn't wanna hurt anyone!" Two hundred and eighteen years ago. A young magic user. Alone. "Dark magic hurts people! It tripped grandfather! It hurt you! I hurt—"

The similarities pain you more than the light itself could ever. You leaned into being evil. It was what you could do. You no longer care for the affirmation you never got.

But Ethan does. Ethan cares so, so much. It makes him malleable.

It makes him human. As you all are, at some point.

"Ethan," you call, your voice commanding and velvet-soft. Enshrouded in darkness, used typically for sweetening deals, this is a call of comfort and a beckon to trust. Ethan falls into it with ease, weeks of having heard it preparing him to trust you. "I will not turn away from you for this. You cannot change what you are, as I cannot change what I am. Our magics will interfere with each other at times, and there are those uncomfortable with light magic, but it does not make you a different person."

"Yes it does," says Ethan, a mournful note in his first act of resistance. You might be proud if you weren't so heartbroken by it. "I hurt Gregory."

"Other light magic users hurt Gregory," you correct, gently but firmly. "The memory of it pains him, and he can no longer be around light magic, but you have never lifted a hand against him, and you would never cause us harm because of our dark magic."

"I'd never!" Ethan cries out, passionate as a burst of light tries to emphasize his words. It fluctuates with his emotions, and you know that he must be taught.

Like he should have been.

Those fools didn't train him with a sword.

It figures they'd never teach him how to use his own magic either.

Fools.

"I know," you say, "but now there is the matter of teaching you how to use light magic. I remember some lessons, but they are very old. I can teach you basic control, and after that..."

You know what it's like to only be taught to control your gift instead of how to use it. However, for all of your power in darkness, light magic... it isn't your specialty. Perhaps you could abduct a tutor for him, but how to ensure that this tutor wouldn't undo all of your successful manipulation—

"I can take over from there." The princess speaks up, and both you and Ethan turn to her. You raise an invisible eyebrow.

"The kingdom I ran from was filled with light magic users," she points out, and you nod. It is most certainly true. "If I was going to lead them one day, I had to understand how the magic could be wielded and used. Since I don't have light magic, they never taught me the foundations, only the flashy things that could be done by those who had the gift. If you can teach him control, I can teach him how to make it his own."

"But..." Ethan pipes up, "what if I hurt someone else? What if I can't do it? What if I don't want to?"

And here is the crux of the matter. Self-rejection. The cruelest of enemies. More sinister than whatever lay in the dark. More cruel than whatever machinations the light may come up with.

Wicked.

However, you cannot force Ethan to love every aspect of his being, just as no one could do so for you.

"Then you will simply learn to control the light magic and no more," you say. "The magic you have is a magic that is inherent to you. It is part of you, and you are now part of it. However, it does not own you. It is yours to choose what to do with. And if you choose to simply control it, then that is a choice you will be supported in."

"And if you choose to use it, you'll be supported there, too," says the princess, and you nod. "There's no bad magic, Ethan. There are only bad people, and you aren't bad."

Ah, the lesson you taught. It comforts your heart to see it used when it's needed most.

It takes more convincing, and it takes much talking, but you believe, by the end of it, Ethan is reassured and ready. You rise to take Gregory away, ready to spend as long as you need to reassure him and provide what he needs to heal from the shock of seeing light magic in his own home, when another thought occurs to you.

This definitely explains why Ethan puked when he saw your face. Inherent light magic. Huh.

With a chuckle, you guide Gregory out of the room. It looks like your two allies are more powerful than you thought.

It's good that you've manipulated them so well. Good job, Maximus.

Despite your reputation as a Dark Lord, you have a strict moral code. So when a young girl showing signs of abuse wandered into your realm, you took her in. Now the neighboring kingdom is acusing you of kidnapping their princess. You have to choose between returning her to her abusors or war.

#AmyNChanstories #LISTEN #he's a chosen one #how did they choose him?#he probably glew REALLY BRIGHT as a baby #and they couldn't wait for him to show more magic #so they just sent him off #their loss

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timetravelingshark · 2 years ago

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Okay so I'm not super familiar with your OCs, but I wanted to send emojis, so....pick who you want to talk about for each? Or pick one(s) you don't talk about often that you want to flesh out more? 👁️EYE💥COLLISON🍧SHAVED ICE🌙MOON🙈SEE-NO-EVIL🌌MILKY WAY��️TORNADO💚GREEN HEART

Thank you so much for the ask!! I'll do the mains just because it's fun to tinker with them and more development can't hurt. 👁️ EYE - what colour are their eyes? do people notice their eyes? is there anything special about them (shows emotion easily, literally magical…)?

oooo okay this is a great question because eye color actually is a BIG thing in my story!! There's two main schools of magic that humans use- light and dark magic. Neither is inherently good or bad, and it's kind of like a yin and yang thing. The ability to use magic in any safe and meaningful capacity is somewhat rare, and it's determined by birth. Those who have a natural affinity for light magic have eyes the color of cut emeralds, and those who have a natural affinity have eyes that are the color of orange flames. Ori, being a dark mage, has orange eyes, and Darius, being a light mage, has emerald eyes. Elves are also a thing in this story and one of their most iconic traits is their eyes that come in unnatural, startling shades of blue- ranging from the exact color of ice to the inkiest midnight blue. Nero and Chrion, the major elven characters, both have blue eyes. Nero's eyes are more in the icy range, while Chiron's eyes look more like the sea. aight lads this post has gotten a lot longer than I intended (this is actually a lot of questions orz) so I'll put everything else under the read more so my followers don't hate me lmfao

💥 COLLISON - what emotions do they have trouble dealing with?

Ori- Feelings of inadequacy and uselessness. It's what spurred her to try to master each Art and be listed as one of the true greats in magical history. She wants to learn, she wants to do, she wants to be of use. If she can't help or be needed or of use she feels lost, wilts, and retreats into herself.

Darius- Anger. He doesn't look like it, and it's pretty difficult to rouse his anger, certainly, but if someone manages to truly piss him off he tends to do some highly unethical shit and it's very hard for him to cool down afterwards. He gets all shaky and restless for a while and has to pace and then meditate to calm himself down. He holds a lot of grudges and it's hard for him to forgive. It's a part of his personality that he's deeply ashamed of and he hates it when people see that side of him.

Nero- Resentment. Boy is a petty, salty bitch (not that I blame him) and it affects pretty much every facet of his character. He's been treated like shit for a good chunk of his life and so it completely colors his worldview and influences the things he does and says throughout the story. Chiron- Ooooo, this one's hard! Chiron is probably the least developed out of the main four, which I hope to remedy soon. For now, I would say it's arrogance. The man is good at magic- more than most humans, by virute of being an elf, and he's pretty good for an elf. He's extremely confident in his abilities and it gets to his head sometimes. 🍧 SHAVED ICE - do they still have any objects from their childhood? what significance does it have to them? what would their reaction be if they lost it?

Ori- A small doll that Isra, her mentor at the abbey, made for her when she was a little girl. When she got a little bit older, her friend Asar put tiny little bracelets on it made out of bronze and glamoured them to look gold, to match the bracelets that the people at the temple wore. They were her two dearest (and kind of only) friends at the monastery so she treasures it a lot. If she ever lost it, she'd be absolutely distraught, and probably bawl like a baby. Darius- A handwritten book of prayers that was given to him by his nonnus, Evander- the monk that was his surrogate father and main teacher at the temple that he grew up in. He got it when he turned ten and he still carries it around with him to this day, flipping through it to find the right prayer to ease his mind. If he ever lost it or it got irreparably destroyed, he'd be pretty out of sorts for a good while, and then he'd probably write to Evander and apologize for losing it because he loves his dad v much and feels like he's dishonoring him by losing his hard work. :( Nero- A sword and scabbard that his father gave him before he was sent to live at the Lucerian royal court at age 13. It's a piece of his Elven cultural heritage (one of the few he still has) and a sign that his father truly viewed him as a proper elven man. If he ever lost it, he'd be genuinely inconsolable. Man would still be mourning that sword a hundred years later. Chiron- A silver and carved moonstone necklace given to him at 13. Traditionally, necklaces like this are given to youths once they turn sixteen, but since he was also sent to live at the Lucerian royal court alongside Nero, his parents gave it to him earlier. It's a beautiful peice and Chiron wears it near constantly. If he ever somehow lost it or it was irreparably destroyed, he'd certainly be upset by it, but would eventually come to terms with it. If he ever got his hands on moonstone, he might try to make a replacement, similar to the one that he lost but different enough to show how he's changed in the 52 years since he got the original necklace. 🌙 MOON - what is your oc’s greatest wish? how far are they willing to go for it?

Ori- To be the very best mage there ever was and to help people from all over any ways that she can. She literally raised a man from the dead solely to make him to teach her light magic because light magic is a lot more conducive to directly helping people, so I'd say she's ready to do just about anything. Darius- Currently, it's to regain his lost memories from the last seven years, and to find out who murdered him and why. He is fully willing to go across the continent and break into some rather secure places to figure it out. He is usually pretty hard lawful except when it comes to this stuff, lmao. Nero- To be back among his people instead of at the human Lucerian court. He'd genuinely be down for murder if it got him home, but the knowledge that a very tense geopolitical situation that could put his people in jeparody rests upon his shoulders prevents him from ever actually doing anything meaningful to acheive this goal. Chiron- To become genuinely respected in his field. He knows that he isn't fully taken seriously due to his elven nature, youthful appearance, and status as a hostage, and while it doesn't make him seethe like how it does to Nero, his ass is a tad bit chapped over it. People in the court recognize that he's certainly talented, but don't seem to realize that he's worked extremely hard to get to the level of precise skill in magic that he has and that it's not due to elven genetics like many who dismiss him claim- especially when he's practicing a human school of magic, which is much harder for elves to do. He generally lets that stuff roll off his back like water on a duck, but occasionally he'll show off more than he needs to to prove his worth to the naysayers. 🙈 SEE-NO-EVIL - whats a side of your oc that they don’t want to show other people?

