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ros64 · 10 hours ago

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From @dianagabaldon site

⚠️⚠️ATTENZIONE SPOILER PER CHI NON HA LETTO TUTTI I LIBRI FINO A BEES ⚠️⚠️⚠️

Today is the Fourth (and final) Sunday of Advent. The waiting is almost over, but the anticipation is still to be enjoyed. The final candle (since we’ve used the other labels) is Peace.

Peace is one of those things that you can’t really define (not that people don’t, but—like love—it has depths and shimmering facets of meaning), but you know it when you encounter it. Hence the Biblical quote, “The peace that passeth understanding.”

Peace often comes and finds you in the midst of Things (like realizing you’re leaving for the journey to another city for Christmas in two hours, and you haven’t yet wrapped the presents that you need to drop off at FedEx on the way…), and we often don’t realize that this happens because we carry peace with us, all the time.

Peace is part of our nature, just as we’re part of nature.

Now, I’m a biologist by training, and am also one of those people who (as my father disapprovingly said (manymanymany times), “have your head in the clouds!” (Like this was a _bad_ thing…) Yep. Also on the ground.

Rocks come and find me, and it’s rare for me to come home from a walk _without_ a rock in my pocket. So a few days ago, I was walking with Lucy the dachshund, to whom “walk” means “sniff everything in sight, pausing occasionally to pee on it”, and as usual, glancing over the ground we were walking on, which—being a desert front yard in Scottsdale, was mostly crushed granite. But in the midst of this layer of pinkish rock was the little gray visitor you see in the photo above.

This is a tiny survivor of a volcanic explosion that took place many miles away. Plainly, it’s a rock—but one that’s been through Stuff. It’s been melted by the heat of the Earth’s core, and blown far abroad, with those little holes the scars left by the violent gasses that propelled it.

What could be less peaceful?

And yet, there it is. Basking in the sun, resting among strangers.

No matter what’s happened to it, it remains what it is. It carries peace, because peace is its nature—as it is ours. Wait, and listen for the peace that lives within you to whisper your name.

Merry Christmas!

William washed his face—it was thick with stubble, but no point in trying to shave without mirror or soap—and made his way downstairs.

The smell of food reached him at the top of the stairs and drew him down like a mosquito scenting blood, single-minded in his voracity. And a good thing, too, he realized as he entered the kitchen. He was so hungry that he’d suffered no hesitations regarding his welcome.

In fact, while everyone at table turned to look at him, all the faces bore smiles, whether shy or broad, and he bowed to them, smiling back.

“Good morning,” he said, and the smallest girl—Amanda, that was her name—giggled and pointed her spoon at him.

“Your beard looks like Grand-da’s!”

A ripple of stifled amusement ran round the table, but before he could think of something to say, Mother Claire rose and took him by the sleeve, showing him to a place on the bench beside Frances, who looked up at him demurely.

“I hope you thl-slept well?” she said. Her cheeks were pink, but she met his eyes straight on, and he felt a slight jolt; her eyes were very much like Jane’s.

“Immensely well, I thank you,” he assured her. A trencher appeared before him, piled with toast and bacon, and Amanda’s brother—James? No, Jeremiah, Jem, that was it, a tall, red-haired boy, thin as an oak sapling—shoved a pot of strawberry jam across the table.

“What do we call him?” the boy asked, turning to his grandfather. “Uncle Billy?”

William choked slightly on the mouthful of beer he’d just taken. Frances, Claire, and the three little girls _all_ giggled, and he thought Fraser might have done as well, were he capable of making such a sound. As it was, Fraser kept a relatively straight face, and replied, “Not unless he asks ye to. ‘Til then, ye can call him Mr. Ransom, aye?”

William cleared his throat.

“You may call me William for the present, if you like,” he said to Jem. “I haven’t had a great deal of practice in being an uncle, as yet.”

“Don’t pester your uncle,” Mother Claire said, setting down a dish of succulent, glistening sausages, smelling of sage and onion, in front of William. “Let him eat.”

He ate like a ravening wolf, listening to the conversation with one ear, but making no effort to join it. His cup was filled—and refilled—with the very good beer, and he finished the meal replete—well, stuffed like a goose—and wondering whether he might go find a tree to sleep under for a bit.

“I’ll be goin’ to and fro on the Ridge today, fettling my tenants,” Fraser told him, brushing crumbs off his lap. He handed a fragment of toast to the big bluetick bitch who had been waiting patiently by his feet, and rose. “D’ye want to come with me?”

“I—yes. I suppose so,” William replied, taken aback at the invitation. He remembered Mac the groom saying “fettled,” with regard to grooming and feeding horses, but he supposed that Fraser merely meant that he proposed to tell his tenants that he would be gone for some time, and arrange for payment of rents to some factor.

Fraser nodded.

“Aye, good. I’ll say you’re my son, though most of them will ken it already, after yesterday.” He cocked a brow in question. Was that agreeable to William?

That made his full stomach drop another inch or two, but he nodded back.

“Of course. May I take time to shave?”

“Aye. Use the soap and basin in my room. It’s the one in front, on the left as ye go up.”

The room was large and pleasant, the window opened for air, but screened with muslin to keep insects out, and the diffused light gave the room a pleasant, quiet feel, like being inside a cloud, despite the muffled racket from the kitchen below. William found himself breathing shallowly, aware of the unfamiliar, intimate scent of the room. The bed had not yet been made, and while the thrown-back sheets were clean, they held the faint, disturbing musk of recent bodies.

If the intimacy of the Frasers’ bedroom was disturbing, the intimacy of using Mr. Fraser’s shaving soap was more so. It was soft, white Castile soap, and smelled of olive-oil, but also of basil and what he thought was marjoram, and…could that possibly be geranium-leaf? He hadn’t seen or smelt a geranium plant since he left England, and it gave him a brief sense of dislocation, a vivid sense of his Aunt Minnie’s conservatory, redolent with foreign flowers and writhing exotic greenery.

The thought made him feel more settled in himself. No matter what the future held, he still had both a past and a present, and those must be sufficient to keep him in countenance for what might come.

Refreshed and clean-shaven, he came downstairs, ready to see exactly what “fettling” might involve.

Oggi è la quarta (e ultima) domenica di Avvento. L'attesa è quasi finita, ma l'attesa è ancora da godere. L'ultima candela (dato che abbiamo usato le altre etichette) è Peace.

La pace è una di quelle cose che non puoi davvero definire (non che la gente non lo faccia, ma, come l'amore, ha profondità e sfaccettature scintillanti di significato), ma la conosci quando la incontri. Da qui la citazione biblica, "La pace che passa la comprensione".

La pace spesso arriva e ti trova in mezzo alle cose (come renderti conto che stai partendo per il viaggio in un'altra città per Natale tra due ore, e non hai ancora incartato i regali che devi lasciare da FedEx sulla strada...), e spesso non ci rendiamo conto che questo accade perché portiamo la pace con noi, tutto il tempo.

La pace fa parte della nostra natura, proprio come noi facciamo parte della natura.

Ora, sono un biologo di formazione, e sono anche una di quelle persone che (come ha detto mio padre con disapprovazione (molte molte molte volte), "tai la testa tra le nuvole!" (Come se questa fosse una cosa _brutta_...) Sì. Anche a terra.

Le rocce vengono a trovarmi, ed è raro per me tornare a casa da una passeggiata _senza_ una pietra in tasca. Quindi qualche giorno fa, stavo camminando con Lucy il bassotto, per la quale "camminare" significa "annusare tutto ciò che è in vista, fermandosi di tanto in tanto per fare pipì sopra", e come al solito, guardando il terreno su cui stavamo camminando, che, essendo un cortile del deserto a Scottsdale, era per lo più di granito schiacciato. Ma nel mezzo di questo strato di roccia rosata c'era il piccolo visitatore grigio che vedi nella foto sopra.

Questo è un piccolo sopravvissuto a un'esplosione vulcanica che ha avuto luogo a molte miglia di distanza. Chiaramente, è una roccia, ma una che è stata attraverso Stuff. È stato fuso dal calore del nucleo della Terra, e soffiato lontano all'estero, con quei piccoli buchi le cicatrici lasciate dai gas violenti che lo hanno spinto.

Cosa potrebbe essere meno pacifico?

Eppure, eccolo lì. Crogiolarsi al sole, riposare in mezzo agli estranei.

Non importa cosa gli sia successo, rimane quello che è. Porta la pace, perché la pace è la sua natura, come è nostra. Aspetta e ascolta la pace che vive dentro di te per sussurrare il tuo nome.

Buon Natale!

Traduzione a cura di

Rilasciato sulla pagina fb di diana per la QUARTA DOMENICA di AVVENTO

William si lavò il viso - la barba era folta , ma non aveva senso cercare di radersi senza specchio o sapone - e si diresse al piano di sotto.

L'odore del cibo lo raggiunse in cima alle scale e lo attirò verso il basso come una zanzara che fiuta il sangue, con la sua voracità. E fu un bene, se ne rese conto entrando in cucina.

Era così affamato che non ebbe nessuna remora riguardo alla sua accoglienza.

Infatti, mentre tutti i commensali si voltavano a guardarlo, su ciascun volto compariva un sorriso, timido o ampio che fosse, ed egli si inchinò a loro, ricambiando il sorriso.

"Buongiorno", disse, e la bambina più piccola, Amanda, questo era il suo nome, fece una smorfia e lo indicò con il cucchiaio.

"La tua barba assomiglia a quella del nonno!".

Un'ondata di divertimento soffocato fece il giro del tavolo, ma prima che potesse pensare a qualcosa da dire, Madre Claire si alzò e lo prese per la manica, indicandogli un posto sulla panca accanto a Frances, che lo guardò pudicamente.

"Spero che tu abbia dormito bene", disse. Le sue guance erano rosa, ma lo guardò dritto negli occhi e lui provò un leggero sussulto: i suoi occhi erano molto simili a quelli di Jane.

"Immensamente bene, grazie", le assicurò. Davanti a lui apparve una teglia, piena di pane tostato e pancetta, e il fratello di Amanda, James? No, Jeremiah, Jem, ecco, un ragazzo alto, dai capelli rossi, magro come un alberello di quercia, spinse sul tavolo un vasetto di marmellata di fragole.

"Come dobbiamo chiamarlo?", chiese il ragazzo rivolgendosi al nonno. "Zio Billy?"

William quasi soffocò con il sorso di birra che aveva appena bevuto. Frances, Claire e le tre bambine ridacchiarono tutte e pensò che anche Fraser avrebbe potuto farlo, se fosse stato capace di emettere un suono simile. Invece Fraser mantenne una faccia relativamente seria e rispose: "No, a meno che non te lo chieda lui. Fino ad allora, potete chiamarlo signor Ransom, d'accordo?".

William si schiarì la gola.

"Per ora potete chiamarmi William, se volete", disse a Jem. "Non ho ancora fatto molta pratica nel fare lo zio".

"Non infastidire tuo zio", disse Madre Claire, mettendo davanti a William un piatto di salsicce succulente e luccicanti, che profumavano di salvia e cipolla. "Lascialo mangiare".

William mangiò come un lupo famelico, ascoltando la conversazione con un orecchio, ma senza fare alcuno sforzo per unirvisi . Il suo bicchiere fu riempito - e riempito di nuovo - con dell'ottima birra, ed egli finì il pasto sazio - anzi, ripieno come un'oca - chiedendosi se poteva andare a cercare un albero sotto cui dormire per un po'.

"Oggi andrò in giro per il Ridge a "sistemare" i miei fittavolii", gli disse Fraser, spazzolandosi le briciole dalle ginocchia. Passò un pezzo di pane tostato al grosso cane bluetick che aspettava pazientemente ai suoi piedi e si alzò. "Vuoi venire con me?".

"Sì. Suppongo di sì", rispose William, colto di sorpresa dall'invito. Ricordava che Mac lo stalliere diceva "fettled/sistemare", riferendosi alla strigliatura e al nutrimento dei cavalli, ma immaginò che Fraser volesse semplicemente dire ai suoi affittuari che sarebbe stato via per qualche tempo, e organizzare il pagamento degli affitti a qualche fattore.

Fraser annuì.

"Sì, bene. Dirò che sei mio figlio, anche se la maggior parte di loro lo saprà già, dopo ieri". Aggrottò un sopracciglio in segno di domanda. William era d'accordo?

Questo gli fece stringere lo stomaco pieno di un altro paio di centimetri, ma annuì.

"Certo. Posso avere il tempo di radermi?".

"Sì. Usa il sapone e la bacinella nella mia stanza. È quella di fronte, sulla sinistra salendo".

La stanza era ampia e piacevole, la finestra si apriva per l'aria, ma era schermata con una mussola per tenere lontani gli insetti, e la luce diffusa dava alla stanza una sensazione piacevole e tranquilla, come se ci si trovasse all'interno di una nuvola, nonostante il frastuono ovattato proveniente della cucina sottostante.

William si ritrovò a respirare superficialmente, consapevole dell'odore intimo e sconosciuto della stanza. Il letto non era ancora stato rifatto e, sebbene le lenzuola gettate all'indietro fossero pulite, contenevano un lieve odore persistente di corpi .

Se l'intimità della camera da letto dei Fraser era inquietante, l'intimità dell'uso del sapone da barba di mr Fraser lo era ancora di più. Era un sapone di Castiglia bianco e morbido, che profumava di olio d'oliva, ma anche di coriandolo e di quella che pensava fosse maggiorana, e... poteva forse trattarsi di foglie di geranio? Non aveva più visto né annusato una pianta di geranio da quando aveva lasciato l'Inghilterra, e questo gli diede un breve senso di dislocazione, una vivida sensazione del giardino d'inverno di sua zia Minnie, profumato di fiori stranieri e di una contorta vegetazione esotica.

Il pensiero lo fece sentire più stabile. Non importava cosa gli riservasse il futuro, aveva ancora sia un passato che un presente, e questi dovevano essere sufficienti a fargli mantenere la calma interiore di fronte a ciò che sarebbe potuto accadere.

Rinfrescato e ben rasato, scese le scale, pronto a vedere cosa esattamente implicava questo “sistemare”.

#sam heughan #outlander #jamie fraser #outlanderedit #diana gabaldon

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denimbex1986 · 11 months ago

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'It can be said that Christopher Nolan has always known how to end a movie. From Leonard Shelby concluding his journey where it began and asking “now where was I?” in Memento to the topper that wouldn’t stop spinning in Inception, this is a filmmaker who looks for the most potent image that will burrow its way into audiences’ heads.

Yet the final scene of his most ambitious film to date is something more impressive, if altogether disquieting. Oppenheimer definitely implants a grim idea in the viewer’s mind, but it does so by giving the uncanny impression that we are seeing it through J. Robert Oppenheimer’s eyes first. Standing by the duck pond that Albert Einstein (Tom Conti) has been consigned to by posterity, and where Oppie will be joining him in exile sooner than he realizes, the man credited with fathering the atomic bomb asks if Albert recalls Edward Teller’s theory about a nuclear explosion triggering the end of the world.

“I remember it well, what of it?” Einstein asks. “I believe we did,” Oppenheimer says while an IMAX camera plummets so deeply into Cillian Murphy’s blue eyes that the viewer feels like we are being left to drown in his despair—despair at the prospect of nuclear war, despair at self-annihilation, and the lingering, eternal despair that comes with the realization that for the rest of time on this planet, these weapons will be at humanity’s disposal. It’s a chilling signoff for a film that plumbs the ambiguities of Oppenheimer’s life without offering easy answers. While Nolan made a picture accessible to almost any viewer, he refused to provide any degree of comfort, reassurance, or easily memeable sentiment and message.

Which is one of the many reasons I’ve long been skeptical of the common criticism about Oppenheimer being too long or that “the trial” in the last hour dragged on and on. More than once, I’ve been told the movie could have ended after Trinity, the first successful detonation of a nuclear weapon on July 16, 1945 which is shot and edited with all the tension of a thriller in Nolan and Jennifer Lame’s hands. It should be noted that the Trinity test, and the exuberant satisfaction Oppenheimer briefly feels toward his accomplishment as fellow scientists hoist him on their shoulders before the American flag, occurs at exactly the two-hour mark in the film.

The implication, therefore, seems to be that Oppenheimer should have ended on a note of triumph—a disastrous choice, to put it mildly, for the story of engineering a doomsday weapon—or that the movie could have glossed over Oppenheimer’s later years. Why should we care if Oppenheimer’s security clearance with the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC) was revoked, or that the architect of his downfall, Lewis Strauss (Robert Downey Jr.), suffered his own public humiliation?

The answer, of course, is that it is these turns of events which elevate a riveting piece of biographic storytelling into a cinematic prophecy of doom that on its own will likely be with us for many years to come.

Living with the Bomb

The most crucial thing to understand about why Oppenheimer went on for a full third hour after World War II concluded in the shadow of a mushroom cloud is that there is no credible way to discuss this man without delving into the fact that the government which entrusted him to build the device also pillared and besmirched his name to the point of infamy.

During a panel with Meet the Press’ Chuck Todd on the 78th anniversary of the Trinity test, Nobel Prize Laureate and theoretical physicist Kip Thorne said he knew scientists early in his career who demurred from pursuing a public life in government service or policy-making because of how Oppenheimer was treated.

Said Thorne, “I was as much influenced by my father who dealt with McCarthyism as the chair of a faculty in Utah at the time. We had a governor who was dictating to the board of trustees to fire faculty with left wing tendencies. So I went through this in my own family.”

The implication that Oppenheimer was a traitor, or at least untrustworthy with American secrets due to his political leanings, sent a chill through academia and government institutions that lasted for generations. With a simple letter speciously raising doubts about Oppenheimer’s loyalty to his country, William L. Borden (who was working as a proxy for Strauss) was able to discredit and muzzle the most respected scientific mind of the 20th century in American life; the man who ended World War II and brought our boys home. If the far-right could do that to him because he expressed vocal opinions about the hydrogen bomb, no one was safe.

So any biopic about Oppenheimer legitimately needed to cover a life that eerily matched the arc of Greek tragedy to a tee. After all, historians Kai Bird and Martin Sherwin named their definitive biography on the man American Prometheus, and what is a Promethean tale if you skip the part where the gods condemn him to be chained to a rock so his guts will be pecked out each morning?

Oppenheimer dramatizes these elements, and does so with spectacular detail and specificity. Even biographer Bird remarked with astonishment at the same Trinity anniversary panel that Nolan did something he and Sherwin had not: he went through the transcript of Lewis Strauss’ failed confirmation hearing and discovered a surprise witness named Dr. David Hill (Rami Malek in the movie), who was called on to essentially smear an unprepared Strauss with the same kind of one-sided testimony Strauss used to decimate Oppenheimer in his security clearance hearing five years earlier. The dramatic irony that this was done as revenge by the scientific community against the political class’ most envious party was not lost on Nolan.

In fact, it creates one-half of the climactic crescendo wherein Strauss raves after his Cabinet post begins slipping away that “I gave [Oppenheimer] exactly what he wanted: to be remembered for Trinity! Not Hiroshima! Not Nagasaki! He should be thanking me!” Of course Strauss’ fury also articulates why the film is so much richer and, ultimately, ambiguous. It explores part and parcel the facts of Oppenheimer’s life, and in doing so invites you to descend down into the pits of Hades.

A Trial Without a Jury or a Verdict

The most powerful sequence in Oppenheimer arguably occurs at the top of the third hour. After an exhilarating taste of success and triumph, Oppenheimer is left out of the final, gruesome moments of World War II. Two nuclear bombs fell on the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in the span of three days in August 1945. Two hundred twenty thousand lives were snuffed out in biblical fire or the lingering, years-long horror of radiation poisoning. And J. Robert learns about it just like every other American—by listening to the radio.

Then comes Nolan’s cinematic flourish. He lets you live in Oppie’s nightmare just as it is beginning to coalesce. While giving a patriotic speech crowing about the success of the nuclear weapons’ use on Japanese cities, Oppenheimer’s unconvincing stabs at jingoism fade away as he can only hear the sound of a woman screaming; then comes a bright light as the face of a young girl melts away. It is a new world for Oppenheimer, America, and the whole the human species. But only after he has let the genie out of the bottle does the film’s interpretation of Oppenheimer begin to seriously grapple with the long term ramifications of that release.

There is an argument to be made that Oppenheimer should have shown the nuclear holocaust inflicted on the Japanese people. I respect this opinion, although Nolan’s choice to trap you in Oppenheimer’s large, yet still limited, vantage point is the dramatically right one. It took this scientist years to come to terms with the horror of what he wrought on Japan, and the movie lets it slowly seep in.

There is also the uncomfortable fact that this story is bigger than just World War II. In the film, Oppenheimer considers the irony that his former tutor opined in the press that the nuclear bomb not so much ended World War II as it began what we now call the Cold War with the Soviet Union (which really happened). But the point of the Oppenheimer film is that what those scientists at Los Alamos did was bigger than just World War II or the Cold War—or even the 20th century itself.

Oppenheimer built, sharpened, and fastened a global Sword of Damocles above our collective heads, and it hangs there still. It will, in fact, hang there forever, unless one nation finally pushes the button and invites the inevitable response.

The last hour is about Oppenheimer, as a character and a film, coming to terms with that legacy. This is not a typical biopic about a great man, but a portrait of a soul damned by unspoken regrets and second-guesses that he never articulated to anyone. The film even posits Oppenheimer went through the humiliation of an unwinnable security clearance hearing as some form of penance for fathering the bomb.

“Did you think if you let them tar and feather you that the world will forgive you?” his wife Kitty (Emily Blunt) asks. “It won’t.”

“We’ll see” is Oppenheimer’s cryptic response. While we suspect Oppenheimer’s fight for political survival was not quite so history book-minded, the reality is he truly did tell the President of the United States “I have blood on my hands,” and spent the rest of his brief public life attempting to steer the United States away from the infinitely more deadly hydrogen bomb and the arms race it inevitably courted. He was then banished to the duck pond next to Einstein for his troubles.

Dramatically seeing that destruction is as cathartic as it is disturbing, with Jason Clarke’s government attorney Roger Robb embodying Zeus’ hungry eagle which is always eager to feast on Prometheus’ liver. It should be noted, this context also is what allows Kitty Oppenheimer, a brilliant woman whose mind is left to curdle by the oppressive expectations of her era, to finally speak candidly in one of the best scenes in the movie.

In the end though, the finale asks the audience to interrogate Oppenheimer the man. Can you forgive him? Should you even bother entertaining the idea? The real man never publicly admitted remorse over what happened in Japan, and whether he felt profound guilt or not, he still ushered in a nuclear age without end. There is no escape from the future Oppenheimer has wrought—not even for J. Robert Oppenheimer, who is professionally and spiritually destroyed by the legacy he pursued with wide open arms.

The last hour of Oppenheimer is not about the father of the atomic bomb; it’s about the father of our tomorrow and each and every one that will come after. Until one day, maybe it won’t.'

#Oppenheimer #Christopher Nolan #Cillian Murphy #Kitty #Emily Blunt #Einstein #Tom Conti #Memento #Inception #Edward Teller #Jennifer Lame #IMAX #Lewis Strauss #Robert Downey Jr.#Kai Bird #Martin J. Sherwin #American Prometheus #Jason Clarke #Roger Robb

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pennamesmith · 2 years ago

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Practicing Perfect

Of all the ancient, ceremonial arts that made up the backbone of Etherian culture, none was more important or more respected than the way of the tea party.

Every princess excelled in some way when hosting these hallowed gatherings. Glimmer’s were the most popular, Frosta’s the most lavish, and Perfuma’s the most mind-expanding. But Entrapta’s, by far, were the most exclusive. Even those fortunate enough to secure an invitation would have to make it past any number of perilous pitfalls and booby traps between the foyer and the dining room. And Entrapta changed the layout of the Crypto Castle’s labyrinth every week, just to keep things interesting. Sometimes there were mashing spike walls. Sometimes there were deadly lasers. Occasionally she would flood the hallways with bots and send Hordak to be their leader — or, as she insisted on saying, “the boss.”

At any rate, there was always a challenge.

Today, two others had managed to join Entrapta’s table alongside the princess and her doting husband: a lithe lizard, and Hordak’s not quite identical twin. They were both only slightly singed from their trip through the labyrinth and enjoyed their tiny refreshments heartily.

“Entrapta, darling, you absolutely have to tell me how you rigged those pyrotechnics in the flamethrower room,” Double Trouble said, leaning over their tea.

“My esteemed and talented partner is researching special effects for their latest play!” Wrong Hordak added, giddy with adoration. “I have been privileged enough to glimpse some of the preliminary plans. It will be a spectacular production! About love.”

Double Trouble managed to keep a stoic expression but blushed deeply regardless. “It’s a bit of a pet project,” they demurred. “Wrongie has been so helpful around the theater that I’ve finally had time for… personal pleasures.”

The two held hands and smiled at each other.

Entrapta watched the scene with wide eyes and a wider smile, elbows on the table and chin in her hands. Hordak, taking his seat beside her, wore a somewhat less enthusiastic face. Nevertheless, he remained polite as he passed out freshly baked miniature scones.

“What manner of love story is it?” Hordak asked, hospitably.

Double Trouble opened their mouth to answer, but Wrong Hordak beat them to it.

“It is about two people from different worlds!” Wrong Hordak enthused. “At first they are on different sides of a war. But fate brings them together, and they find new understanding in one another!”