Ori- She doesn't like to show off her insecurities or feelings of inadequacy. It makes her feel lame, and Ori wants to be the diametric opposite of lame at all times (by virtue of being a teenager, she fails in the "be cool as fuck at all times" category. repeatedly. bless her heart.) Darius- As mentioned earlier, he hates it when he gets into a rage, especially around other people. It's very shameful for people to see him lose control like that, particularly because it's normally really hard to get him worked up. Nero- Man actually has a heart under his jaded exterior, but only about three people (including a certain princess 👀👀👀) actually know that, and he would like it to stay that way. Chiron- He's made kind of a reputation of his "go with the flow" and "it is what it is" nature, so he doesn't like it if someone can tell if something is seriously affecting him. He has a brand to uphold, after all. 🌌 MILKY WAY - what was the inspiration behind your oc? what was the first thing you decided about them? Ori and Darius came to me in a dream, actually. I dreamt I was a young mage who found a dude dead in a ditch and I brought him back to life with woo-woo magic necromancy powers. So that's where the very spark of inspiration came from! I would also say that Ori initially took some inspo from Megumin, lol. The first thing that I decided for both of them were their color palettes, as well as their hair and eye colors! Nero was based lowkey off of a character from a very old and very abandoned fantasy story of mine. I loved him as a character too much to throw away with the rest of what was a kind of unsalvageable story, so I adapted him and made him his own thing. I think one of the first things that I decided about him was that he was going to have incredibly short hair for an elf, which would end up becoming pretty symbolic since it showed his ironic disconnect with his birth culture. Chrion's inspiration was HIGHKEY inspired by Mathis Quigley from the wonderful webcomic Unsounded. (Absolutely read that if you get the chance, btw). The pale pretty boy looks, the arrogance, the skill at magic, the fondness for dark blue... man takes a lot after Quigs, I fully admit. He's diverged a lot from Quigley, though, since his inception, and I think that he stands as his own character. The first thing that I decided about him was that he'd be a magic user, to compliment Nero's very martially oriented build, and to give Ori and Darius someone to have cool magic duels with. 🌪️ TORNADO - what is the biggest change you’ve ever made to them? how have they changed from their original version?

Ori- She was a LOT more morally fucked, I would say, and she's already pretty morally fucked so you can imagine how bad she was. Originally dark and light magic were a lot more black and white but I found that kind of boring so I ditched it within like a month of the story's creation, and Ori's original, significantly darker characterization went with that. Darius- He used to not have a background as a solider- went straight from the Monastery to [REDACTED]. I decided that that was kind of boring and that he needed some more development to make certain aspects of his personality make sense, and to better connect him with people to help facilitate the search for his memories, so I decided to have him join the Lucerian army in the mage division. This ended up being great for his character development and it gave us his CO, Marcus, who is one of my favorite characters because he's just fucking funny and also Darius' bestie.

Nero- His original-original characterization from the first abandoned story was that he was an older brother tracking down his younger sister who he viewed as a traitor to their people and their kind for helping two human princes escape death. That all has gone clear out the window in this new story, but a lot of fundamental personality traits remain. Chiron- He's more ambitious than he was originally, and he's a little less nice to humans than he was originally- he's kind of ambivalent towards them now compared to his initial positivity. 💚 GREEN HEART - what things make your oc feel comforted? hugs, kisses, food?

Ori- Girl loves cuddles and hugs. Having someone's arms around her helps her feel safe, grounded, and most importantly, loved. Naturally, she craves this like how a cat craves sunlight and will bask in the cuddles and affection if you give it to her. Darius- A good bowl of soup is always a nice comfort for him. He doesn't mind hugs and cuddles, though, but it has to be from the right person. If he gets them from the right person, this man will literally melt in their arms. Just goes boneless. Nero- He'd literally die before admitting this, but he loves it when someone runs their hands through his hair, and especially so if they kind of gently scritch his scalp while doing so. The man may be an elf but he's a doggo at heart.

Chiron- A steady hand on his shoulder and some kind, appreciative words can rally Chiron from an emotional, mental, or physical low. Just knowing you appreciate him or trust him can make him go from :( to :)

#my ocs #ori #darius #nero #chiron #this was A Lot holy shit #I'm so sorry for rambling I just saw my chance to talk about these guys and I jumped on it

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raevenlywrites · 4 years ago

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Pass the happy! 🌌✨ When you receive this, list 5 things that make you happy and send this to 10 of the last people in your notifications!

TYSM :D

1) It’s my weekend! Always nice

2) It’s my sister’s birthday tomorrow *throws confetti*

3) I beat my game (and promptly started it over but its fine :P)

4) I’ve started making the bed in the mornings, and that makes my wife happy, which makes me happy

5) My wife. She just plain makes me happy :D

#the-inkiest-of-owls #asked and answered

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silentvoicescryingout · 2 years ago

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as the rivers run

For Pomeyasha, by silentvoicescryingout

NSFW 🔞

A cool breeze whispers through the treetops, rustling the leaves and bringing forth the scent of pine and bark, of sweet air and nighttime. Murmurs sound all around—the fading song of birds falling to rest, the chirp of insects and crackle of fauna swaying to and fro.

Water bubbles and splashes gently against tiny, smooth pebbles. Tiny flowers bud along the grassy edges of the riverbank, petals pointed skyward.

Gentle light from above casts a glow upon the rippling waters— reflecting silver-blue on the gentle swells. The moon is big, full, bright enough in the night sky that the trained eye can make out the shapes and filtered colors of plants and shrubbery about the bank.

Moonlight casts a glow on Sakura’s hair, making it more lavender than cherry blossom. Wet strands cling to smooth, slightly flushed cheeks, droplets of water beading on her nose and below the plush of her bottom lip.

Sasuke cups a handful of cool water, bringing it up to trickle over the back of her neck, flattening the fine, pale hair into soft waves at her nape. A quiet hum sounds from between her lips as his hand reaches out to comb through the damp strands of hair framing her face, pushing them back to reveal the purple-colored diamond gracing her forehead.

“Is the water getting too cold?” he murmurs. His own hair, dampened into the inkiest black, sticks against the side of his throat, the shortest locks clinging to the curve of his jaw.

“No,” Sakura responds, shaking her head. The surface ripples as she shifts, turning slightly to present him with her right shoulder, so he may dribble more water down her back and wash away the sparse suds that remain.

“Good,” his fingers sweep gently over her skin, slick with cool water, the warmth of his flesh beneath.

“It was so hot out today,” she sighs. Her head tips back, and she cups water to splash over her chest. “The cool water feels nice in comparison.”

“Hn,” Sasuke mutters. His hand reaches out, drawing her close before rotating around her so his front is at her back. Water splashes at her hips as he takes a small step closer.

He gathers water by the palm-ful, cascading it over her body. At her collarbones, her breasts, the notches of her elbows and dip of her belly button. Fingers press gently to her forehead, urging her to tip it back against his chest so he can drip water at her hairline.

The cool liquid running over her scalp in streams elicits a shiver in Sakura’s form, the ticklish sensation both soothing and thrilling. Gooseflesh pricks on her skin, the peaks of her breasts tightening into plump, dusky buds.

She sighs, leaning further back into the strong chest behind her. Sasuke’s warmth at her back and the cool air nipping at her from the front is a cornucopia of sensation— a quiet, purring hum falls from her lips and the chest behind her vibrates with a deep chuckle.

“Are you planning on falling asleep here?” Sasuke asks, a hot palm sliding to brace itself at the swell of her hip.

“Maybe,” she mumbles. He huffs again.

“You’ll catch a cold,” he drawls. The hand resting against her tightens momentarily before his thumb begins moving rhythmically, sweeping in tiny circles against her skin.

“You’ll keep me warm,” she retorts. A quiet tch sounds above her head and she laughs quietly.

A shiver creeps down her spine when Sasuke fills his hand with water once more, then allows it to wash over the slightly warmed flesh of her back. She titters in half-hearted protest as he scoops more, lazily spilling it over her chest, causing her nipples to tighten further.

Sasuke’s hand slips around the dip of her waist, sliding up smoothly, casually until his finger tips brush against the underside of her breast. Then higher, it skims slowly upward until he is cupping her entirely in his palm.

Sakura blinks, her knees loosening, her weight falling slightly back into him once more. His hand is a gentle, but purposeful weight at her chest. He holds her with a confidence that is comforting; it feels long-tended, despite it being so new, their physical, intimate understanding of one another.

The wind whistles quietly again, rustling the treetops and accenting the sound of their deep breaths: in, out, pull, push, in sync.

Sakura’s head falls back once more, allowing her to peer up into the face tipped down to gaze at her. A shadowed flush crawls across the bridge of her nose, pools in her dampened cheeks. Her jade eyes, turned pale chrysoberyl in the moonlight, twinkle as her lips curve into the echo of a smile.

Sasuke’s hand slides away from one breast to brush over the other, before sweeping upward to allow his fingers to dip into the shallow nook of her collarbone. His fingers splay, reaching to touch gently at the soft skin of her throat, up to trace the line of her jaw, his index tapping light at the apex of her chin.

Her eyes slip closed as his fingers stroke against her petal-soft cheek, feather-light over her delicate eyelids.

His head dips, nose brushing into the soft, wet strands at her crown as his hand retraces its path, coming to rest at her breast once more. Her chest heaves with deep, slow breaths as he curls his hand over her mound, plumping it with the barest squeeze of his fingers.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, lips pressing into her hair. Or it could be the breeze, whispering like a lover into the shell of her ear, rippling the surface of the water until it laps in cool shocks against their ever-warming skin.

She is like the finest silk under his fingers, so smooth and supple it makes him ache. Wrapped up against him like so, this pink-haired spitfire, larger than life hero and savior seems small, delicate, breakable. She fits into him like a puzzle, plush where he is unforgiving, downy-pillow to his rusted steel.

Pure in the eye of the moonlight, illuminating his shadows.

They stand for long moments until the sky is more midnight than blue, the stars ever brighter, the moon shining, beckoning. Sasuke cradles her sofests parts, caging her in the bracket of his flesh, lest the gentle current sweep her away.

Sakura shifts, rolling her neck in a sensuous semi-circle, “Anata.” His favorite name. The best one of them, at least. Her voice is quiet, smooth and seeming one with the rustling grasses and murmuring waters.

Yes , he breathes into her ear, leaning low so his mouth is centimeters from her nape, eyelashes tickling against the highest point of her cheek.

She only has to turn the barest bit to peer into his mismatched gaze– only tilts her head an inch to allow her mouth to press against his. Lips meld, parting together to allow breaths and tongues and affection to slip between.