Double Trouble twirled their hair modestly. “Well, it’s —”

“And there are explosions!” Wrong Hordak cut in. “Boom! Pow! Kablam!” He waved his hands to punctuate each sound. Double Trouble looked away and blushed harder, but they were smiling.

“Wow, that sounds emotionally moving and entertaining!” Entrapta exclaimed. “I would be happy to provide you with technical assistance.”

“Yes!” Wrong Hordak said. “You could help with the mood lighting during the love scene when —”

“Anyway!” Double Trouble squeaked, uncharacteristically eager to shift attention away from themself. “These pastries are… very interesting! Is it your own recipe, Hordak?”

“Yes. They are a failure, of course,” Hordak growled. “I hope you enjoy them.”

“They’re beautiful, Hordikins,” Entrapta said, kissing him on the cheek. “Look, the burn patterns are like little fractals! And they’re much easier to chew than your last batch.”

Wrong Hordak tilted his head. “I am confused. Are you pleased with the scones or not?”

“Wrongie! Be nice!” Double Trouble hissed.

Hordak took a composing breath. “Entrapta has taught me that there is beauty in imperfection,” he explained haltingly. “Nothing in the universe is truly perfect. It is a theoretical state. Therefore, beauty exists in how things differ from that baseline. Nothing is the same. Everything is significant.”

“You can’t make progress without making mistakes!” Entrapta piped up. “Mess around, find out, and make a record of it! That’s my motto.”

Wrong Hordak considered this.

The conversation quickly turned to other topics and the rest of the afternoon flew by. However, a nagging thought stayed in the back of Wrong Hordak’s mind even as the four friends laughed and chatted. He wrung his hands while he and Double Trouble bid goodbye to their hosts and set back off through the labyrinth toward the front door. By the time they made it past the first swinging blade trap, he had the courage to speak up.

“My love? I have a question.”

Double Trouble dodged a flame jet. “Shoot, hot stuff.”

“Is it… a deception, to call something perfect?”

Double Trouble thought about this. “Only if it isn’t, I guess.”

“No, I mean, is it not inherently dishonest?”

“…I’m not sure I understand the question.”

Wrong Hordak gestured vaguely with his hands as he ducked under a hail of poison darts. “Quality comes from repetition and gradual improvement. Is that correct?”

“Well, there’s a reason we rehearse, honey. You couldn’t sing a note when we first met, and now you’re carrying ballads. And I’ve learned a thing or two from you, too.”

“But, assuming infinite potential for improvement, is perfection truly possible?”

Double Trouble put a hand on Wrong Hordak’s chest and flashed a sultry smile. “You’re perfect.”

“That is just the problem!” Wrong Hordak wailed. “If imperfection is beautiful, what does that make perfection?”

Double Trouble’s face softened, and they put their other arm around Wrong Hordak’s hunched shoulders. “Oh, you’re worried about what Entrapta and Hordak said earlier. I should have known. Listen, I love those two, I really do, but don’t you think they can be a bit dramatic sometimes?”

“Um.”

Double Trouble shifted into Entrapta’s form. “Every grease stain is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen! I wanna make out with my data!” Another flash, and then they were Hordak. “Being grumpy is my hobby. Gotta be serious. I’ve never seen a flower in my life.”

Wrong Hordak snorted despite himself. Double Trouble became themself again and took a grinning bow for their giggling partner.

“Now, I’m not criticizing their… uniqueness,” they said. “As much as I love to criticize things.”

The pair, now arm in arm, turned left at a branching hallway. They were almost to the blinking exit sign when a trapdoor opened up and sent them hurtling down a twisting slide. They wound up in a small, circular cage, tangled in each other’s limbs.

Double Trouble sighed and fixed their hair. “My point is, they’re scientists. They like to measure things. Very literal. We, on the other hand, are artists. Much more fluid.”

They transformed until they were thin enough to slip through the cage bars, then opened the door from the other side. “You see?”

“I think so. Are you saying that artists change shape to match the container they are in?”

Double Trouble had to think about that one, too. “You know what? You’re actually not wrong.”

They helped Wrong Hordak out of the cage and curled their tail around his waist as they continued on down the subterranean passage. The two partners peered around the next corner together.

“Looks like there’s a way out ahead,” Double Trouble stage-whispered.

“No doubt filled with many devious traps,” Wrong Hordak cautioned, squinting suspiciously down the long hallway.

“Time to put the ‘run’ in runway, then.” Double trouble smirked. “On your mark, get ready, and… sashay!”

They danced down the corridor, jumping over spike pits and cartwheeling past laser lattices. Wrong Hordak tossed Double Trouble over a hidden trapdoor, and Double Trouble dipped Wrong Hordak under a closing bulkhead. They charged through a crowd of red-eyed bots and were almost to the end when a dark shape stepped out of the shadows, blocking the light of the exit.

“Bwa ha ha!” Hordak laughed. “Escape is futile!”

He was dressed in an elaborate outfit with a cape and high collar, his eyeshadow even more exaggerated than usual. A metal box with a hinged lid was strapped to his chest. It popped open and a slowly-spinning buzz saw blade plopped out onto the floor.

“Cower, mortals!” Hordak’s lines were pre-written, but he read them with plenty of gusto.

Double Trouble squared up for battle.

“Brother, your shoelace is untied!” Wrong Hordak exclaimed, before anyone could make a move.

“What?” Hordak said, breaking character. “My boots don’t have laces.”

While he was looking down, Double Trouble stuck out their foot and tripped Hordak over his own cape. The alien overlord was sent tumbling to the ground.

“Bah!” he cried. “You have defeated me! I will have my revenge! Have a pleasant journey home; Entrapta and I would love to have you over for dinner next week if you are available.”

“Thank you, that sounds splendid,” Double Trouble replied as they stepped over him.

“See you soon brother!” Wrong Hordak called, bounding outside and waving as he went.

Once they were well on their way, the partners looked at each other, laughed, and kissed.

“You were magnificent in there,” Double Trouble purred.

“You were… perfect,” Wrong Hordak replied, with a smile.

Double Trouble returned it. “For what it’s worth, I think that perfection is highly subjective, even if my opinions are always right. But I like to call something perfect when it makes me feel happy just by existing. When my world is better for it being there. To me, perfect is just being in love.”

They looked into Wrong Hordak’s eyes. “I think you’re perfect.”

They kissed again. And it was perfect.

#spop #she ra #Wrong Hordak #Double Trouble #Entrapta #Hordak #wrong trouble #entrapdak #fan fiction #smith stuff

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idabbleincrazy · 1 year ago

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A lil peek at some Clark POV from Never a Wish Better Than This (a Clex fic):

As my mind wanders, I look over at my friends. Pete showed up this afternoon, a surprise. Said he couldn't miss the only birthday party I've ever thrown. He'll probably have to leave soon if he wants to make it back to Wichita before curfew. Chloe, with her bright, bubblegum smile and knowing eyes, doing her best to keep Lois from annoying me too much. Lana, demure smile in place, eyes flitting over to me every so often. My heart twinges with a good dose of guilt every time she does.

I still hold a place for her in my heart, but it's not the same. Hasn't been since he moved in, really. Lana was the girl next door, the one I thought I would always see as the love of my life. But, since that day on the bridge, slowly, but surely, things have changed.

Saving Lex was the catalyst for so much change. That not-really-a-kiss threw a wrench into everything I thought I knew about myself. It was only CPR, but from the first press of my lips against Lex's, it was like the whole world had shifted. And not just mentally. It was as if bringing Lex back to life had been a jumpstart on a molecular level. Before, I'd always been strong and fast and practically indestructible, but within a few weeks of meeting Lex, up popped the x-ray vision. God, that was an embarrassing couple of weeks while I got it under control. The vague dreams I'd been having got slightly more focused after I caught a flash of Lex in his boxers before I could close my eyes. It wasn't the first time I'd woken up sticky, but before that, it had always been Lana haunting my erotic dreams, like when I'd first started waking up floating above my bed.

I had managed to push aside the confusing feelings that were blooming since meeting Lex, mostly, until the start of my sophomore year and the height of the heat wave. How many fires did I almost start, thinking of Lex? Those were the worst few months. Especially while Desiree was around. Talk about confusing. Didn't help that Chloe had to chime in with her observation that Desiree looked like a female version of me. Suddenly all I could think of was Lex giving me the sultry, sloe-eyed stares he'd been giving her.

After that, my imaginings decided they were no longer happy secluding themselves to my sleeping hours. The first time I touched myself to thoughts of Lex happened shortly after Desiree's spell over him was broken. None of my jerk-off sessions had ever led to that powerful an orgasm. Thank God my parents weren't home; I don't think I'd have had the higher brain function required to explain the scream that accompanied my explosive release.

@leatafandom

#wip wednesday

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minefield-of-a-ninja · 2 years ago

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Summary: A hot tip turns into a hot night.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Characters: William Butcher x unnamed female x Soldier Boy

Tags/warnings: explicit, mfm threesome, Dom/sub, rough sex, slapping, name calling, sex with murderous misogynists

Words: 1700

Author's notes: for @glassjacket and @brrose-apothecary Thanks for the read-through and green light, Bri. <3

Gonzo journalism is an energetic first-person participatory writing style of journalism that is written without claims of objectivity, often including the reporter as part of the story using the first-person narrative, and it draws its power from a combination of social critique and self-satire. The word gonzo is believed to have been first used in 1970 to describe an article about the Kentucky Derby by Hunter S. Thompson, who popularized the style.

Three days ago, I received a tip that former British special forces member, CIA agent, and now, vigilante, William Butcher, traveled to Russia to obtain a secret weapon to take down the megalomaniac superhero Homelander. Within an hour, I was on a plane to JFK. Just as the A320 touched the ground, an explosion rocked Midtown, killing 19 people. My source wasted no time looping me in with video footage of the cause of the explosion.

...and I didn’t believe my eyes.

“Holy-” I breathed, weaving through the other passengers to quicken my steps toward ground transportation. I ordered an Uber then watched the footage on a loop until it arrived. As my driver pulled up, I received a text message from my source.

“Weapon’s not so much a what but a who, love.”

“So I see.”

“You here?”

“On my way to ground zero, got anything else for me?”

“Will have after tonight.”

“What’s tonight?”

“I’ll let you know when I do.”

He kept his word — called me mere moments after America’s first hero incinerated the woman he claimed to have once loved in a flash of radioactivity.

Now, these two hypermasculine assholes are half in the bag and toe-to-toe in the middle of a cheap ass motel room, arguing about who can make me come faster/harder/longer. How I got into this particular situation is simple; waiting for intel in a non-air-conditioned room, got bored, hair up, whiskey, poker, sweat, partial nudity.

What’re you gonna do?

“Show me, then, you limey cock. She’s right fucking there.” Soldier Boy motions to me before pausing his challenge to an x-rated duel long enough to drag his hot gaze across my damp, salty skin and down over my semi-clothed form. “Or do you need me to show you what a real man can do.”

Each of their gazes are dark in their own way. Butcher’s is nothing but devilish chaos backed by a dramatic, velvet curtain hiding the truth, and Soldier Boy’s is full of secrets, barely repressed rage, and hunger.

“She already knows I’m good fer it. Don’tcha, love?” Butcher smirks.

I draw a deep breath then casually shrug my shoulders. I happen to know from experience that Butcher is very good for it and judging by the non-V-generated power rolling off the superhero, I could be making this much harder on myself than I need to.

That said, I have an unfortunate weakness for big, shit-talking, beautiful men. It’s even better when they’re absolute pricks and no danger of taking them home to mama.

Butcher looks slightly crestfallen until I toss him a mock-pout and a wink. This is always what we do, anyway. We stay on the outside and keep our distance. Come to think of it, I probably have an equally dramatic curtain behind my own eyes. I suppose I should examine that sometime. After the mind-blowing fuck session I’m about to have.

The supe chuckles as he turns to saunter toward me. “We can take turns, give her a little score card,” he says, coming to a stop in front of me.

I’m sitting on the foot of the bed, leaning back on my elbows, legs crossed like I’m fucking demure. He smirks down at me with hard, dark eyes as he slides a hand between his legs to cup himself over the stiff material of his suit pants.

“You look a little mean,” I tell him, and his smirk spreads to a grin that doesn’t meet his eyes.

“You like that.” He licks his teeth before pulling his bottom lip between them. “Wet as a whore on payday sittin’ in this filthy motel room with me and him, huh.”

Butcher appears behind him, looming, his thin, damp beater clings to his skin in a pleasing way.

I suppose I should be concerned for my well-being, but mostly, I’m wet just like Soldier Boy said. So I let myself go until I’m on my back, uncross my legs and drop my bare feet to either side of his boots.

When Butcher moves from beyond him, Soldier Boy extends an arm to halt him. “Rules,” he grunts. “I’m in charge. Anything goes unless someone safewords. Crimson is the word.”

Butcher chuckles at that. “We’re not looking to be deep-fried in here if that name sets you off.”

“Fuck you. Get her panties off.” The supe crosses the room, removing his undershirt and boots.

Butcher kneels at my feet and lifts them to the mattress, so I follow his lead and cant my hips to give him access to my underwear. He looks up at me. “Y’sure ‘bout this?” he asks warily, as he drags the ruined cotton over my hips and knees, and I nod.

Butcher can actually be thoughtful on occasion. But we had an agreement.

“Safeword. Did you not hear that part?” Soldier Boy struts back to the bed, stroking his already hard cock.

“Jesus,” I breathe, and the fucker smirks again.

America’s first hero, for all his terribly deep and disturbing flaws, is easily the most gorgeous man I have ever seen naked. My mouth waters at the sight of his thick, heavy-looking cock, slipping through his meaty hand.

“USDA prime, sugar, and you got the best seat in the house.” He nudges Butcher out of the way much more gently than I would have expected. “So sit up and open your fucking mouth.”

Butcher peels his shirt off and shucks his pants to the floor before moving onto the bed as I obey the soldier’s uncompromising order. “She does like suckin’ cock, mouth like a fucken whirlpool.” Butcher settles behind me and brushes his lips across my exposed neck.

I swallow the drool in my mouth and reach for the beautiful bounty in front of me, and Soldier Boy shakes his head.

“Get her arms,” he tells Butcher, holding my eyes with his.

Butcher obliges, looping one forearm through my elbows behind my back and pressing me forward as his free hand works its way between my legs. “So wet already, love.”

“You know how long it’s been since I’ve had access to a warm, wet mouth?” The recently escaped man’s brow is furrowed, and his eyes lose their sharp focus as he slides his fingers into the twisted mess of a bun at the back of my head, angling my face the way he wants it. “And this mouth.”

He grips my chin with his other hand, and I let my jaw drop open. “This fucking mouth,” he mutters.

I close my eyes as his hot, salty cock slides over my tongue. He slides his hand from my chin to the other side of my head to mirror his other, holding me in place as he sets a rhythm.

“Good?” Butcher whispers, and I hum an affirmation. He’s sliding one long, thick finger around my clit so gently and thoroughly that I’m right at the edge of falling.

“Relax,” Soldier Boy grunts, swiping his thumbs over my hollowed cheeks. “I don’t need you choking out so soon.”

It’s hard to relax when I’ve got the fat cock of a superhero bumping against my uvula, and the thick knuckles of a thug slipping around my cunt. I’m hot and overstimulated and I’m about to come undone.

“‘Member that night in Chelsea? At your sister’s flat?” Butcher murmurs in my ear, sliding his slippery hand up under my tank top as he looks up at the other man. “Let’s get ‘er on ‘er back, mate.”

“Making it easy on her,” Soldier Boy scoffs as he pulls out of my mouth to spin and drag me to the side of the bed. He dips in for a punishing kiss with teeth and tongue before pushing me down to hang my head over the side of the bed. “She doesn’t get to come ‘til I do, and neither do you.”

Butcher nods with that edged grin as he slowly works his way between my thighs. “Well, ain’t that shite, sweetheart?” He settles his bare chest to the bed and shoves my legs open wide. “We got us a multiple-orgasmer ‘ere, wif little to no self-control.”

Soldier Boy chuckles as he straddles my face and reaches to tear my top in half.

“Fucker,” I swear at Butcher.

“Well, you better get some control quick because I don’t like to be disappointed.” He grips one of my breasts tight and mouths at the other, mumbling orders around my flesh. “Put me back in your mouth.”

I relax my throat and take a deep breath as I wrap one hand around his hard cock. My heart pounds in my chest and I moan, tasting him again. He’s so heavy and smooth. Did he get waxed between international imprisonment and mass murder?

Whatever.

He doesn’t waste a second working his way down my open throat. Butcher’s doing that thing he does with his tongue that makes me come every time within seconds. It takes me three deep inhales through my nose and concentrating on the feel of the gorgeous dick snaking my esophagus to realize that Butcher, a classic switch, wants to see how a man like Soldier Boy handles being defied.

Butcher also knows that I love being punished.

So I let go. I throw my arms wide and arch into Soldier Boy’s teeth and rough fingers on my nipples. I grind into Butcher’s face and feel his chuckle rumbling in my core.

Butcher grips my hips and bears down.

“You son of a bitch...” the supe breathes a lush sneer, his breath over my wet flesh making me shiver as his fucking into my throat makes me gag. “You want her to come, don’t you? Want the slut to get what she deserves?”

I cup his balls and push my face up into his groin, making him rasp and pin both my wrists to the bed. He takes one nipple between his plump lips again and tongues the tip as he slows his drive into my mouth and swirls his tongue around that nipple then the other.

“Hmm, changed my mind,” he says thoughtfully as he stands and pulls out of my mouth. “Let’s make her come. Over and over. Make her come ‘til she’s fucking unconscious.”

His grin is dark and cruel as he strokes himself with one hand and reaches for my already sensitive breasts with the other.

Butcher lifts his face from between my legs, his beard shiny with my slick, and grins wide as he hooks two fingers up inside me and drops a heavy hand over my mound. “Sounds like a deal, mate.”

Part II

More Soldier Boy and/or Butcher

IF YOU LIKE WHAT YOU'VE READ, PLEASE REBLOG AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!

#butcher x reader x soldier boy #soldier boy x reader #butcher x reader #soldier boy smut #ButcherBoy smut

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uncouth-the-fifth · 3 years ago

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Prompt 138 and 189 for Dames pls🥺🥺

138. "Were you just masturbating?" and 189. "I don't know what to do." / "Then let me teach you," with Damian Wayne.

i claimed i was going to start writing shy readers, then i immediately wrote the boldest reader ever 🤰 that’s my legacy. set when Damian still lives at the manor at about 19 <3

The house was suspiciously quiet. You knew that Bruce and Alfred would be gone, but considering how your texts were left on delivered, Damian had probably forgotten you were coming over. Or, some grand adventure had carried him away for the night. You tried to brace yourself for disappointment as your footsteps padded through the echoing halls of the house. Worse case scenario, Damian had forgotten and you’d get to make dinner and spend time with Alfred, like last time.

Even after being Damian’s girlfriend for several months, the Manor still intimidated you. It’s structure was confusing and sound travelled oddly, like it was cushioned by the breath of the Wayne family ghosts. You weren’t freaked out, per se. But you did sneak a little quieter while looking for Damian.

When you couldn’t find him in the library or with his pets in the observatory, your last option was his room. Again, you were daunted with the task of remembering which door was Damian’s, since they all looked the same.

A muffled sound drew you to the middlemost door in the hall. Damian was the only one who lived at home anymore, so it had to be him.

Still spooked by the rest of the house, you took the handle and eased it open as quietly as you could. Damian could be napping. He could be painting, or sketching, and neither would make a good moment to disturb him. He could be—

Touching himself. Naked.

Damian had just gotten out of the shower. His bronze shoulders were dotted with water drops, and his short, tousled black hair was shiny and damp. There was a sexy, tired edge to his face that told you he’d had an awful day - then it broke into shy bliss when his thumb brushed his tip. One hand held him up, sitting at his bedside with his legs spread and a towel open under his thighs. He was stunningly hard. The long, girthy dick that you’d only glimpsed on accident before sat awkwardly in Damian’s hands, and it occurred to you that this was the first time he’d ever done this. He’d never pleasured himself before.

Not once. If you thought about it (and you did, often), Damian seemed too prude and impersonal to satisfy himself that way. It was more in character for him to beat on a punching bag for a couple hours instead of destressing... like this.

You locked your surprised gasp in your throat, arm jerking to slam the door. A thousand apologies came to mind. But you couldn’t lie to yourself.

It was hot, and you wanted to watch.

This, of course, was right when Damian noticed you. Before you could blink, he was across the room, the towel was around his waist again and he was snarling at you, face explosively red. Damian cursed in Arabic. He moved to slam the door in your face, spitting in shame, but you were in the way of the frame. It felt like your feet were glued to the floor.

Your boyfriend, with his moist muscles, his sexy scars, getting a hard on for you... Thinking about you a little too deeply in the shower, and emerging to resolve it himself... Damian had only gotten turned on with you once before - you’d been making out, hands in each other’s shirts and tongues in each other’s mouths, only for him to suddenly bolt up and disappear. You wondered what he’d been thinking about. Or even better, who.

Stupidly, you asked, “...Were you just masturbating?”

“No, I was battling Clayface,” Damian snapped. “What do you think I was doing, L/N?”

“Wait!” You yelped, but you couldn’t understand why he’d want to. “Was... Is this your first time doing that?”

Damian glared at you hard enough to steamroll you, shame leaking out of his pores. If you dared to look between you - and you did - he was still painfully hard, and so, so big. Drool pooled into your mouth without your permission, and you had to audibly swallow it to be able to speak again. When Damian realized where you’d peeked, he blanched. He was still soaking wet. (You probably were, too).

He shuffled in place, and did something that surprised you. Damian avoided your eyes. “Why should you care? And - and what are you even doing here?”

“You texted me that you missed me last weekend. You wanted to teach me chess, and I think you said that we could talk about the book we’re reading together,” you babbled. “We... we made plans for today? It’s okay if you don’t remember... um, it looks like you had a very hard day...”

To help your predicament, you added with a sigh, “...Very hard.”

Damian cleared his throat. He put a hand on the doorframe beside you, bicep raised by your face. “...I - I did. Miss you.”

Again, you gestured to his towel. “I can tell.”

He shot you a flat look that very clearly read, not funny. Damian forced himself to stand still, at a total loss for words beyond that point. To you, it looked like an opening.

“Maybe I could...” you hooked your finger into the waist of his towel, moving deeper into his space, “help you with that?”

Damian smelled like pure sex. Beneath that was his heady bodywash and shampoo, which floated off him like his humidity did, intoxicating and full of flavor. It was like stepping into the radius of a love spell. You already loved Damian, but the heat coming off of him made you want to show him how much.

His expression was demure. Damian lifted his chin to snatch up his remaining dignity, and you didn’t miss his sacrifice of vulnerability. “...Yes. I didn’t... I didn't know what to do.”

Damian’s answer winded you. Your sudden role-reversal was strange, but the newness was welcome. Usually, you were the embarrassed one that Damian was teaching, so an opportunity to teach him - especially about something like this - seemed irresistible. And Damian admitting that he wasn’t equipped for something? He might as well have dropped down on one knee and given you a ring.

“Then let me teach you.”

He allowed you to slide past him, and quietly, aware of his self-indulgence, shut the door with a click. Damian shuffled back to his bed and sat down, chewing his lip. As cute as he was when nervous, you wanted him to enjoy this, so you gifted him a warm, sweet kiss before you eased your hand around his thigh. Damian returned it with a muffled hum, warmed by the taste.

You both sighed. The stress seem to leave his frame like air out of a beaten balloon, relaxing his back. Still, his fingers twitched at his sides, and only more so when you chased your kiss to your knees and encouraged him to lay back.

He had the courage to watch, so you found the charisma to ask him, “Comfortable?”

Damian nodded, shy.

“Can I touch you, beautiful?”

Again, Damian closed his eyes and shivered out a gruff yes.

Opening the towel was a gift within itself. Damian’s bulge practically opened it up on it’s own, popping free, unrestrained. If it seemed big before, it was huge in your palm. Just holding it made Damian hiss. His cock was proud and freshly cleaned, begging to be tasted. A string of drool slid off your tongue and pooled around his rosy tip, making Damian gasp and wince. You rolled the wetness down his veiny shaft, reveling in his little noises, the way his toes and fingers curled in delight. Not once did you forget that you were the first person to ever touch him like this - neither did Damian, who looked at you like he would do anything to be touched.

“Like this,” you whispered.

The shape of the tip was made for your mouth. Once he was nice and slick, that was the first place you took him, curling your tongue around his dripping, bulbous head. Damian melted, shoulders first. Taking even a little bit of him into your mouth required your lips to wrap around him, and you sucked until the fit was snug - an inch or two in. Otherwise he hung in your hand, desperate to be squeezed. You closed his shaft in your fist and twisted, hastened by pre-cum and spit, until Damian’s thighs tensed into rock.

Finally, you took his closest hand curled it around his cock. With his knuckles under your palm, you showed Damian how to guide himself into your mouth, and how to do it without you. His chest puttered up and down with every drag, his hand working at a dangerous pace. Soon, he was a pro with enthusiasm. Damian met your mouth with his hand every time.

With a shaken sputter of your name, Damian came. Like a dam, he flooded into your mouth, filling and filling until it felt like you’d drank an entire cup of his cum. It drizzled over your chin and down your neck, which fluttered with every breath and mouthful you gulped down.

“I-I think I understand, now,” Damian said, throat hoarse and breath spent, “but just in case... Would you mind showing me that again?”