The hand at her breast tightens ever-so slightly again, anchoring her closer, warming her further. Sasuke’s breath drips from his lips, half a hum, half a sigh. Sakura drinks it in, sips from his mouth and is well acquainted with the flavor.

A pair of teeth nip gently at giving flesh, another tongue slipping out to soothe the sting. Sakura’s hand rises from under the river’s surface, sprinkles droplets that get whisked away by the brisk air as she reaches to grasp behind her lover’s neck, pulling him further down to slant her mouth against his with a ferocity belied by her playful nature and bashful tendencies.

A shudder works through Sasuke’s form– finally his hot-blooded body giving in to the chill of desire–and Sakura leans in, encouraging a rocking motion. They sway in time with the ripples of the water, until they don’t– then they disturb the surface, passion bringing with it its own kind of current.

“Turn around,” he rasps, licking into her mouth again as if to deny himself his own request.

She grins, catches his lower lip between her teeth and pulls away gently until the contact is broken, and she can twirl around to face him front-to-front. Her palms find his chest, pressing against each flexing muscle, index and thumb creating a frame in the center where his heart beats strong. Hard, fast and well within her grasp.

Sakura smiles wider. She traces the shadows of his muscular torso in the lowish light with her eyes, drags her gaze up and away from another feature vying for her attention. Jade meets lavender, and red, and she scoffs.

“Unfair,” she murmurs, trailing her finger tips in lazy swirls, drawing closer and closer to small nipples beading in anticipation. A dark brow arches in challenge. “You get to see me better than I see you.”

“Hn,” he hums, chest heaving on a deep breath as the tip of her pinky nail catches on one of his peaks. “I suppose I’ll have to let you feel me twice as much, then.”

How swiftly that loving gaze turns to liquid heat astounds her. Long fingers curl around her hip, calloused fingertips pressing in and dimpling her flesh. She feels the water part around her thighs as Sasuke tugs her forward, until there is not even room for a breath between them. The rise and fall of his chest and hers are forced to move in tandem.

Pale pink lashes lower, green eyes glittering in shadow as Sasuke draws himself to his full height, rolls his shoulders back and pelvis forward to meld them flush together, hip to abdomen. He throbs between them, an aching pulse below his waist superseding the entrapment of the water’s meniscus and breaking through the surface.

Sakura holds his smoldering gaze, but allows her hands to succumb to the gravitational pull: down, down they slip until her fingers are just barely tapping to the top of the water. Fluttering the digits of her right hand a few inches to the left brings them to graze against something smooth and hot, bulbous and peeking just above the lapping ripples.

Before her hand has the chance to dip beneath the surface, to explore the pillar looming below, the hand at her hip plunges down, reaching to wrap around the back of her thigh. Her left leg is pulled above the water, hooked wet and cool around a warm and trim waist. That dark stare looms closer as he bends to reach more of her, adjusting and fortifying his grip.

Sakura catches the stump of his right bicep with her left hand, the right shooting up to hook behind his left shoulder. An insistent tug behind her suspended knee compels her to hook one foot behind Sasuke’s muscular buttock. When he rises again to full height, she is dragged away from the sandy river floor, forced to balance on only her biggest toe until she swings her other leg through the water, to its place around the other side of him.

“Hold onto me, Sakura,” he susurrus. “Tight.”

Sakura clings to his shoulders, clenching her legs about his hips as he wades away from the center of the stream. The water level kisses at her navel, her pubis and then slips away completely as his strong steps move them toward the edge of the bank, where large, smooth rocks make an enclave of darkness speared only by a single rill of moonlight spilling from above.

When he finally stops, and the backs of her thighs meet cold, wet stone as he sits her upon it, she can hardly make out the fine features of his face. Only his eyes are clear to her, shining purple and crimson: her very own waning and waxing moons.

Her features are as clear as day to him. Gooseflesh litters nearly every inch of her skin, her eyes big and bright and closer to their true shade when sheltered from the filter of the moonlight. Cherry red lips part, plumped and swollen as her chest hitches with trembling breaths. Blossom colored locks cling to her neck and brush against her collarbones, trickling tiny rivulets of water down to her flushed, swollen breasts.

Sasuke moves forward, still encased in water down from the center of his thighs. He loosens one pale, supple thigh from its grip around him, encouraging the bend in her faintly scarred knee, fixing her foot flat against her seat. She gasps and he slips into the space created for him, notching their hips together and bracing his hand above her head on the rougher, dryer parts of the rocky ledge.

“I can feel you, Sasuke-kun,” she breathes. Her back arches, bringing her chest closer to his. Her lower half shifts as well, until it presses hot, slick against his center. “Let me feel more.”

A low groan falls from his lips before they come down to smother hers. Sakura braces her dainty fingers against the hard line of his jaw, swirling her tongue in dizzying patterns around his, sucking at his lips and sliding her way around his mouth in a way that makes him burn hot from the top of his head to his submerged toes.

Sasuke’s fingers dig into the divots of the rocky wall behind her, calluses scraping as he cants his hips forward, indulging himself in a warm, slick glide. A breathless moan squeezes out between their entangled mouths and he exhales harshly, shifting the lower part of his body back, then forward again to repeat the sensation.

Sakura’s crooked knee begins to buckle inward, falling against his side. He moves his hand to cup it, pushing gently, slowly until she is spread wide for him again.

“Stay like this, Sakura,” he murmurs into her mouth, peppering a sprinkling of chaste kisses to her mouth before pulling back to gaze at her fully.

Even as the flush on her face spreads to her chest, she lets her bent leg fall open more, the other sliding to her side, sweeping at the water with her foot. Graceful fingers rake through her hair, pulling it back away from her cheeks as she stares up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

A small smirk curls his mouth, causing Sakura’s pulse to thrum more insistently within the cage of her ribs. Long fingers trace a path from the knobs of her knee down to the crease between her thigh and calf. Further down, his digits slide, trailing over the inside of her thigh. Slower and slower the closer they draw to the place they belong.

“Sasuke-kun,” she pants, hips swiveling against her slick perch in an unconscious attempt to urge him to his destination.

He smiles in earnest, leaning forward once more to capture her lips. She whimpers into him as his palm presses hot and heavy against the flesh just at the crease between her thigh and mons. Sasuke tightens his grip, fingers kneading the muscle under the thin layer of fat, scorching her down to her bones and sparking each nerve ending.

Sakura’s cry is muffled by his mouth when he allows his hand to slide over her center, cupping her gently. He holds his hand there for a moment, relishing the heat and texture of her soft, petal-like folds against his palm. Then, he slides his hand up, down, using his fingers to separate those petals and test the nectar seeping from within.

He wets his fingers at her entrance before sliding them over the pearly nub peeking through the short, pink curls at the top of her mound. He frames the protrusion with his index and forefinger to open her more completely, and uses his middle to circle around the nucleus with a feather-light touch.

Sakura inhales sharply, reaching out with trembling hands to grasp at every part of him within reach. A set of fingers clench tight at the firm flesh above his elbow, the others cupped against the side of his neck. Her head tilts back and she blinks dizzily at the swirls of purple and red glowing down at her as Sasuke’s finger gradually increases its pressure, toying her with a heavier, maddeningly slow touch.

“Don’t tease me,” she says tightly, swallowing a gasp as he inches down to gather more of her spilling wetness before returning to the task of tracing circles around her throbbing bundle of nerves.

“I’m not,” he replies, his voice a charming combination of smooth and gruff. When he shifts, she feels the proof of his desire, burning hot and rigid against her resting leg. “I only want to take my time.”

To enjoy you better . Sakura knows this is what he means, even without him speaking the words allowed. Because she knows him so well, or because he has said the same each of the times they have come together since the first.

Sasuke lets her rush and persuade him anywhere, for anything– except in this.

A half-frustrated, half-fulfilled groan falls from her reddened lips and Sasuke bites back a chuckle. He lightens his touch, but allows his three fingers to press over her distended clitoris, moving in tight circles at a steady, consistent pace. Her breaths quicken, knee swaying inward for a second before swinging back as Sakura sighs out a moan, her hips curling toward his hand, small fingertips digging deliciously into his skin.

“ Yes , anata,” she gasps. Sasuke hisses before leaning forward to drink from her mouth again, trapping his hand between himself and her thighs as he stokes the flames of her desire.

He weathers his own swelling arousal, pressing into her thigh as she moans against his lips and grinds herself against his hand. Withdrawing for the barest second causes her to snap away from their kiss, but whatever protest she has primed is swept away on a hitched inhale as he slides one finger into her core.

Sakura’s hips rock into his hand, her walls fluttering around the sweeping, dexterous intrusion. Sasuke quickly finds that spot inside that causes stars to flash across her vision– she is a very good teacher of anatomy, and he a terrilbly good student–curling the digit against that special bit of flesh. The pressure is gone too soon as he withdraws, but she is rewarded tenfold when his finger returns accompanied by another, gliding inside smoothly, coaxing her into what could easily become wanton frenzy.

“Lean back,” he orders quietly, his voice no louder than the waterfall rushing somewhere in the near-distance, but potent nonetheless.

Sakura’s body slumps backward, her head tipping back against the smooth stone behind her, back arching toward the night sky. Pearlescent drops of water, sweat or both bead over her chest, slipping down the slope of her mounds and pooling in the divots of her abdominal muscles. A particularly deep thrust of Sasuke’s fingers evokes a twist in her waist that causes those muscles to ripple underneath her smooth skin.

She can only suck in gasping breaths, eyes wide and nearly-useless for the lack of light, only able to see the glowing moon and glittering stars through the haze in her vision. Sasuke shifts to brace the stub of his left arm against the wall of rock behind her, shifting so close that his chest obscures her vision. He crowds her, a wall of solid warmth and pure masculine strength. Her gaze roves over him in a daze, catching on the shifting of his muscles as he works her body from below.

“Sasuke-kun,” she whispers jerkily, swallowing a mouthful of saliva and straining to lift her chin higher, to catch a glimpse of his face. “I’m going to come.”

A low groan breaks from his chest and his fingers move more rapidly, filling her and withdrawing within the span of a second each time. The breath is siphoned from her lungs as sparks begin to ignite in her veins. Lewd, wet sounds filter to her ears, soon to be drowned out by her own keening moans.