#damian wayne smut #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x reader smut #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #dc smut #dc comics smut #dc comics #dc

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rocorambles · 4 years ago

Text

Duty and Responsibility

Pairing: Osamu x Reader

Genre/Warnings: NSFW, Historical AU, Arranged Marriage AU, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Lactation Kink

Summary: Love can form in surprising places, even in a marriage centered only around duty and responsibility.

You patiently wait beside Daichi, back straight, gaze downcast and demure, the picture perfect example of a soon to be bride. Only if someone watched with hawk eyes, purposefully looking for flaws in your facade, would they notice the way you stand just a tad too close to the head of the Karasuno clan, desperately trying to cling onto any comfort or courage you can.

There’s nothing to be afraid of. At least that’s what Daichi says. And you know he would never put you in harm’s way. You trust him with your life and more. After all, it’s he who’s practically single handedly raised you, saving you from guaranteed death as a street urchin, welcoming you and wholeheartedly accepting you as one of his own. He’s the older brother figure you never had. The one who showed you what family and belonging were.

So if he says that he trusts Kita, the head of Inarizaki, and vouches for Kita’s choice of a future husband for you. Of course you put your faith in his words. But it doesn’t stop the clawing nausea inside of you as you get ready to meet the stranger your life is now forever entwined with.

Inarizaki and Karasuno have never had much of a relationship before, good or bad. You know of the infamous fox clan, the tales of their notorious twins spreading far and wide. But they’ve always just been stories, pretty words that you couldn’t tie to a warm body.

Until now.

You’d be naive to not understand just how prominent Karasuno has become, no longer the laid back humble clan it once used to be. And as proud as you are of Daichi and how his tireless work and dedication have helped the crows fly high in the sky once again, you can’t help but feel a small regretful pang when you remember that carefree life you once had, when you were just a young woman dreaming about marrying for love and finding “the one”.

But that was just a silly girl’s dream. You know what your duty and responsibilities are and you don’t dare shirk away from them now. Not when Daichi has so deeply instilled those firm beliefs and foundations inside of you both through teaching and example. And it’s the fact that you know, with just a word, he’d completely cancel it, call everything off and risk ruining ties between the two clans, that has you gritting your teeth and standing firm, awaiting your future.

This isn’t how you had dreamed your happily ever after would be, but for Daichi, for Karasuno, for your new family? You’d gladly die as a pawn.

And a pawn you are, even if it is a glorified one.

You can still vividly remember the night Daichi had called you into his office, remember how nervous he was as his eyes looked anywhere other than at you, remember the pain he tried to hide in his voice as he proposed the idea to you. He used gentle words, meandering and rambling around the point, but the message was as clear as a knife in the gut.

Sacrifice yourself to solidify the union between Karasuno and Inarizaki.

An arranged marriage with no one other than Miya Osamu.

You remember how your heart had dropped at Daichi’s words, a sinking feeling churning inside of you only worsened by how regretfully brown eyes looked at you, a gnawing of his lips before he blurted out that you could say no even though both of you know it’s not really an option, certainly not the wiser option.

Possibly anger and break ties with one of the most powerful clans in the country over a mere woman?

You knew that an arranged marriage was always a strong possibility. But you had always imagined that it would be with someone you knew from the clans you’re closer with like Nekoma and Fukurodani. Maybe even Seijoh or Shiratorizawa. But Inarizaki? Miya Osamu?

A part of you is glad that at least it isn’t his wild blond twin, someone whose presence spreads like wildfire, loudly crackling and announcing itself, wreaking havoc in its wake. But if the stories are true, Osamu isn’t much better. More of a volcano than an out of control fire, but just as able to burst and explode if provoked enough.

So you’re surprised when you lay eyes on him for the first time as the fox clan enters the room, nothing seemingly fiery or volatile about the handsome man politely bowing in front of you. Instead you’re reminded of the moon and its quiet yet hardened radiance and although you don’t know a thing about your fiance, you think that maybe it’s not the worst scenario, especially as his brother’s voice loudly echoes throughout the chambers, already making a scene not even minutes into your two clans meeting.

Little do you know a silver haired man is thinking the same thing as he carefully scans you over.

Osamu has never thought much about marriage or what his future wife would be like. It’s always just been Atsumu, him, and all the trouble they constantly got themselves into. But as Daichi and Kita pass back and forth polite pleasantries, it’s beginning to feel all too real how planned out his future is. Yet looking at you, he can envision it, the picture perfect couple, a picture perfect house, a picture perfect family. It’s obvious that you’ve been raised well, not that he expects any less of someone Daichi himself has taught and raised from the ground up. And although he doesn’t have hopes that you’ll be the love of his life, for Kita, for Inarizaki, for his family, he can be the respectable husband and father they and you need him to be.

With duty and honor at the forefront of both your minds, you begin to court each other. It’s pleasant, like a well rehearsed performance, both your perfected mannerisms shining and waltzing around each other in perfect grammar, politically correct opinions, and graceful table manners. To any outside eye, the two of you are the epitome of prim and proper, a vision of what an upstanding couple should look like, nothing scandalous or eye catching as the two of you amble around, getting to know each other.

But that’s all it is, a superbly done play and both of you can feel the weight of the falseness heavy upon your shoulders as you keep your smile from unbecomingly stretching across your face, as Osamu bites back his usual snarky verbiage.

You’re grateful for the frequent interruptions from both your rowdy clan members, feeling the pressure lift off of you just a bit when Nishinoya comes racing across the field, not a hint of reservation as he excitedly rambles and shouts about the latest gossip he’s heard, when Tanaka comes storming over and manhandles the shorter man into leaving the two of you alone. And as aggravating as Atsumu can be, Osamu is secretly glad when the annoying blonde takes it upon himself to crash most of your outings together, allowing himself the brief leisure of resting his meticulously crafted mask as his twin yaps on and on unhindered to you.

But his gratitude for Atsumu only goes so far and despite how hard Osamu has tried to keep up appearances in front of you, it was only a matter of time before he lost his composure the more and more his more obnoxious counterpart loitered around the two of you, hogging all your attention to himself.

Osamu isn’t a jealous person, or so he had thought, but his moral compass has always skewed heavily whenever his twin is involved and he can feel his frustration and temper rise when Atsumu’s interruptions become more than a slight reprieve, capturing your attention, not even leaving scraps for Osamu to work with.

And maybe, just maybe, he can admit that he is jealous....jealous of how easy it is for Atsumu to always be himself no matter the situation, no matter who’s around, never a care or worry about what others think of him.

That feeling festers, slowly boiling, temperature rising, until it comes to a full throttle and Osamu can no longer bite back his typical scathing tone he uses with his brother, icy tone ordering the rambunctious man to leave the two of you the fuck alone.

“Last time I checked, ‘Sumu, you’re not the one getting married. So either go find someone who’ll be willing to put up with you or find another couple to third-wheel with.”

Of course that’s not the end of it because God forbid Atsumu grows up and lets Osamu have the last word for once and before he even realizes what’s happening, a body is crashing into his and they immediately begin growling and snarling at each other as they wrestle each other, throwing jabs and kicks, completely forgetting the bystander watching the two men in awe.

But when your roaring laughter fills the air, Osamu freezes, disbelief and curiosity curling inside of him as he turns to see if that uncouth hyena guffaw is truly coming from you, only to be amazed when he sees you practically bent in half, wheezing, face scrunched in giddy lines as you continue howling in amusement. And despite how “unseemly” your appearance is, he thinks you’re the most beautiful like this, something warm growing inside him when he basks in the essence of your pure joy for the first time.

Unfortunately it’s short lived and he hides the pout forming on his lips when you notice his eyes on you, murmuring apologies left and right as you abruptly resume your typical ladylike stance and countenance, no proof of the genuine beauty he had seen just seconds ago other than the embarrassed look on your face. And like an infection your shame spreads and he scrambles to his feet (slightly getting one last kick in and hiding a smile at Atsumu’s whine), quickly brushing himself off and deeply bowing and apologizing for his own childish behavior.

But as he plays the ever perfect gentleman, protectively strolling with you and guiding you back home, the cogs in his mind begin to turn, a determined glint entering his gaze.

You’re clearly not the prim and proper angel he had thought you were and obviously, you don’t mind his more...explosive side, if your mirth earlier as your fiance rolled around on the ground like a fool is anything to go by.

Forget prim, proper, and perfect. He wants to know more about who you really are hidden underneath the elegant layers you’ve been shielding yourself with, reveal his own true nature to you, marry your flaws and strengths together as you build a life even better than perfect, something visceral, something real, something more tangible than the whimsical dreams of fairy tale romances.

He takes the first step, his desire to break down your barriers giving him the confidence he needs to be more vulnerable. But even then, there’s slight trepidation as he bustles around the kitchen, wondering what you would think of his cooking hobby, hoping and wishing for your acceptance and approval despite how uncommon, maybe even looked down upon, it is in your society for a man to be rummaging around a woman’s domain.

But he’s good at what he does. He knows he is. And with that thought, he resolves himself to skillfully molding the onigiri he’s renowned for among his own clan, taking extra pains to make sure each one is perfectly filled, shaped, and decorated, snooping around and subtly asking your clan mates what your favorite flavors and ingredients are and incorporating them. Pleased with the final results, he sends a message for you to meet him in a secluded section of the park the two of you often frequent.

Used to Osamu coming to your chambers and walking with you right from the start, you’re surprised by the request to meet him and your heart flutters when you realize the specific location he’s chosen is one you run away to and use to hide from the world when you just need time and space for yourself, a location you’ve never told anyone about before, a safe haven and oasis you call your own. You’re surprised by how little you care about sharing this secret place with him, something bubbly and warm eliciting a smile on your face as you hike up your skirts and rush towards your fiance, laughing in the wind and ignoring the chiding from Suga and Asahi to “stop running” and “act like a lady”.

But as you near your destination, you do slow down, nervously gnawing at your bottom lip as your fingers comb through your wind tousled hair, smoothing out your skirts and making sure there’s no leftover signs of your delinquent behavior. And putting years of etiquette lessons into practice, you gracefully stroll towards the man you’re here to meet. Only to be startled out of your picturesque poise by the gorgeous spread in front of you.

Candles and lanterns flicker in the soft breeze, encasing and basking the area in their ethereal glow. Luxurious rugs and pillows are artfully splayed out across the floor, turning the grassy lawn into the most wondrous lounge you’ve ever seen and it takes all your willpower not to squeal and pounce in the ridiculously plush field. But what really takes your breath away is how Osamu’s chiseled face radiates in the warm light of the gentle fires blazing around him, a smile dancing on his lips when he takes in your wide entranced eyes, and you can feel your face warm, heart beating a mile a minute when you realize that he’s done all this just for you, a woman he hardly knows. And you quickly make your way towards him, blabbering on and on about how this is over the top, how he absolutely didn’t have to do any of this, how you can’t believe he went through all this trouble for you. Only to be silenced when he cuts you off with a single sentence topped with the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen.

“I did it because I wanted to.”

Stunned and still overwhelmed that almost a complete stranger has done something so lavish, so special, so selfless, just for you, you obediently let him beckon you and guide you to a seated position, sighing in bliss when you nestle among the myriad of fabrics, pleased that they feel just as nice, if not better, than what you had imagined. You excitedly watch as he rummages through the picnic basket he’s packed, realizing then just how hungry you actually are, and once again your jaw drops and you wonder if any of this is real, unsure how it’s possible for him to keep on pulling more and more items from the container until pristine glasses filled with refreshing liquids and ornate porcelain plates heaping with the most perfect onigiri you’ve ever seen entirely cover the empty space of the fabric spread surrounding you.

Senses still in overdrive, it’s all you can do to mindlessly grab the onigiri he offers you and bring it to your lips. But when your teeth sink into the delicate layers of seaweed and rice, the taste of your favorite filling slamming into your tastebuds, you’re jolted back to reality and suddenly any decorum you’ve learned is thrown out the window and Osamu bursts out laughing, a pleased flush on his face when you begin raving and practically dancing in your seat about how delicious the rice ball is as you simultaneously shove more bites into your mouth, your cheeks expanding not unlike the little chipmunks he sees prancing around the area. And when you realize just how unrefined you appear as the last bits of the onigiri are swallowed, an embarrassed apology on the tip of your tongue, he boldly reaches out to grab your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I’m glad you enjoyed them so much.”

But it’s his turn to be embarrassed when you tentatively sidle up to him, allowing your bodies to touch as you lean into his side, continuing to hold his hand, looking up at him under fluttering lashes as you ask him where he’d gotten the food from. And this time it’s he who quietly murmurs that he had actually made these himself, apprehensive of what your reaction will be to finding out this secret tidbit, only for his own jaw to drop and gape in surprise when there’s not a second of hesitation or judgement as you look at him in awe, begging him to teach you his recipe.

Needless to say, whispers and rumors run amok as Osamu and you hog and hoard the kitchen at all hours of the day and night, some older and more traditional maids and servants looking on scandalously as Osamu rolls up his sleeves and slaves over pots and pans, the majority of your clan and Inarizaki just rolling their eyes with fond smiles on their faces as they watch the two of you in a flurry or chaos, food everywhere, stains on your clothes when the both of you proudly share your finished products that everyone, even those grumpy old naggers, enjoys.

One day, when the kitchen becomes particularly messy as Osamu accidentally spills flour all over you in his attempt to reach for the highly perched bag, there’s a brief moment of tension when you loudly gasp as white powder swirls all around you and your fiance awkwardly stands in place unsure whether to laugh or be mortified about the mess he’s made of you. But just as he comes to his senses and frantically looks around for a towel or rag to help clean you with, he yelps when something collides with his head, shortly followed by a cold slimy trail slipping down the nape of his neck, whipping his head around to look at you in shock.

When he sees the bowl of eggs strategically placed next to you, the broken eggshells at his feet, and the smug grin on your face, he stands at attention, meeting the challenging look in your eyes with his own competitive gleam. And then there’s only a whirlwind of commotion as the two of you scream and uproariously giggle, racing around the kitchen, ducking behind cabinets, finding anything and everything to chuck at the other, only stopping when Daichi and Kita finally put an end to the madness, trying to stay stern as they bite back their own laughter and relief at seeing the two of you get along so well.

The two of you profusely bow in apology, swearing you’ll clean up the mess you’ve made, but the second your two clan heads leave, you simultaneously peek at each other, softly chuckling at how filthy you both look. And as Osamu carefully plucks bits of egg shells from your hair and as you affectionately wipe his face clean of flour, eggs, and everything else that’s managed to get stuck, the two of you feel the stirrings of something more than just duty and responsibility, more than even just friendship or attraction, growing inside of you.

That feeling expands and blossoms inside the two of you, never ceasing to move and swirl inside both your hearts before clamoring into a resounding crescendo on your wedding day. And as Osamu and you both try to fight back tears of happiness and belonging, tears of everything falling into place, tears of life just making sense when you stand beside each other at the altar, the two of you thank whoever’s listening that you’re bound to each other for all of eternity.

The wedding is a joyous and rowdy affair and your stomach aches from laughing nonstop, feet sore from never ending rounds of dancing, eyes and hands unable to to be torn from your husband who is likewise as enamored as you. Both of you just stick out your tongues and ignore the teasing gags and hollering from both your clan mates as the two of you remain glued to each other all night. And as the evening draws to an end and Atsumu drunkenly shouts at both of you to get a room, your face heats and your stomach swoons when Osamu just cheekily smiles back and says that the both of you will do just that before swooping you up in his arms and carrying you out bridal style, wishing everyone farewell as he whisks you away to the amusement of your friends and family, raucous encouragements being shouted in your wake while you hide your embarrassed face in the crook of his shoulder, meekly waving goodbye to the cheering crowds.

But that atmosphere changes when you enter the room set aside for the two of you to spend your wedding night, the first evening of your lifelong union, and it feels like all those moons ago when the two of you first met as slightly trembling hands wrap around each other in a tentative embrace, lips hesitatingly pressing against each other in an inquisitive manner. Fingers brush against buttons, zippers, and ribbons. Fabric rustles as they’re shakily removed and placed aside. And then it’s just the two of you as you are, nothing hiding you from the other as eyes and fingertips gently roam and explore new territory.

It starts off slow as the two of you take your time mapping every line and curve now laid bare for your greedy eyes and hands, tasting each other, revelling in the little moans and grunts that fill the room as pert nipples are teased, teeth nip at the junction where neck meets shoulder, hips languidly grind and rub against each other.

Osamu’s head falls back as your fingers curiously wrap around his throbbing shaft, testing different strokes, and he returns your actions by slipping one long finger inside of you, hungrily staring at the way your mouth unconsciously opens, a tiny mewl escaping you from the delicious intrusion. You try your best to keep up your ministrations, gliding your hand up and down the velvety warmth heavy in your hands, but your movements become sloppy as the silver haired minx on top of you teasingly takes his time, painstakingly prepping you and stretching you out, only adding a new finger when your hips desperately shake and squirm in a silent plea for more.

But even three fingers in, it’s not enough, and you can’t help the petulant whine that leaves your mouth, the wanton begging for your husband to hurry up, eyes practically rolling in your head when he finally presses the tip of his cock against your fluttering and wanting entrance, eagerly awaiting the feeling of his shaft filling your desperate hole. Yet Osamu has different plans and you let out a choked sob when instead he slides the tip of his erection up and down your sensitive folds, patiently watching your building slick coat his mushroomed head, making sure you’re completely ready to take him.

You snap at him, tears beginning to form in your eyes from the denial and frustration, words coming out more demanding and bratty than you had intended as you order him to get on with it already. But you immediately regret your actions, whimpering when dark eyes sternly stare you down, pinning you in place and forcing you to clamp your mouth shut.

“Who knew a virgin like you could be such a demanding whore.”

The demeaning words have no right to affect you the way they do and you only become more agitated, a lance of arousal piercing through you and making you squirm from his tone and choice of phrase. You want him. You need him. And you thrash underneath him, futilely trying to force his cock inside of you, only to sob and submissively freeze at his next words.

“Stop moving or I’m going to tie you up and tease you all night.”

You feel like helpless prey, no fight left in you to resist, your energy spent obeying him, trying your best to stay put, fingers clawing into the rumpled bed sheets underneath you. And Osamu feels pride swell in his chest at how good you are, how perfect you’re behaving for him as he takes his time, fingers curling and gliding against your gummy walls, scissoring as they go in and out of tight hole, not stopping until you’re literally gushing, leaking juices everywhere, salty watery trails leaking from your eyes as your body shivers from pent up arousal and desire.

He can’t take his eyes off of you as his cock begins to breach your drenched entrance, enraptured by every flutter of your lashes, every change in your expression as he sinks deeper and deeper, branding every moment in his memory as you allow yourself to touch him, digging your nails into his upper arms as you come to terms with the sensation of being stuffed full. You moan, sinking into the tender kiss he offers as he finally bottoms out, tongues swirling around each other as you soak in the feeling of being so intimately connected.

But Osamu smirks when you make it known that enough is enough and he lightly bites your lower lip in playful punishment when you insistently rock your hips, hissing when you clamp down on his cock and let out whining sounds, too far gone to even verbally tell him what you want. Maybe next time he’ll be stricter about your bratty tendencies, but he supposes you’ve done well considering it’s your first time together and he relents.

A high pitched keen echoes through the room as Osamu picks up a steady rhythm, neck arching and mouth falling open as his cock drags against your walls with every snap of his hips, drowning in how deep and purposeful every stroke is, panting loudly as his heavy balls slap against your ass. He groans when your legs instinctively wrap around him as he brings a hand to fondle your aroused clit, forcing him closer, deeper, unwilling to leave any space between the two of you. And he’s on the same page as you, his torso leaning down, the new position having him hit new places inside of you that have you gasping, as he takes one of your hardened nipples in his mouth, sucking and watching in dark amusement as your eyes roll back in your head from all the stimulation.

He swears he could die happy like this, his cock enveloped in your tight wet warmth, your delectable tits in his mouth, your face contorted lewdly as pleasure wracks through the both of you. But you have a lifetime together now, endless time for him to play and ruin you any and every way he wants. So he focuses his attention solely back on you, releasing your nipple with a wet plop before leering down at you, a predatory razor sharp grin slicing across his handsome features, internally cooing at how you tighten around him as you nervously gulp.

“Your breasts are delicious, love. Can’t wait until I knock you up and your tits swell with milk. Bet it’ll taste so good. Wonder if there’ll be enough for the kids and me. Maybe we can save some for any more baking experiments we try. Would you like that? Want me to turn you into a pretty cow housewife? Maybe I’ll just keep you in the kitchen with a breast pump attached to you when I’m busy with work. Turn you into just another piece of useful kitchen equipment.”

This time he doesn’t hide his amusement at your expense when you respond by breathily chanting his name over and over again, telling him how close you are between little gasps and mewls as he continues pistoning in and out of your slick pussy, his pace increasing, rhythm beginning to rocket out of control as his own end becomes imminent.

But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t wreck you first and he continues his verbal onslaught, low drawl teasing as he tells you what a slut you are for getting off on his humiliating words, praising you for how amazing you feel and look, like you were made for him, like you were made to be used and fucked by him, only him, for the rest of your life-

Your wail cuts him off as you tumble over the edge, half screaming and sobbing as you’re forced to delirious heights and depths of pleasure you’ve never felt before, nails leaving wicked red marks in their wake as you claw at him out of pure instinct as he continues fucking in and out of you, losing any control and restraint he had as he chases his own end. Your pulsating walls milk his cock for all its worth and he groans, slamming fully into you one last time as he spills thick white spurts deep inside of you,

And then there’s only quiet intermingled with the sounds of both your panting breaths as you bask in the afterglow, humming in content as Osamu slowly lowers himself, making your husband chuckle in surprise when you tighten your legs that are still wrapped around him when he threatens to pull out and lay down by your side.

How can he deny that tired pout on your face as you silently nudge him back on top of you?

So he remains buried inside of you, letting himself be manhandled into laying on top of you and merely rolling his eyes fondly as you treat him like an oversized body pillow, your legs and now your arms wrapping around him, holding him tightly against you, uncaring of how the both of you are still covered in your combined messes. And as he watches you fall into a deep slumber, body exhausted, a blissed out smile on your face, he allows his own eyes to close shut, telling himself that he’d just clean the both of you up whenever he woke up, thankful that of all the people in the world that he could have been married off to, fate chose you.

#haikyuu smut #osamu x reader #osamu smut #haikyuu fic #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu x reader

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tales-unique · 4 years ago

Text

FAITH, LOST VI

The softness got me like 😩 I hope you enjoy it! ♥

@maddi-bug & @chelseareferenced & @actual-trash-goblin

Chapter 6

Heisenberg is gone for longer than usual. It's to be expected, given how swift and intense the explosion was, only this time you're aware of just how much you miss him when he's not there. It’s cathartic, no longer having your feelings hidden in the deepest parts of yourself. Upon reflection, you realize that you enjoy the power struggle between the two of you and that there is no shame in it. Pleasure, you had come to learn, wouldn’t compromise your dignity or pride in yourself, and wasn’t something to be demonized or resented. Weightless from this revelation, your mind drifts to the last words he spoke before leaving you; we aren’t done here . Fire blooms in your stomach, dripping lower until you’re squirming where you sit cross-legged on Heisenberg's bed. Your skin still tingles from where he held you in his rough grasp, white noise erupting all over your body. It’s clear just what the phrase implies , but at the same time you have no exact idea what to expect when he returns and that’s part of what makes this all so thrilling . Though even with all the positive feelings that come with this, you can’t help but still feel conflicted. You find yourself lost in the moment, sent adrift in a vast ocean with no lifeline.

Now, it wasn’t as though you hadn’t had sex before, because you had. It was only once, in the hayloft of the village stables with a young man named Nicolai that you were fond of. He worked in the fields and you often saw him on your way to Church, where he’d smile and wink at you. He’d happened upon you when you’d lingered near the edge of the fields one day after morning Mass, bashfully accepting when he proposed that you go somewhere quieter together. You remember that his kisses were soft, but he was a little pushy, and once he was done that was it. No real connection, no real passion, just motion until you were both done, and even then you weren’t completely sure if you were done. Then a week later he was dead, mauled to death in that very same hayloft by a Lycan, along with a girl from your congregation named Irina. You can only imagine the reason why she was there with him that day. It sat, bitter like poison, within you for some time after their deaths, knowing that this hadn’t been the special thing you had been led to believe; this divine virtue that needed to be protected until you were lawfully wed, where all would finally make sense. Then you met Lord Karl Heisenberg and everything was suddenly turned on its head. Since you had come to the Factor you had been exposed to a more sexually charged and free environment, with Heisenberg's flirtatious teasing a regular occurrence, as well as his sarcasm and moods, culminating in the spark that set all this motion when he had you pinned to the desk in his office. You were given no room to avoid it, no chance to hide behind demureness and virtue, and because of that you were able to grow . You now embraced what this freedom could give you and it was all because of his pushing. At first it didn’t sit well with you, it squirmed and fought, but the disquieting sensation dissipated easily and you were left with an insatiable hunger for all things you had been denied, scandalous or otherwise. Biting your lip, a devious little thought fills your head; you needed to thank him when he came back.