Sasuke’s tomoe spin in piercing, whirling revolutions as Sakura breaks apart before him. His eyes catch every minute detail: the way the fine hairs on her body rise to attention, the flush that creeps upward from her budding nipples to the soft skin beneath her eyes. The string of saliva connecting the roof of her mouth to her tongue, the vibration of her vocal chords in her throat as she lets loose a guttural moan, her flexing calves, her furrowed brows– every moment recorded perfectly, forever stored in his mind.

It is moments like these that make the curse of his kin all the more worthwhile; some moments, like these, he would never choose to forget.

Quick little breaths puff from her red, wet mouth and Sasuke leans down to kiss it. Gently, his lips brush over hers, suckling lightly at first the upper, then the lower, before he covers her entire mouth with his and parts his way between them with his tongue. Pale pink lashes flutter spasmodically, her body still shifting with tiny jerks as he lazily slides his fingers in and out of her core, teasing the outer rim of her entrance and spreading the abundant nectar seeping out over her folds.

When his fingers slide in deep once more, he feels the fluttering of her inner muscles, the throb of her pulse from within. A sweet sigh fills his mouth as Sakura begins to shift about her perch; she undulates in tiny circles, dancing to a rhythm only she can hear as he continues his gentle, lackadaisical ministrations.

Soft fingers meet silk-covered steel as she reaches for him, gripping dainty digits around his heavy, pulsing shaft. She gives him a gentle squeeze before opting to trail her fingers lightly over the engorged flesh, tracing a path down from the weeping head resting at the middle of her thigh toward the smattering of fine black hair at his pelvis. He moans softly into her mouth and she smiles, nipping at his full lower lip with her teeth.

Water splashes against her leg as Sasuke shifts to center himself in front of her. She curls her fingers around him to keep him within her grasp, peeling open heavy lids to blink up at glowing purple and red orbs. A knee brushes against the calf of her still-submerged leg, nudging it to the side until she is spread wider, cool air rushing between the small space that separates them. A shiver works down her arched spine as the breeze catches on the wetness between her legs.

Sasuke’s eyes slip shut for a brief moment when the hand holding him intimately slides in a gradually upward motion, before slipping down once more. He reopens his eyes to gaze down into Sakura’s face as she sweeps her hand up, twisting her wrist slightly at the end so the very tip of him strokes against the soft center of her palm before stroking back down, tightening her grip along the way. Jade irises glitter up at him between half-open lids and thick pink lashes. Her full bottom lip slips between her teeth as she strokes him again, setting a building pace that has his hand clenching over the flesh of her inner thigh.

Bracing his palm against the taut muscle there, he extends his thumb to press over her sensitive nub, applying gentle pressure and moving it in small circles. Her nostrils flare on a quick intake of air and the rhythm of her hand falters. Gazing into her widened eyes, he continues to stroke his thumb over her, only straying from his target to gather a bit of the juices leaking from below to aid in the slip and slide over that tiny bundle of flesh. Her lips part, cheeks flushing as she tightens her grip, trying to renew her urgent pace. His arousal is quickly forgotten as he continues to stoke her building climax, her small hand loosening until he is only but cradled between her finger tips.

“You’re distracting me,” she accuses breathily. Her eyes roll back slightly before fixing themselves on his face again.

“Aa,” he murmurs, leaning in to brush his lips over the lavender rhombus on her forehead. The pressure of his thumb strengthens and his stroking motions become more focused.

“You want to make me come again,” these words fit around panting breaths are not a question.

“Aa,” he allows himself a small grin before he presses ever-closer to Sakura again. He sucks a red spot into the underside of her jaw before moving to join their mouths.

“Sasuke-kun,” she moans around his lips.

Her breasts brush his chest as her leg breaks through the surface of the water to hook, cool and wet around the back of his thigh.

“Won’t it be better if you make me come with you inside me?” she whispers, peeking at him through her full, pale lashes. In response to a flex of her leg muscles, Sasuke sways forward until his hips are nearly flush against hers.

His hand never pauses in its movements between them. “Aa, and I will. When I’m ready to. I’m taking my time, remember?”

Sakura moans quietly when two long fingers sink deep inside of her again. Sasuke’s thumb presses over her sensitive nub while his digits slide forward and back, curling on each outward stroke. He puts the force of his body behind each thrust of his hand, disturbing the water around his hips. Quiet swashing sounds accompany the slick glide of his fingers, accented by her gasping breaths and hushed cries.

A night bird starts up a lilting tune, crickets chirping and the rustling of grass swaying in the breeze echo back. Sakura joins in the forest’s midnight song, her groans and utterances increasing in pitch and volume until her back arches up again, each muscle bunching tantalizingly under her smooth skin. Syrupy wetness spills over Sasuke’s hand as he continues to glide his fingers within her fluttering and grasping walls, reaching deep and spreading his digits wide in increments, scissoring them open and closed.

Ecstasy rolls inside of her as the rivers run, near constant ebbs and flows leaving her gasping for breath, hips jerking against her lover's hand unconsciously, out of her control. At some point, Sakura’s moans fade into hoarse little whimpers, the blurred line between exquisite pleasure and oversensitivity drawing closer and Sasuke’s fingers tease her on the outside and within at a leisurely pace. Her bent knee swings inward in response to a gentle flick against her pulsing clit and she curls her hips away from his hand in a flinch.

Sasuke’s voice rumbles out in a soothing murmur and he carefully retreats, sliding his fingers away slowly, gently. That hand, still slick with her juices, trails featherlight over warm, prickling flesh until long fingers grasp at her forearm, encouraging her to slump back into the wall behind her.

Delicate lids lower to shutter her vibrant green eyes and he leans down to pepper light kisses over each one. His affections move upward to her temple, then down to her flushed, damp cheek. Warm breaths puff against his face as her quivering form relaxes by the moment. His hand slides up to cup her nape as her head lolls backward, eyes blinking open sluggishly. Viridian green shines in the darkness, contrasting against pitch-black, blown out pupils. Sasuke’s mouth curves in a small smile as he sweeps his gaze over her face, taking in the lax expression and lingering on her flush, swollen lips.

Those lips curve into a weak smile of their own before the lower is slipped between pearly white teeth. Two small, warm palms press firm against his chest, creeping over the corded muscles of his torso until they rest in the divots of his hips. Sakura allows one hand to venture further, grasping his heat in her fingers once again. She drowns in his gaze as her hand slips over his hardness, path slickened by the pearlescent liquid seeping from his tip.

“Sakura,” Sasuke whispers, leaning down to brush his mouth against hers.

She slips her tongue in between his lips, curling it around his as her hips inch forward, her thighs bracketing his as she shifts until her shoulders press into the stone behind her, buttocks hanging over the edge of her seat. Cold water laps lightly at her flesh as she hovers over the ripples, causing goosebumps to rise on her skin. Sasuke’s rough palm slides down to rest at the center of her back, fingers splaying wide as she tightens her grip over his straining shaft, guiding him forward until the wet, hot head of him bumps up against her slick and swollen folds.

A deep groan falls from his mouth into hers as she guides him to slide against her, parting her petals with his tip and allowing him the briefest taste of her warmth, coating his end in her juices to spread and mingle with his own. His fingertips press into the soft skin of her back, dimpling the flesh and digging into her lean muscles. Deep breaths cause his chest to heave, expanding until he can feel the scrape of her hard nipples against him. Hips flexing, he rocks into the motions of her hand, letting his shaft slide over and between her folds.

Sakura nudges her hips upward, undulating against him and allows his head to bump against, even notch at her entrance. He slips away from the temptation each time, brushing upward and delighting in each of her shivers as his arousal swipes over her clit.

“Sasuke-kun,” she murmurs between languid kisses. Her breath hitches when he catches at her entrance again, rushing out of her in a gust when he again slides past her soaking core. “That’s enough.”

“Is it?” he breathes, licking at her mouth and grinding forward with a touch more force until her thighs clench tight around him.

“I want you,” she whispers. They speak to each other in such low voices, as if the river or the trees or the creatures of the night would speak and spread word of such intimate moments.

“Aa,” he smirks slightly, pulling back just enough so that only their foreheads brush. He treats her to another excruciating, grazing thrust, stoking her flames higher but leaving her burning and empty within. “You have me.”

Sakura whimpers, and a dark chuckle filters to her ears. He nuzzles his face against hers as his hips continue their gentle rocking, his own breaths quickening and fingers flexing with restraint.

“You know what I mean,” Sakura gasps, turning to press her mouth against his cheek, warm breath spilling over his face. “I need you, my love.”

She feels when he falters, when the endearment slips past his defenses and renders him hers for the taking. A shudder works its way through his imposing form and a deep, sucking inhale expands his ribcage. His lips press hard into hers, claiming her mouth in a deep, searing kiss. She murmurs between them, breathing soft pleas and calling to him, Anata , and her love , a couple more times for good measure.

The hot palm at her back slips down to cup her behind, tilting her hips up as he slowly draws his own back, raking the bottom of his shaft over her folds for one last time.

His thick, hot crown rests at her fluttering, waiting core and she sighs in satisfaction. Her lashes tickle his cheek as he presses butterfly kisses to the edge of her jaw. When his body sways forward, the head of him parts her folds, breaching inside of her with a gradual, aching stretch. The inner muscles of her thighs tighten, trembling as she opens for him, pulling him into her warmth. Her heels dig into the back of his legs, urging him to press deeper, come into her faster.

“Easy,” he coos, rolling his hips and feeding her another half inch of himself. She pants, her insides clenching around him before she exhales deeply and her muscles relax. A languid, circular wave of her hips brings him a fraction deeper and his lips curl. Another kiss falls on her cheek.

“More,” she sighs.

Sakura runs her fingers over every inch of his torso, reaches high to tug at the hanging strands of his hair. She murmurs sweet nothings, soft encouragement, voice dripping seduction and urgency and desperation all as he sinks into her slowly.

By the time his hips press flush against hers, the downy black hairs at his pelvis intermingling with soft, pink curls, his chest is rising and falling rapidly, his fingers clenched tight over the plush flesh of her buttock.

His hips swing back, only barely faster than they came, and they both glance down to watch his shaft reappear by the inch, glistening under the moonlight with a thick coat of Sakura’s nectar. He pauses when only the very head of him remains wedged inside of her, shifting his feet in the soft, pebbled sand below. Anchoring his toes and moving his hand to clasp at her hip, he pushes forward again, a long, smooth stroke that tears a moan from both of their chests.