When Heisenberg does come back to you it's already well into the night, and in anticipation of his return he finds that you’re not in your room when he looks, instead, amusingly, you’re actually in his . Sound asleep, you’re curled up on his bed with the sheets clutched in your dainty fingers up to your face. He watches from the doorway the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest as you breathe and the way your long lashes kiss your cheeks. You’ve clearly been busy while he was gone, having ordered the disheveled work desk to semi-neatness so he can at least still find his things. Straightened papers, pens put in the holder, lined his tools up for easy access. It’s something he doesn’t outwardly thank you for, but has most certainly come to value. You don’t overstep, you merely aid, and it’s in these quiet moments of downtime that he realizes how much he appreciates the little things you do for him. Yes, it began with your faith and devotion to Mother Miranda and her decree for you to serve him, but he isn’t naive enough to believe that’s all there is to it. Not now, anyway. You don’t have to be caring towards him in your servitude, in your own little ways, like becoming annoyed with him when he tells you he hasn’t eaten all day or hasn't drunk enough water while working. Soft, kind-hearted things; things he isn’t used to. Trying to be as quiet as he can, Heisenberg walks over to where you lay, settling on the edge of the bed by your side. You squirm in your sleep as his weight dips the mattress but you don’t wake up, merely curling up tighter with a soft sigh. He watches your sleeping form with pinched brows, the uncomfortable intensity of yearning twisting knots within him. A hesitant hand comes to brush your cheek with his thumb, cupping it gently. Such tender affections were not something the Lord was known for, or used to receiving from others, given the magnitude of sins he had performed at the behest of his hatred for Miranda, her manipulations and betrayals, and his insatiable need to be free of the confinement he was forced into. Ulterior motives were second nature in his world, the lesson that kindness and affection were a means to an end instilled in him from an early age. Yet the compulsion, new and alarming, to give in to your motiveless warmth had wormed its way deep inside, threatening to shatter him from within. Not that he wasn’t trying to fight it, he was . Like a wild mustang refusing to yield to anyone, he twisted and pulled and snapped at the feeling, it’s tendrils repelled as much as he could, but he was slowly weakening to its constant attacks. It just wouldn’t leave him be . The realization was harsh and unforgiving that you are well on your way to becoming someone that would, in time, serve to weaken him, grinding down his walls just as the sea wears away the rocks on its shores until they resemble nothing of their former selves. The thought irks him and in a childish display of spitefulness he pulls his hand back from your face, lips curling into a snarl. His fingers burst with static, punishing him for prematurely cutting the contact, and he tries to smother the sensation by tightening his hand into a fist. It doesn’t help. He can still feel it and he hates that he misses it, like some love-sick pup! It ties his stomach in knots and sets his blood aflame. He’s hyper aware of you laying behind him, overwhelmed when you turn over and your knees press against his back. Lulled by your gentle, slumbering breaths, a calming serenade, Heisenberg’s hand slowly unfurls to rest on his leg. Though he’s still very much on edge. The dizzying free-fall into such conflicting emotions sends him nauseous, reeling from the sudden severity of it. You were just a weak, pathetic human , for fucks sake! You had no right to come barging into his life and start wrecking shit up with your pretty smiles and warm eyes! All those selfless moments he tries so desperately to poke holes in, only to find that they’re as sound as a concrete wall. It has him doubting, however minutely, the thought that everyone was out to get

him and that scared him. Quickly standing, he decides even being in the same room as you is too much. Everything is suddenly stifling, the heat cloying and making his throat burn. He doesn’t even check to see if he’s disturbed you as he exits the room, head throbbing mercilessly. There’s nowhere left in the factory that’s safe from your influence; the rooms smell of you, the hallways echo with your voice, his things marked by your touch — you’re everywhere , encasing him. And he doesn’t help that fact when he finds himself standing in the middle of your room. His keen senses are overwhelmed by the space, your space, but it isn’t so disarming this time. No, now he’s growing to like it against his better judgement. You’ll ruin him and he’s slowly coming around to the idea of letting you do it, too. It makes him sick, that thought, but it doesn’t really matter as he sits down on the couch where you sleep, fingers smoothing over the sheets you’ve neatly folded over it. There’s a twisted sense of irony in how he finds comfort in being surrounded by your things, as little as they are, when trying so desperately trying to get away from you. It doesn’t make sense, but since when did anything in his fucked up life? "Fuck," he moaned, the word drawn-out in his frustration as he laid his head back to stare up at the ceiling.

"Heisenberg?" The Lord tilts his head to look at where you stand in the doorway, your tender question alerting him to your presence. You're a picture of post-slumber beauty; hair dishevelled and fluffed up on one side from where you had been laying, eyes hazy with sleep, your top languidly slipping down one shoulder, creased from your rest. Your brow is pinched as you regard him, gently padding over to where he sits. "Sleeping Beauty finally wakes up, huh?" He chuckles, casually slinging his arm over the back of the couch. “Did you enjoy sleeping in my bed?” He teases with a smirk. “You were gone too long,” you retorted, fixing him with a tired glare, pulling your legs up as you settle down beside him, “and you don’t let me down into the lower levels with you, do you?” “I know, but this was serious,” Heisenberg sighed, his free hand coming to pinch the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut in frustration, “one of the fucking conveyor lines decided to go ka-pow !” He punctuates his statement with a mimic of the explosion, both hands involved before dropping down limply. “It was jammed. I got it under control but the fallout was, well, messy ,” he explained, taking off his glasses and putting them aside on the couch arm, along with his tossed coat and gloves. You frown at the way he drags his hands down his face, sighing deeply. He’s exhausted and there’s nothing you can really do that you haven’t already tried. “At least it’s fixed now, yes?” You ask softly as you turn to sit cross-legged, facing him. You have a look of worry creasing your features and Heisenberg is quick to hide the rising emotion with his usual swagger. “Of course it is, why do you think I’ve been gone so long?” He scoffs, shaking his head. His leg begins to jiggle under the weight of your wary gaze, knowing that he’s not fooling you in the slightest. You’ve seen enough of him, the vulnerability he has, to know an act of bravado when he’s conjuring it. It’s unsettling to know that you have a means of undermining his power over you now, that you can call his bluff with somewhat decent accuracy, and he fully expects you to embrace that power. So when you gingerly move to nestle into his side, back resting against him with your head leaning against his arm where it lays slung across the back of the couch he’s pleasantly surprised. He should know better, you’ve always been soft . Even when you’re being fierce towards him and you blaze like a thousand suns it comes from a place of tenderness and care, something he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly understand about you. “I missed you.” It’s barely a whisper and even his keen hearing is strained to pick it up. There are a million sarcastic and teasing responses that he could choose from to say, and very much would have, if not for the fact that you’re right there , disarming him with a distant, non-threatening kind of affection that has him weak. It’s easier, he assumes, for you to not look at him when you tell him your truth and he’s grateful. Those big doe eyes, filled with gentle fondness, that you have when you’re being this way might just send him into overdrive at this point and he hasn’t yet come up with a game plan on how to deal with it. “Yeah?” It’s a simple response, but there’s a slight break to his voice that betrays the tempest of emotions swirling within. The air is charged with anticipation, a prickling static that is so close to erupting, all because you’ve got him going fucking soft . “Mhm,” you hum, pressing your feet into the cushions to distract yourself. Your face is ablaze with colour, your skin burning. To be so open, so raw , in such an intimate setting as this was completely foreign to you, and it didn’t help that the one you were experiencing it with was Lord Karl Heisenberg . A silence, pregnant with the onset of a coming storm, rolls over you both and you sit, listening to the sound of each other's breathing. Your heart is hammering in your chest, the hummingbird threatening to break free. White noise suddenly erupts across your body when you feel him shift, ever so slightly,

and his arm comes across your front to pull you closer. The movement is awkward, marred by a lack of experience with this kind of action, and you too have to move in order to be comfortable. It takes a moment or two but soon you both find a happy medium.You rest your cheek against his arm, nose lovingly brushing against one of the many raised, white scars that littered his skin. If only he could be so bold in this way. His body stiffens instinctively when you continue with your ministrations, resisting the urge to pull back, to push you away. His scars were a source of contention for him, among many other things, some known to you and some not, given how he had come to have them. But you didn’t seem to mind. That he now knew for sure from the way you lavished them with gentle attention, carefully tracing the lines with your dainty fingers. You even dare to press a gentle kiss to one that curls into his wrist, feeling the way his pulse jumps wildly under your lips. “I didn’t realise you had so many,” you murmur, looking over his arm with interest. He’s never spoken outright about them, but they were hard to miss. There was nary a patch of skin, seen or unseen, that didn’t have one of some kind, or so you presumed. You had no doubts in your mind that he would keep their origins from you and you wouldn’t presume to have leave to ask, but in this moment anything could be possible. Stranger things had already happened, after all. However, when he remains quiet you frown, pressing a lingering kiss to the spot, a silent apology for having been so prying. His pulse jumps again and suddenly you're pulled in closer, tighter. You gasp at the sudden shift, feeling him lean in, nosing your hair, taking in it’s scent. “You’re pretty brave tonight, huh?” He rumbled low into your ear, making you stiffen. He wanted to touch you, only this time it was different from before. It was driven by an unfamiliar desire to give intimacy as he had been given, to gain back the power you had taken. Or so he told himself. You were his, Mother Miranda had said as much when she gave you to him, but now he wanted to be yours , too. “I—” You swallow your nerves, turning so that you could look up at him with wide eyes, “—did I go too far?” It was hard to know when you had crossed a line until you were already well beyond it, incurring his wrath, so you were understandably wary, and it irked him to know that he was the source of your constant insecurity. He really was a shitty person, like you had said before. “Not at all,” he stated, lips quirking in a smile at the way your gaze softened, a bashful smile crossing your face. This thing, whatever it was that you had, was a delicate, fragile little bloom that he was striving to keep, to protect . In his mind he knew there may not ever be another chance for something like this for someone like him and so he was determined not to lose it. Not to his siblings, not to that bitch Miranda, not to anything or anyone . This time the silence is more comfortable for the both of you, his fingers drumming a nonsensical tune on your arm as you rest against him — the last vestige of his anxiousness and nerves. You don’t hold it against him, instead allowing it to lull you into a peaceful doze. Your weight, like an anchor to his wayward ship, is pleasant and he finds that quietness can indeed be peaceful. With you at his side he’s grounded, electrified but contained. It’s surreal, but he’s addicted to the odd sensations your affection gives him. It’s nothing like the sexually charged tension of before but in some ways it’s even better . He doesn’t ever want it to end, you and him, in this still, secret moment, and that worries him to no end.

#RE #RE8 #RE 8 #Resident Evil #Resident Evil 8 #Resident Evil 8 Village #RE Imagine #RE8 Imagine #RE Imagines #RE8 Imagines #Resident Evil Imagine #Resident Evil Imagines #Karl Heisenberg #Karl Heisenberg Imagine #Karl Heisenberg Imagines #Karl Heisenberg x Reader #Heisenberg Imagine #Heisenberg Imagines #Heisenberg x Reader

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vital-information · 4 years ago

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How to Fiction Like a Grown-up

“in SKAM, everyone has a purposefully acknowledged percentage of sheer ignorance, things they understand and things they reeeeally don’t...this is how real life works. nobody is the ideologically flawless character, teaching the ideologically backwards character that they are Wrong About Everything. everyone is pulling everyone up, everyone is making an idiot of themselves, everyone is learning....with SKAM over and over again, communication is highlighted as the best way to solve any issue. it gives a range of issues, yeah, but in the end it teaches HOW to deal with new issues, not simply a list of behaviors not to emulate. it’s never ‘don’t be That Guy,’ it’s ‘everyone can be That Guy sometimes, it’s gonna happen, you’re gonna be ignorant about something, but here is how you overcome and deal with it...’” — uninterestiing

“We can only attribute the ease and pleasure with which we ramble from house to smithy, from cottage parlour to rectory garden, to the fact that George Eliot makes us share their lives, not in a spirit of condescension or of curiosity, but in a spirit of sympathy. She is no satirist. The movement of her mind was too slow and cumbersome to lend itself to comedy. But she gathers in her large grasp a great bunch of the main elements of human nature and groups them loosely together with a tolerant and wholesome understanding which, as one finds upon rereading, has not only kept her figures fresh and free, but has given them an unexpected hold upon our laughter and tears.” — Virginia Woolf, “George Eliot”

“TV’s long taught its audience to expect an outsized amount of drama where there might not be as much in reality, even if only to milk every storyline for what it’s worth. But on Ted Lasso, potential landmines like seething jealousy, secret lust and Rebecca’s scheming only fester for so long before the characters deal with it all like….well, adults.” — Caroline Framke, “For Your Reconsideration: Ted Lasso”