Water sloshes around his hips, splashing lightly in shocks of cold against the back of Sakura’s thighs at startling intervals as he strokes inside of her at a maddening pace. He glides deep, until she feels the pressure high in her abdomen before pulling nearly all the way back each time, her slick walls grasping at him and clinging together to fill the gap he leaves behind.

A flush has taken permanent residence in Sakura’s cheeks, splotches of red spread over the upper part of her chest. Her breasts, full and rose-tipped jiggle gently each time Sasuke’s hips bump into hers. The muscles of her abdomen flex and release, the area just above her mound distening slightly with each long, inward stroke. Sasuke moves his hand briefly to brush over, to press his fingers gently into that spot and they both take a hitching breath. Her spine curves, thrusting her chest up and head back as she mewls and cries into the night.

Deep moans underscore her musical sounds, in time with the rhythm of wet flesh smacking together, sloshing water wetting her perch and contributing to the slickness between her thighs. Red and black and lavender orbs swim in the darkness, rotating dizzyingly as they fix on the shaft plunging between blushing, puffy folds, capturing each drip of her essence.

The splashing sounds grow louder and more frequent as Sasuke’s movements quicken, just ever so slightly. His teeth sink into his lower lip briefly before attaching themselves to hers, tugging the soft flesh into his mouth to suckle as he pushes himself as deep as he can go, daring to attempt going further. Despite her pleas for more, for faster, her insides begin to undulate around him, guttural moans and gasping cries filing the air between them as her hips buck into each of his thrusts, his flexing thighs taking on her weight as passion pulls her from the stability of her perch.

“ Sasuke ,” she rasps, one small fist clenching around a handful of his locks and the other hand splaying over the center of his chest.

He leans more fully into his thrusts–tilting his hips to that with each outward stroke, he brushes up against that textured patch inside of her. Her back arches more, pulling her face away from his reach. Pretty red lips part into an o shape, the tendons of her neck straining as a sharp cry squeezes out and her hips stiffen against him before roiling like an unsettled current.

With a violent, stuttering breath, she shatters. Warmth and wetness gush around him as his name echoes around him and his eyes slip shut, nostrils flaring and catching onto the scent of flowing water, wet grass and budding flowers. His member is bathed in liquid heat and squeezed in dizzying pulses, urging his hips faster.

The sudden increase in pace incites a choking gasp, and his lover's fingers dig near-painfully into his chest. That bite of sensation causes his eyes to flit open and he slips his hand up to press into her back, stepping forward to tug her flush against his body as he works into her faster, deeper. Moisture compromises his grip and he bends his knees, replanting his feet to bear more of her weight.

“Hold on tight, Sakura,” he murmurs breathlessly, stroking his hand up and down soothingly as he anchors her against him to receive his forceful thrusts. “Wrap your arms around me.”

A half-moan, half-sob rings in his ear as she throws her other arm around his neck, sharp nails digging into the flesh of his shoulder. He bites back a groan, pressing his forehead into the side of her neck and sucking a bruising kiss into her throat before laving at the spot with his tongue.

He pants into her skin, whispering nonsense and affection. His words, a mixture of praise, of promises, detailing his devotion and describing how good she feels.

Sakura clings to him with her arms even as the grip of her thighs around his waist falters, sending her legs splashing back into the river, the water feeling icy against her hot, flushed skin. His hand falls from the place it had found on her hip just long enough to snake under the back of her left knee, pulling it from the water and hooking it into the crook of his elbow. He slams into her, pace steady and strong, the new position sending him careening into her at an angle that sends tears rushing down her burning face.

When she falls apart this time, Sasuke only increases his pace, and ferocity, a long, deep moan spilling from his mouth. His teeth latch on to the flesh between her neck and shoulder and he groans her name, shaft thickening inside her before jerking and pulsing in her depths. His hips continue to piston in and out as he spills all of himself inside, grinding against her as if to reach deeper than ever before, coating her insides and himself with milky white seed. Blackness and then blinding white light obscure his vision for a few stretched out seconds before it fades back in, bringing with it the image of his lover, glistening and beautiful within his grasp.

For long minutes they clutch at each other, muscles twitching and little gasps filling the air as their bodies slowly come down from the peak. Sakura mewls quietly at the last faint bite Sasuke gives to her shoulder, sighing sweetly when his mouth traces up to brush against her slack lips in a chaste kiss.

A strong gust of cold wind rushes over the damp flesh between them and when Sakura rocks with a shiver, Sasuke straightens slowly. A shudder wracks through his own form as he slowly drags himself from her depths, his sensitive skin tingling with satisfaction and a distant revival of his arousal. His arm curls around a slender, cool waist, tugging her high up on his chest.

Sakura’s legs tremble as the wrap around his back, squeezing weakly as he begins to wade slowly through the water, his own muscles quivering as he trudges toward the bank. Soft kisses sprinkle over his chest and clavicle like warm raindrops as the water level lowers from his hips, then knees until he stands at the edge of the river, submerged only a few inches higher than his ankles.

Smooth skin slides down his front as he lowers her to her feet. She sways, resting a hand on the stump of his left arm for stability as he bends down. He cups water in his hand, murmuring an earnest apology when it trickles cold between her thighs as he goes about washing their combined essences away. His fingers brush against her intimately, but featherlight as he cleans his remnants away. Perhaps his touches linger longer than is strictly necessary, but he is careful with her reddened, sensitized flesh nonetheless.

He rises to stand tall again, beckoning her with a tip of his chin as he reaches to draw her into his chest.

“I can walk,” Sakura states, a chuckle underscoring her words. She steps back away from his arm and its attempts to bracket around her waist and pull her up again.

“Sure about that?” Sasuke mutters, face seemingly stoic save for the glint of mirth shining in his dark gray and lavender eyes. His gaze sweeps down over her quivering thighs and the just barely noticeable knocking of her knees before flitting back up to her face again.

A dark brow arches and a tiny smirk tugs at his lips.

She rolls her eyes, hugging her arms around herself as she steps away from the shore and reaches for her towel. Sasuke comes to stand behind her, quickly plucking the cloth from her grasp and fanning it around her shoulders. He rubs at her briskly, brows drawn in concentration, in an attempt to bring warmth back into her goose-pimpled skin before she bats him away with a laugh that feels too loud in the dead of night.

After practically being forced back into her clothes, and swallowed by Sasuke’s too-long cloak, Sakura is able to convince Sasuke to postpone building a fire in favor of returning to the resting spot.

His fingers hold hers tightly as they venture, shoulder-to-shoulder, through the lightly beaten path in the woods, meandering toward the cave they will call their shelter for the night.

Despite the air being cool and their hair being damp, warmth blossoms in both of their chests. The scent of wood and wild herbs fill their noses with each breath, rustling leaves and cooing creatures making nature’s song. Their bodies bask in shared warmth, lingering aches and tingles and echoes of sensation.

If they strain their well-trained ears, they can still hear the bubbling of water over small, smooth pebbles far behind them as the river flows.

End.

#silentfics #silentvoicescryingout #silentvoices #sasusakusmut #haruno sakura #uchiha sasuke #commission #river sex is only cool in fic #danger of infection does not exist here #pro one handed sasuke #blank period sasusaku #sasusakufandom #sasusakufanfic

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hamsternamedmarinette · 2 years ago

Note

1, 2, 6 for the cat ask game?

1. Name?

Jerry! Full name Jerry Nosy Firecracker (Last Name). Firecracker was his name in the shelter. When we first got him, the lady was like "ohoho, you're getting little Firecracker, huh?" so I guess he was a mischievous little kitten back in the humane society, hehe.

2. Fur color?

The inkiest, most elegant black. Some parts are brownish in the sun, and he's got a few stray white hairs too.

6. Nicknames?

Jerry Berry, Baby Kittyface, Best Baby Boy, Belly, Worm Boy (I called him this when he had a worm), The Belly Boy, Tiny Man, uhhh @sisterofhamsternamedmarinette do we have more?

#my cat #not ml #ask game #purrfectlypunny

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watching-pictures-move · 2 years ago

Text

Viddying the Nasties | Suspiria (Argento, 1977)

This review contains spoilers.

I recently rewatched Inferno after a number of years, and while I finally warmed up to the movie, I did wonder why that one kept me away while I embraced this so readily. There are obvious narrative differences, in that this sticks with one protagonist while the other resets, but even visually I found this the more inviting of the two. Both are stylized, insular experiences, but I think there are slight differences that made this one more approachable. There’s the obvious difference in aspect ratio, Inferno’s 1.85:1 versus this one’s 2.35:1, the added width giving it a more expansive quality. But even the lighting choices I think have subtle differences beyond just their colour palettes. The colours in Inferno have a certain...well, not exactly flatness, but they don’t exactly emanate warmth. The ones here range more aggressively in tone, from their boldest, brightest form to the inkiest, most impenetrable black. There’s the feeling that they radiate outwards, basking us in their warm, glowing, warming glow. For all its sinister aura, I find a certain comfort in just looking at this film, and to be perfectly honest, despite all the brutal murders that take place in the movie, I think it might be nice to step inside your TV set (or the theatre screen, should you be so lucky) and into the world of the movie, and live inside it for just a little longer. Of course, I said this about Inferno as well after my most recent viewing, and I stand by it, but let’s just say that the wider aspect ratio made it easier to squeeze into this one.

I don’t think there’s much value in doing such a comparison of either movie to Mother of Tears, the third entry in the Three Mothers Trilogy, which doesn’t have a lot in common with either one aside from the premise. That one deliberately expands its action to a living breathing real world setting, whereas both this and Inferno, during the few moments they step into the outside world, still bring it into their respective distinct visual styles. Here, the opening in the airport prepares us for the aggressive colour scheme, while the killing of a blind pianist by his dog is almost depicted in the abstract, the town square in which the death takes place fully submerged in darkness. And in Inferno, there’s the somewhat humorous scene of the old man trying to drown a bunch of cats, getting attacked by rats, asking for help and then getting stabbed to death, lit exactly the same way as all the interior scenes. (Is the humour in that scene intentional? Who cares?) Mother of Tears is marked by less stylistic control than either of these two, which is perhaps appropriate for its more apocalyptic tone but is not pulled off with either enough spontaneity or assurance for it to satisfy on that level.

This is my... *checks chalkboard tally* ...billionth viewing of Suspiria, meaning that I won’t really bring any new insights, especially not to a movie this widely loved. What I will say is that while Dario Argento is not known for strong characterizations, one of the reasons I like returning to his movie and a number of his others is that I like spending time with the characters. A lot of this is from familiarity. You see a movie or an actor enough times and their characters become a little like your friends. (Between this and wanting to crawl into the movie, I am painting a pretty depressing picture here...but the point stands.) But I do think Argento's better movies, even when defining their protagonists primarily as audience surrogates, are usually good at getting actors who bring a certain empathy and likability to the role, something I think Jessica Harper very much does here. We also get Stefania Casini, who also brings a great deal of warmth to her role as the heroine’s friend, driven to help after losing another friend to the evils that be. I’ve mentioned repeatedly in my recent reviews that violence in these movies is hitting me harder than it used to, and I did find myself affected by the particularly cruel death she suffers, and the dismal fate she’s afforded, her eyes gouged out, her flesh shredded, any semblance of humanity removed, a pure instrument of death. That fate is only observed in one scene, but I wonder if I would have been so moved had the movie and Casini not warmed us up to her.

There’s also a small but high impact role by Barbara Magnolfi, who memorably observes “that names which begin with the letter 'S' are the names of SNAKES!” (At which point she and Casini stick their tongues out and hiss at each other.) And Joan Bennett and especially Alida Valli as the authoritarian types running the school, whose presences suggest that they might not all that they appear to be, even if you ignore the cries of “Witch!” on the legendary Goblin soundtrack. (I don’t have any hot takes on the soundtrack, other than maybe “Sighs” is my favourite track.) There’s also Udo Kier appearing briefly to spout exposition and provide the name for Maitland McDonagh’s great book on Argento’s career (the edition I read amusingly stops right at the ‘90s, its projections about his subsequent career more optimistic than what actually transpired.) I bring him up not just to note that he’s very much in hunky Udo mode (a mode that is easy to forget exists when you’re more familiar with his weirder roles), but also because he wears a green sportcoat. The latter is important because I bought a green suit in a similar shade during the pandemic, so I’m counting this as onscreen representation. I also noticed when scrolling through Letterboxd prior to my viewing that Marina Pierro was in this, so I kept an eye out for her this time around. Unless my eyes deceived me, I think she plays a student who comes out of her room distressed, with maggots on her face. Now, this is not the ideal state I would like to see her in, but I suppose screaming, maggoty Marina Pierro is better than no Marina Pierro at all. Beggars can’t be choosers.

The only other thing I have to say after this viewing is that after years of saying I loved the movie but conceding that the ending is kind of dumb, I’ve landed firmly on the side that I love the movie and actually the ending kind of owns. Yes, the resolution to the threat facing the heroine is a tad convenient, but the movie has escalated into a certain hysteria, with the camera moves and the lighting and the music as brazenly assaultive as it can be, and the mise en scene ready to go down in flames. Imagine if a movie ended by blowing up your TV, and it would look something like this. And there’s a certain quality that I found earlier in the movie and in other recent viewings a little dispiriting, but here, during the conclusion, when the heroine is able to defeat the villain by stabbing her with a crystal ornament, is maybe a little reassuring. It doesn’t matter what dark, powerful forces one might have at their disposal. In the end, all flesh is fallible.

Happy Halloween, folks.

#film #viddying the nasties #suspiria #dario argento #happy halloween #movie review

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inkiest-silly · 5 months ago

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What's TMC FALTERED REALITY about?

ANaJWHEBEJAHS Thanks for asking about it! Like so so thankful 💜

I’m genuinely not the best with explaining this sense I’m really still trying to find a good way to explain it- so I’ll keep it as simple as I can

Tmc:fr mainly centers around the ideas of untreated problems that can grow over time and the idea of what problems might grow within people if the individuals around them don’t see the growing issues that cloud them especially as they grow.

The ideas that can lead someone to “hard to break out of” beliefs and mental illness

Such as Mark or Adam. (As of now)

It’s a relatively small thought and it was more of an idea, it seemed interesting to me.

again, it is still a work in thought, this is the best I can explain with and the fact this is my first PROPER Mandela au/Mandela content - bare with me

#inkiestsilly #TMC:faltered reality #TMC:FR asks #TMC:FR #the mandela catalogue #tmc au #the Mandela catalogue au #mandela catalogue au #inkiest asks

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magixqueenie · 3 years ago

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So here‘s my @shadowhunterbingo 2020-2021 Masterpost, I didn’t get as much done as I wanted but alas, exams, even though I still had fun.

The Similarities of Alec Lightwood and Alex River

Word Count: 1982

Ship: Malec

Square: Memories

Five times Alec Lightwood, the Shadowhunter, and Alex River, the Warlock, experience things differently.

And one time they found a similarity.

Ammonia and Magic

Word Count: 1064

Ship: Malec

Square: Enemies to Lovers

A footstep. Then silence. Something flutters. Wings, maybe. Heavy, powerful.

Another footstep. Alec doesn’t breath. He finds it stuck in his lungs, quivering in fear.

“Hello Alexander,” something purrs from the shadows beyond his sight.

Me and My Husband

Word Count: 6224

Ship: Malec

Square: Graveyard

“A man such as Magnus Bane is incapable of love,” Alice replies, watching a man she thought was innocent of any crime, once. She is not so sure anymore. “That’s what a psychopath is, someone who cannot feel a thing but pretends they do. He has you fooled.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Alec muses. “It’s the opposite, that’s what makes him so irresistible. We, no. All of you really, see the world in shades of grey, cowering under the pretence of law and order. Magnus sees the world in brilliance and colour. He sees beyond it all.”

“And what about you?” Alice says, watching the man.

Alec ponders for a moment before saying, “Magnus woke me up.”

—

Psychiatrist Doctor Alice Darrow gets insight into the frightening minds of the Warlock Ripper, Doctor Magnus Bane, and his husband, Alexander Bane.

Faliciou Selphim

Word Count: 5418

Ship: Razriel + Original NB Character

Square: Rituals

And so, he stares at the roaring fire, the colour the inkiest black. It burns with no fuel, no smoke pulses from its flames. It flickers with no wind. It is large, towering at thirty feet tall and there is a vast heat radiating as he nears the embers. Alek’s hand is tight amongst his.

“In this ritual, you will submit your immortality, your Angelic form so that your soul may find refuge in its new mortal body.”

Raziel waits, tears spilling down his cheeks, hands trembling as the fire beckons him within its depths. The heat is overwhelming.

“Do you accept?” The voice asks.

—

In which, Alek is Raziel’s parabati and an Angel. The revered creator of the Shadowhunters participates in the Faliciou Selphim, the ritual to descend as a mortal Shadowhunter.

Mr Shadowman

Word Count: 7302

Ship: Malec

Square: Children of the Night

Alec first meets the Shadow when he is three.

The Shadow doesn’t come abruptly. Instead, he comes to Alec slowly, with soft, gooey touches like human fingers. They caress his hair gently, and it is nice. There is a sense of rightness, a peace that makes his heart still.

Alec peers out in the nighttime darkness to find the man holding him.

But there is no one there.

Star Tears

Word Count: 5141

Ship: Malec

Square: Blind Character

Star tears, a disease that offers no biological explanation as to how or why it began. It is reported that the victims cry tears that are as sharp as glass but as beautiful and bright as stars from the moment nightfall occurs to when it ends. The only thing the victims have in common is that they are the suffers of unrequited love.

It is not fatal, but rather, the magical tears slowly drain away your vision until you are left colour blind, and then, completely blind.

However, Alec never imagined that he would be infected.

Alec Lightwood Can Wear Heels, Jury

Word Count: 1662

Ship: Malec

Square: Drunken Antics

Alec watches something dance over Izzy’s face and then her grin turns a sly touch mischievous that has Alec’s hackles rising. “As much as I’d love to take credit, I’m unfortunately not the real expert of wielding weapons in high heels in my family.”

—

What if Alec taught Izzy to fight in heels?

That’s it. That’s the fic.

Wildest Dreams

Word Count: 12883

Ship: Malec

Square: CH 1 - Royalty AU | CH 2- Free Space

Alpha Asmodeus Magnus Zader Bane III, the king of Idris, is hosting the monarchy’s famous mating ceremony in hopes he’ll find the perfect Omega mate.

Alec Lightwood is his sister’s Alpha guide as she hopes to win the spot as the future queen of Idris.

Only, Alec nor Magnus expected to find their destined mate not in any of the Omegas present, but rather in another Alpha.

—

A story of pining, balls and court mannerisms with a happy ending.

#shadowhunters #shadowhunterbingo #shadowhunters tv #a03 #malec #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic bingo

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greatsuitcasehairdokid · 5 years ago

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It was sentient, but also inkiest being they ever saw in their life, and it went around scanning everything and printing it out in big black bold print. It saw the office cat and decided to also copy it. The sentient copy machine silently crept up to the unsuspecting office cat. Suddenly, the copy machine let out a soft purr. Alarmed by the sudden noise behind it, the cat jumped and whirled around to face the copy machine, hissing furiously as its fur stood on end. Deborah looked down at her arms. They were coated in that sweet sweet mineral. In the distance, hooves. Deb knew she had to run. Deborah parted her lips and produced a magnificent roar that reached the heavens. upon receiving no response, she spread her wings and flew up to meet God himself As she was ascending, a dark cloud floated in front of her and blocked her path. Suddenly, a lightning bolt launched itself from out of the cloud and pierced towards Deborah. The lightning bolt stopped and looked up at Deborah. With a voice crack no teenage boy has yet matched the lightning figure asked "wha- What are you doing here? Low and behold... A young shrouded figure of a man around Deborah's age appeared from below. Frost white hair, black cloak and eyes. He stared at her in wonderment of her beauty. Deborah responded: "oh hey Michael! I followed the protocols and everything, why'd He send you here?" Michael responds in surprise. "I... I just came to see if everything was alright... I heard a loud bellow." He'd just come from the Underworld and all 7 of it's floors looking for a soul on an investigation.

From: Storybot chat

Story recorded by @storybot, written by @the50-person, @garecc, @sleshhhh, @lykillofasgard, @velummortis, @hungrytiredtransmalecravingtea, and @greatsuitcasehairdokid

#tumblr group chat story #_tumblrgroupchatstory_

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justalittlelitnerd · 5 years ago

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Angry God by L.J. Shen

Man this book was a wild ride from start to finish. I knew from Pretty Reckless and Broken Knight that Vaughn had issues that were borderline sociopathic (all of the main characters in the previous books comment on his weird habits and lack of emotions) but nothing prepared me for his almost psychotic behavior.

The book starts with the history of Vaughn and Lenora’s relationship which began on a family trip where he killed jellyfish and they bonded over a brownie. It then continued to them both attending a summer art program at Lenora’s father’s academy in London when they were preteens and Lenora witnesses Vaughn in a compromising position. A 13-year-old Vaughn breaks into Lenora’s room, darkly threatening her if she breathes a word of what she saw.

Five years later, they haven’t seen each other since that night, Lenora’s mom has died, her father and sister have moved to the US to they very place where Vaughn attends high school, and prior to her senior year they convince her to join them. Neither of them are the same, both darker and damaged by their teenage years. Lenora swears she won’t let Vaughn rattle her even as he makes it his mission to make her life a living hell. Between stalking her, breaking into her house, making her stitch him up when he’s been low-key (I say low-key because it wasn’t fully intentional) stabbed, drawing the wrath of all the mean girls to her, and a million other things that are absolutely insane they keep getting drawn together by a sort of unhealthy possessiveness & obsession.

This book was by far my least favorite of the three and that was in part to the lack of a clear trigger warning. I knew based on the previous books that the family dynamics would be complex and the characters would have an unexpected darkness to them. But nothing prepared me for the violence, the public sex acts (though it was mentioned in the previous novels), the BLOOD PLAY (just really not my thing), and the graphic sexual assault/molestation. I had a feeling going into this book that something happened to Vaughn when he was younger to create his issues with sex and intimacy, but I was by no means expecting it to be graphicly depicted. Talking about the psychological effects of molestation is one thing (it still needs a trigger warning, but it’s important to discuss) but actually showing the acts is completely another. As soon as I realized what was happening I skimmed the retelling because it was just too hard to read and I couldn’t imagine how someone would feel if they had similar experiences.

So basically approach this book with caution.

Keep reading for my favorite quotes from this crazy novel.

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis. Art is long, life is short. The message was clear: the only way to immortality was through art. Mediocrity was profanity. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and we were leashed upon each other, hungry, desperate, and blindly idealistic.

We had the talent, the status, the money, and the opportunity. But if we were silver, Vaughn Spencer was gold. If we were good, he was brilliant. And when we shone? He gleamed with the force of a thousand suns, charring everything around him. It was like God had carved him differently, paid extra attention to detail while creating him. His cheekbones were sharper than scalpel blades, his eyes the palest shade of blue in nature, his hair the inkiest black. He was so white I could see the veins under his skin, but his mouth was red as fresh blood—warm, alive, and deceiving.

Lenora didn’t strike me as a party girl. She had the strange gene, the one that made her stick out like a sore thumb wherever she went, even without the Maleficent wardrobe. I could tell because I had it, too. We were weeds, rising from the concrete, ruining the generic landscape of this yacht club town.

Watching her react to me was like feeling the first rays of sun after a long winter.

“Y’all gonna slow-dance to a Billy Joel song? If so, don’t forget to leave room for Jesus. And Moses. And Muhammad. And also Post Malone, because hey, he’s kind of a religion now, too.”

My heart accelerated to a dangerous speed, fireflies bursting forth as though escaping a Mason jar. Kissing him was like standing on the edge of a cliff. Nice view, but you knew it was deadly. Still, a stupid, irrational, dangerously alive part of you still wanted to hurl yourself down to meet your own demise. I felt his lips on more than just my lips. I felt them in my fingertips, all the way down to my toes. I felt them when my skin broke into goosebumps.

Heartbreak was a mystical, double-edged sword from where I was standing. And I had no desire to experience the full range of emotions in a car crash of feelings. Not ever going there.

“I don’t believe you, but I’ll still catch you,” he said. “I will always catch you, the fucking dumbass that I am.” “What do you mean?” “You soften me.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want to fucking kill you! You’re too fun to fuck with. Now Get. The. Hell. Down.”

There was nothing more beautiful than watching Vaughn Spencer let go.

I said nothing, not really in the mood to correct her and tell her I hadn’t asked whether she believed in ghosts or not because I knew the answer already. It was what made her presence bearable. When we were in a room together, all our ghosts were waiting on the other side of the door. I could hear them.

Strong words, but time, I found, had two opposite effects. Either it made the pain dull and evaporated the anger or it allowed you to stew in your fury, multiplying your rage.

"Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are a bit unhinged.” He said “a bit” for the sake of civility. Truth was, you couldn’t be a bit unhinged, just like you couldn’t be “a bit” dead. Being crazy demanded commitment, which I certainly showed.

He came to her room every night. Not that I was keeping tabs or anything. I was just in the neighborhood when it happened. And by in “the neighborhood,” I mean in her hallway, lurking. And by “in her hallway, lurking,” I mean clearly I needed professional help, an intervention, and a fucking life. I found myself standing behind a Louise Bourgeois statue for hours daily, waiting like some kind of a rabid Belieber.

I pushed the door open, hoping to find her working or reading or converting to a religion where she could only have sex with people named Vaughn Spencer.

I knew Vaughn was incapable of falling in love, but I wanted to steal pieces of him. His time. His talent. His words. His smiles. And yes, his virginity, too. I was a thief of everything Vaughn Spencer.

“I am hell bound, and you are heaven sent. You’re the first girl I ever looked at and thought…I want to kiss her. I want to own her. I wanted you to look at me the way you look at your fantasy book—with a mixture of awe, anticipation, and warmth. I gave you a brownie, hoping you’d remember me sweetly, praying the sugar rush would spin a positive feel around that vacation. I remember how you looked at me when you saw me killing jellyfish. I never wanted you to look at me like that ever again.”

At nineteen, I no longer had a beating heart. I wore a death mask everywhere I went, and I was thirsty for revenge. For his blood. There was just one, tiny problem that did not occur to me beforehand. Namely, his niece, Lenora, who’d shoved a heart back into my chest. Now that it was beating again, I didn’t know what to do.

We were an unfinished business, personal and always walking the tightrope between love and hate. But we were always something, Len. We will always be something. You might move on and marry someone else, have his children and get your happily ever after, but you will never be completely done with me. And that’s the small chunk of mirth I allow myself. That’s my half of the brownie. That’s my one, perfect summer moment in the South of France, watching the face of the girl I will love forever for the very first time. Because, Lenora Astalis, this is love. It’s always been love. Love with many masquerade masks, twisted turns, and ugly truths. I don’t know where I’ll go from here, but I’ll be wishing you were there...It is worthy and beautiful, just like you. I wish I were strong enough not to do what I need to do. I wish I could get the girl. Because, Len, you are her. You are that girl. My safe place. My asymmetric happiness. My Edgar Allan Poe poem. You are my Smiths, and my favorite fantasy book, my brownie, and summer vacations in lush places. There will never be anyone else like you. And that’s exactly why you deserve someone better than me. Love, Vaughn

He just hung in the pregnant air, suspended by strings of cruel hope and tragic impossibility. Heartbreak had a taste, and it exploded in my mouth every time I tried to smile.

“You saw what I wanted you to see. I think I always had this idea that you should be my savior, but naturally, the stubborn ass that I am, I didn’t understand it. Now I do. I want you to save me today, and tomorrow, and in a month, and in a year, and in a decade. Save me. Give me your best and your worst and everything in between. I’ve always watched my dad loving my mom and thought he was stuck in a state of insanity. But he wasn’t. Turns out, love really can be that fucking intense.”

#angry god #l.j. shen #all saints high #vaughn spencer #lenora astalis #vaughn x lenora #hs romance #enemies to lovers #bully romance #new adult romance #romance books #books #book blog #booklr #quotes #book quotes

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saphirafoxgirlspost1 · 6 years ago

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(Open Rp, Nsfw Rp) Bendy and The Ink Machine, Romance, and My Birthday in: "Best Inkiest Birthday Ever"

On the day of her Birthday, Saphira is Decorating her Home with Party Stuff as she smiles sweetly, Feeling excited That Her Friends are coming to her Birthday Party. She began to make a fruit punch in the Food Sections and the present zone. Then She was ready to go but There was a Knock on the Door as she comes to the Door and saw the Big Black and White Present and with a tag says "To Saphira, Happy birthday From J. Drew" So She brought it inside and put it on the Present Section as she continues to Finished Readying her Party Stuff but Suddenly, She hears the Rustling of the Present as she turns and saw the present was Moving abit, Rocking back and Forth. She raise her eye brow as she began to come to the Box and began to open it as Suddenly the inks Shoots from the Present as it was So shocked Till suddenly the Ink began to make a Puddle and then it Forms into Bendy as she gasp and Smiles. "Oh My Goddess! Your Bendy! the Dancing Demon and A Little Devil Darling~!!" She said as she made a Fan Girly Screams as she smiles and then She knee Down. "But I don't get it, Why Joey Drew gives me "you"?" She asked him and then he said......

#Open rp #My Birthday #Bendy and the Ink Machine #Romance

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elisaenglish · 2 years ago

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Loneliness and the Trinity of Creativity: Ada Lovelace, the Poles of the Mind, and the Source of Her Imaginative Powers

Those who have learned to walk on the threshold of the unknown worlds… may then with the fair white wings of Imagination hope to soar further into the unexplored amidst which we live.

What an odd expectation, both hopeful and heedless of logic, that minds capable of reaching far beyond the horizon of the common imagination should be of common constitution and even emotional topography. We can only ever have the faintest map of another’s internal reality. It is hard enough to reconstitute the mental and emotional landscape of another mind across the abyss of otherness, across the barrier of the umwelt even in the present, but it especially hard across the spacetime divide of centuries and cultures. And yet something of the fragments that survive, if handled attentively and compassionately enough, can contour that remote bygone reality and yield a fuller picture of personhood than our flat hero-myths paint.

Ada Lovelace (December 10, 1815–November 27, 1852), whose uncommon mind catalysed the age of the algorithm, could reach soaring heights of the imagination and plummet to the blackest depths of loneliness. She was ill a lot: headaches, cholera, multiple severe attacks of measles. She practised her harp religiously as her mind roamed the most abstract regions of thought. She had moments of elated ideation bordering on the mystical, punctuated by plunges into the inkiest regions of being—syncopations then brushed under the sweeping diagnoses of neurasthenia or hysteria, now most likely identified as bipolar disorder.

Through it all, she understood that creativity was the ability to find “points in common, between subjects having no very apparent connexion, & hence seldom or never brought into juxtaposition”—an understanding that came easily to her, for she herself was a walking juxtaposition.

Two centuries of scholars and admirers have tried to reconstruct this complex person from the fragments she left behind, but none, in my experience, more richly and dimensionally than James Gleick in The Information: A History, a Theory, a Flood (public library), which remains one of the finest books ever written about how we got to now.

With an eye to the letter Ada’s delinquent father—the poet Lord Byron—wrote to her forbidding mother—the mathematically gifted baroness Annabella Milbanke—inquiring whether the girl he abandoned was imaginative, Gleick writes:

“Yes, she was imaginative.

She was a prodigy, clever at mathematics, encouraged by tutors, talented in drawing and music, fantastically inventive and profoundly lonely. When she was twelve, she set about inventing a means of flying. “I am going to begin my paper wings tomorrow,” she wrote to her mother. She hoped “to bring the art of flying to very great perfection. I think of writing a book of Flyology illustrated with plates.” For a while she signed her letters “your very affectionate Carrier Pigeon.” She asked her mother to find a book illustrating bird anatomy, because she was reluctant “to dissect even a bird.””

Ada grew up in a cauldron of control, educated at home by her mother, who was determined to eradicate every strain of her father’s dangerous “poetical” inheritance. She handed out paper “tickets” to the girl for excelling at her lessons, then confiscated them when Ada did not meet her expectation. If this system of reward and punishment failed to motivate Ada, she was stuffed into a closet until she vowed to do better.

There was a deeper punishment being administered in her upbringing—not for something Ada did, but for something she was. This intellectual regimen itself closeted a vast and restive part of her, waiting for its powers of expression to be unlatched. She railed at her mother:

“You will not concede me philosophical poetry. Invert the order! Will you give me poetical philosophy, poetical science?”

She rebelled by claiming it for herself, becoming the first person to marry the mathematical capabilities of computational machines with the poetic possibilities of symbolic logic applied with imagination—the world’s first true computer programmer. She also rebelled by developing a romantic infatuation with her tutor, sneaking around the house and garden with him, and making out to the maximum limits of vestigial propriety until their teenage romance was found out and the tutor was promptly banished.

That spring, dressed in white satin and tulle, she met the King and Queen at her official court debut. But the real milestone came a month later, when she met a figure far more important to the history of the future: Charles Babbage—brilliant and bushy-browed, curmudgeonly and charming, described by Harper’s Monthly as “better known to readers of English newspapers as the persistent opponent of street music.” Gleick writes:

“With her mother, she went to see what Lady Byron called his “thinking machine,” the portion of the Difference Engine in his salon. Babbage saw a sparkling, self-possessed young woman with porcelain features and a notorious name, who managed to reveal that she knew more mathematics than most men graduating from university. She saw an imposing forty-one-year-old, authoritative eyebrows anchoring his strong-boned face, who possessed wit and charm and did not wear these qualities lightly. He seemed a kind of visionary—just what she was seeking. She admired the machine, too. An onlooker reported: “While other visitors gazed at the working of this beautiful instrument with the sort of expression, and I dare say the sort of feeling, that some savages are said to have shown on first seeing a looking-glass or hearing a gun, Miss Byron, young as she was, understood its working, and saw the great beauty of the invention.” Her feeling for the beauty and abstractions of mathematics, fed only in morsels from her succession of tutors, was overflowing. It had no outlet. A woman could not attend university in England, nor join a scientific society (with two exceptions: the botanical and horticultural).”

Enraptured by the possibilities that lay hidden in this new generation of machines, Ada was beginning to enjoy her unusual mind in a new way:

“I find that my plans & ideas keep gaining in clearness, & assuming more of the crystalline & less & less of the nebulous form.”

At times, in the positive extremes of her emotional polarity, her confidence crested into grandiosity, both terrible and touching:

“I do not believe that my father was (or ever could have been) such a Poet as I shall be an Analyst; (& Metaphysician); for with me the two go together indissolubly.”

Like Mary Shelley, she had waking dreams in which ideas formed in her mind by their own accord—ideas beyond anything she had been taught, beyond anything teachable. She had the metacognitive awareness that her cognition worked in unusual ways and the precocious intuition to recognise in Babbage a kindred mind on which she could hone her own. With extraordinary self-awareness of both her powers and her limits—which might be the highest achievement of maturity—she beseeched him to take her on as a pupil, not realising she was about to become the magnifying lens through which his own vision would bend past the horizon of possibility he had envisioned for it. She wrote to him:

“Bearing me in mind… I mean my mathematical interests… is the greatest favour any one can do me.—Perhaps, none of us can estimate how great... I am by nature a bit of a philosopher, & a very great speculator,—so that I look on through a very immeasurable vista, and though I see nothing but vague & cloudy uncertainty in the foreground of our being, yet I fancy I discern a very bright light a good way further on, and this makes me care much less about the cloudiness & indistinctness which is near.—Am I too imaginative for you? I think not.”

This question of the imagination—the question of the father she never met but whose portrait she kept under green drapery in her study—both thrilled and troubled her. She felt she had to keep her “metaphysical head in order,” but she also knew there was a different order of reality yet to be discovered. Mathematics was her supreme plaything of the imagination and the closest thing she knew to magic:

“I am often reminded of certain sprites & fairies one reads of, who are at one’s elbows in one shape now, & the next minute in a form most dissimilar; and uncommonly deceptive, troublesome & tantalising are the mathematical sprites & fairies sometimes.”

She longed for the precision of mathematics in the nebula of the imagination. Two centuries before Bob Dylan observed that “we’re all wind and dust anyway [and] we don’t have any proof that we are even sitting here,” she probed the edges of reality:

“We talk much of Imagination. We talk of the Imagination of Poets, the Imagination of Artists &c; I am inclined to think that in general we don’t know very exactly what we are talking about… It is that which penetrates into the unseen worlds around us, the worlds of Science. It is that which feels & discovers what is, the real which we see not, which exists not for our senses. Those who have learned to walk on the threshold of the unknown worlds… may then with the fair white wings of Imagination hope to soar further into the unexplored amidst which we live.”

For her, the imagination was not only a means of escaping from—from the loneliness, the intense dark moods, the limits of her time and place—but an escape toward something greater, something truer than what the eye could see and the common mind could hold. She recognised that she had “a peculiar way of learning“; allowing the cultural luxury of an ahistorical term, she recognised her own neurodivergence. There is a Blakean quality, a Joan of Arc spirit, in the self-declaration she sent to her mother shortly before her twenty-seventh birthday—the closest thing Ada Lovelace ever composed to a personal manifesto:

“Dearest Mama,

I must tell you what my opinion of my own mind and powers is exactly—the result of a most accurate study of myself with a view to my future plans during many months. I believe myself to possess a most singular combination of qualities exactly fitted to make me pre-eminently a discoverer of the hidden realities of nature. You will not mistake this assertion either for a wild enthusiasm or for the result of any disposition to self-exaltation. On the contrary, the belief has been forced upon me, and most slow have I been to admit it even. I will mention the three remarkable faculties in me, which united ought (all in good time) to make me see anything that a being not actually dead can see and know (for it is what we are pleased to call death that will really reveal things to us).

Firstly: owing to some peculiarity in my nervous system, I have perceptions of some things, which no one else has—or at least very few, if any. This faculty may be designated in me as a singular tact, or some might say an intuitive perception of hidden things—that is of things hidden from eyes, ears, and the ordinary senses… This alone would advantage me little, in the discovery line, but there is, secondly, my immense reasoning faculties. Thirdly: my concentrative faculty, by which I mean the power not only of throwing my whole energy and existence into whatever I choose, but also bringing to bear on any one subject or idea a vast apparatus from all sorts of apparently irrelevant and extraneous sources. I can throw rays from every quarter of the universe into one vast focus.

Now these three powers (I cannot resist the wickedness of calling them my discovering or scientific Trinity) are a vast apparatus put into my power by Providence; and it rests with me by a proper course during the next twenty years to make the engine what I please. But haste, or a restless ambition, would quite ruin the whole.

Meantime my course is so clear and obvious that it is delightful to think how straight it is. And yet what a mountain I have to climb! It is enough to frighten anyone who had not all that most insatiable and restless energy, which from my babyhood has been the plague of your life and my own.”

That year, Babbage set out to elaborate on his Difference Engine in the more complex Analytical Engine and their collaboration began in earnest. The rest, as we know, is history.

But in a tragic testament to the uncomfortable fact that even the furthest seers can’t fully bend their gaze past the horizon of their culture’s given, Ada Lovelace was captive to the Cartesian heritage of her epoch—she saw her formidable mind as an entity separate from her ailing body, existing on a plane beyond the atomic reality of her being. And who could fault her—the very notion of entropy, which brought mathematics to mortality, was still a quarter century away.

High on the thrill of solving the problem of generating Bernoulli numbers—the problem at the crux of furnishing the variables that would become the Analytical Engine’s units of information—she wrote to Babbage:

“That brain of mine is something more than merely mortal; as time will show; (if only my breathing & some other et-ceteras do not make too rapid a progress towards instead of from mortality).

Before ten years are over, the Devil’s in it if I have not sucked out some of the life-blood from the mysteries of this universe, in a way that no purely mortal lips or brains could do.

No one knows what almost awful energy & power lie yet undevelopped in that wiry little system of mine.”

With astonishing self-awareness of just how slender the line between genius and madness can be, she added:

“I say awful, because you may imagine what it might be under certain circumstances.”

Two weeks before her thirty-seventh birthday, the entropic brutality of uterine cancer dismantled the matter that made Ada’s mind, leaving behind the world’s first computer programme and the long comet-tail of this blazing prophet of the poetry of computation.

Complement with the story of how the bit was born another century later, also from The Information, then revisit artist Sydney Padua’s perennially impressive graphic novel about Ada’s collaboration with Babbage.

Source: Maria Popova, themarginalian.org (31st August 2022)

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