I told Miyazaki I love the "gratuitous motion" in his films; instead of every movement being dictated by the story, sometimes people will just sit for a moment, or they will sigh, or look in a running stream, or do something extra, not to advance the story but only to give the sense of time and place and who they are."We have a word for that in Japanese," he said. "It's called ma. Emptiness. It's there intentionally."Is that like the "pillow words" that separate phrases in Japanese poetry?"I don't think it's like the pillow word." He clapped his hands three or four times. "The time in between my clapping is ma. If you just have non-stop action with no breathing space at all, it's just busyness, But if you take a moment, then the tension building in the film can grow into a wider dimension. If you just have constant tension at 80 degrees all the time you just get numb."Which helps explain why Miyazaki's films are more absorbing and involving than the frantic cheerful action in a lot of American animation. I asked him to explain that a little more."The people who make the movies are scared of silence, so they want to paper and plaster it over," he said. "They're worried that the audience will get bored. They might go up and get some popcorn.But just because it's 80 percent intense all the time doesn't mean the kids are going to bless you with their concentration. What really matters is the underlying emotions--that you never let go of those.What my friends and I have been trying to do since the 1970's is to try and quiet things down a little bit; don't just bombard them with noise and distraction. And to follow the path of children's emotions and feelings as we make a film. If you stay true to joy and astonishment and empathy you don't have to have violence and you don't have to have action. They'll follow you. This is our principle."He has been amused, he said, to see a lot of animation in live-action movies like "Spider-Man." “In a way now, live action is becoming part of that whole soup called animation. Animation has become a word that encompasses so much, and my animation is just a little tiny dot over in the corner. It's plenty for me. — Roger Ebert, “Hayao Miyzaki Interview”

“The pilot’s opening scene foreshadowed the kind of quiet impressionism that Friday Night Lights would embrace, again and again, throughout its five excellent seasons. It also foreshadowed the approach that you might call the “friendly panopticon”: Everyone, here, is seen. And everyone, here, is capable of seeing....There are minor characters and major ones in all this, certainly—it would be narrative anarchy without that—but FNL, much more than most shows that preceded it, took for granted the dignity of each character in its universe. It rejected sitcomic snobbery in favor of a broader embrace of its wide array of characters. It turned empathy into an aesthetic.” — Megan Garber, “Friday Night Lights Democratized TV Drama”

“But the problem with readers, the idea we're given of reading is that the model of a reader is the person watching a film, or watching television. So the greatest principle is, "I should sit here and I should be entertained." And the more classical model, which has been completely taken away, is the idea of a reader as an amateur musician. An amateur musician who sits at the piano, has a piece of music, which is the work, made by somebody they don't know, who they probably couldn't comprehend entirely, and they have to use their skills to play this piece of music. The greater the skill, the greater the gift that you give the artist and that the artist gives you. That's the incredibly unfashionable idea of reading. And yet when you practice reading, and you work at a text, it can only give you what you put into it. It's an old moral, but it's completely true.” Zadie Smith, “Bookworm: On Beauty”

“It pains me to have to introduce this lot with a couple of adjectives apiece, since, again, they all deserve about 12. These beautifully drawn characters just can't be reduced or pigeonholed so glibly. Where you're expecting an exaggerated comedy of town-and-country manners, pitting pious, suspicious in-laws against the worldly, patronising [career woman], Junebug courageously demurs, time and again: we get a real home, and real people in it, and what's laugh-out-loud funny about scene after scene is what's resolutely specific and true.” — Tim Robey, “A Small, Quiet Miracle”

Doesn't she worry at the lack of explosions? [Robinson] laughs. "There's something in my temperament . . . I have a problem with explosions in the sense that many very fine books are written about things that do, in fact, explode. But if the explosion is something that's supposed to make the novel interesting as opposed to being something that it's essentially about, I think it's very much to be avoided...It seems to me that the small drama of conversation and thought and reflection, that is so much more individual, so much less clichéd than - I mean when people set out on an adventure, I think 90 times out of 100, they've read about it in a brochure — Emma Brackes, “A Life in Writing: Marilynne Robinson”

#skam #hayao miyazaki #virginia woolf #george eliot #FNL #roger ebert #marilynne robinson #junebug #ted lasso #writing #litblr #film criticism #empathy

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mediocreauthor · 3 years ago

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NANA Week, Day 4: Fireworks @7daysofnana

They celebrate their first Hanami since Nana left.

She will come. She will come, she repeats herself as she puts Nana’s kimono neatly on the bed. She prepared cow meat sukiyaki, she might be hungry, after all. She takes out strawberry glasses Nana gifted her two years ago. It seems like centuries ago, when their relationship was being put to a test.

When Nana, no, she is Hachi now.

I am Hachi since Nana named me.

When Hachi thought she was going through the hardest time of her life. But it was okay, it was all okay because Nana, even though not right beside her, was still here.

She dusts Nana’s guitar; she may want to play it. Maybe she will hand it to Nobu, while she sings with her sultry, magical voice. Just like she did when she climbed on their table, holding a cell phone. When she enchanted her. She glances at Ren, he is fast asleep on the bed. His little face looks angelic. ***

Her entire body is on fire. She is going to die! She can’t form coherent sentences to describe her pain, it is too late for an epidural, Fujiko-chan says. She wants to clog her. A hand squeezes hers, she can feel the cold metal of Nana’s ring. “You can do this Hachiko. I am right here with you, you can do this.”

She should wonder where the hell Takumi is, but when Nobu’s hand gently rakes through her hair, she can’t even remember his face. Her daughter is coming. She has waited so long for this. Her baby, the one she sacrificed so much for will be here any moment. The hand holding her loosens and she turns her hand in panic.

“Nana please don’t leave me!” She can’t recognize her own voice, it sounds ragged and hoarse. Her ears buzz. She sees her other half’s beautiful face through tears, Nana looks surprised for a second, Hachi can’t understand why, obviously she can’t do this without her.

But then she cradles her from behind and kisses her sweaty hair. “I am not going anywhere.”

*** She hears a faint knock on the door. Her chests clenches with anticipation, she missed her people.

Your people.

Swinging the door open with a bright smile, Hachi greets Yasu and Miu. They are both in kimonos as she requested. “Welcome, welcome!” her tone is barely above a whisper. “Ren is napping.” Yasu smiles, heading to the room. He really loves Ren so dearly, just like his best friend would.

“I can’t wait to be an uncle.”

She will not cry today. She will welcome Nana with a big smile.

Miu asks how she’s been, they dive into an idle chat. She is the only one who asks how Takumi is too. The rest don’t acknowledge his existence, she doesn’t blame them. She herself wants to forget it sometimes.

“You have prepared so much. We should have come earlier to help.” Miu begins setting up the table.

“Oh, that’s okay. I went a bit extra for Nana, I want everything to be perfect for her. Just like our first Hanabi.”

Miu looks at her with an emotion she knows all too well, it’s on Junko’s, Kyosuke’s, Takumi’s face every time she talks about Nana’s return. She pays them no mind, they don’t know Nana.

“I heard it rained so much that year.” She comments. Hachi giggles and turns her back to Miu, washing tomatoes that Jun gave her.

“These tomatoes are good. Where did you buy them?”

God, shut the fuck up.

She spends the rest of time going over minor details, mixes bath salts to create Nana’s favourite smell (it reminds him of Ren), she folds her bedtime clothes, tastes every dish thrice, turns on the ventilator, Nana would appreciate the breeze. Climbing up seven floors does things to your body temperature.

Nobu and Shin’s arrival wakes Ren up, her son seeks her with his little grabby hands, once again filling her heart with affection. Shin bursts into the room immediately, his face lit up with a smile. Hachi kisses his cheeks, he hugs her tightly.

“Hello mama. Why did you make my brother cry?”

“I didn’t make him cry! You guys' arrival woke him up.” Hachi pouts but gives Ren to Shin regardless.

“We are sorry for that.”

Her stomach clenches and she faces Nobu, he looks at her with a sincerity she doesn’t deserve. He coos at Ren, tickling his chin. “Hello little buddy. Sorry we woke you up.” Ren stops crying in favor of chomping on Nobu’s finger.

“He is teething.” Hachi explains. Nobu studies him lovingly. “You're all grown up now, Ren.”

***

“It’s a boy!” Fujiko-chan declares.

What? She sees her baby’s face covered in blood and something gross, bellowing. A nurse approaches, taking him away. She wants to reach but her arms feel like chunks of metal.

“No it’s a girl… I really thought he was a girl.”

Her eyes meet Nobu’s, tears matching one another. “You did it Hachi.”

Nurse gives her his son, he is heartbreakingly small, but his warmth comforts her. She looks for a sign, a resemblance of Nobu but this little creature weirdly just reminds him of Shin. Nana walks toward the door, panic envelopes her for a second, but she looks back and says “I will let others know.”

Nobu drapes his arm over her shoulder, they stare, baby stares back. His irises are light brown, filled with curiosity. Hachi gently grazes her finger over his cheek and she can swear he smiles but she is probably high on adrenaline. “Welcome, my love.” She takes in a long breath. “I wanted to name him Satsuki. You know, like- like Ren picked. I really wanted to-” A hiccup crawls over her throat. She can feel Nobu’s fingers on her chin, he looks like he’s about to say something, but kisses her instead, almost reverently.

They seperate, so much unfinished hanging between the short distance. Nobu rests his forehead against hers.

“How about Ren?”

***

They sit down to eat, she would prefer if they waited for Nana but starving her guests doesn’t scream hospitality either. Misato- Mai, damn it- has arrived, she smiles ever so politely at her.

“These are so delicious, Hachiko-san. You shouldn’t have gone into all this trouble.”

“Abuh!” Ren protests when Yasu confiscates the chopstick he almost stabbed himself in the eye with.

“Of course I should have! Nana can arrive any moment now.” Her friends look at each other, mentally communicating, eventually Shin sighs and puts his bowl down.

“Hachi,” he begins. “Nana may not come today.” She immediately understands from the guilty faces that avoid her gaze that they have rehearsed this conversation. She lets rage take over.

“We always celebrate Hanami together, Nana knows this. She will remember.”

“That was before she left Hachi. I don’t think Nana wants to see us right now.” Nobu at least sounds demure.

“We don’t know where she even is yet.” Miu adds.

We don’t know if she is alive, is left unsaid.

“She knows where we are! Isn’t it enough?” Her high voice startles Ren, he picks up the tension right away, eyes getting glossy. Yasu gives him his glasses.

“We just don’t want you to be disappointed wh- if she doesn’t show up.”

I am not a fucking child.

“How dare you give up on her?” She knows it’s unfair. She knows that Yasu spent all his life savings on a private investigator. She is aware the police precinct is sick of Mai’s calls. She knows Nobu stops by Ren’s warehouse every morning, hoping his friend would open the door.

“If you think Nana actually forgot about us and started a new life in god knows where, were you even her friends?” Her tone is filled with disdain, she hates herself.

They have the nerve to look dejected, Hachi just continues. “She is just healing. She’s been through so much. She needs a break, she will come back.” She glances at her hands, noticing they didn’t have nail polish. “She will come back.” Hachi weakly repeats.

“Of course she will.” She perks up, Yasu is confidently smiling at her. “Healing takes time. It might be too early for her, this year. But one day, we will be all sitting at this table together. Don’t worry, Nana.” “Guh!” Ren shakes his head as if he knows what Yasu is talking about, maybe he does.

Maybe it’s Ren who knows.

Shame creeps up on her, “I am sorry.” she murmurs. “I am so sorry. I just… I thought if I believed enough, it would come true.”

Small explosion noises are heard and the light of the fireworks fills the sky. Ren gets antsy on Yasu’s lap and reaches for her. She holds her son, watches how fireworks reflect on his big, astonished eyes.

She thinks of Nana’s warm smile by the river, how the small firework Hachi was holding illuminated her face, she remembers Ren (as if she ever forgets), showing the word Satsuki proudly.

***

She remembers Nana’s eyes, wandering around the room, unable to focus on anything. Her movements are jittery, her cheeks are hollow- has she lost weight since the last time she saw her? They lay quietly in the dark room.

“Hachi, do you want to go to the beach?” She is about to drift off to sleep, her voice is muffled by the pillow. It’s the middle of the night. “I can’t leave Ren alone, can we go tomorrow?”

Nana’s breath hitches. “Sure, tomorrow.” Her voice is so small. Hachi barely hears the last sentence as sleep takes over her. She should have realized.

“I want to see the sea.”

***

Ren’s little hand wipes her wet cheeks, he licks it in wonder. She quietly sobs, burying herself in his hair. She sees the untouched strawberry glasses from the corner of her eyes, they taunt her.

Next year, she tells herself.

#osaki nana #komatsu nana #ai yazawa #nana manga #nana week #Terashima Nobu #okazaki shinichi #honjo ren #yasushi takagi #miu shinoda #if this timeline dont match its because i am stupid #dont come for me

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amesstm · 4 years ago

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Like A Movie

Characters: almost all of Class 1-A. Almost.

AN: Hello! I decided to venture to BNHA/MHA because this has been on my mind for a bit as of late. And I have some ideas for more AOT in mind! :)

You never expected that Bakugo Katsuki - aka that explosive hedgehog inside a human body - would ask you out on a date. Sure, you two had been on team building exercises together and survived several villain attacks with each other’s help, but there was also the rest of Class 1-A there. Yet, as you two spent more time together, you slowly began to admire him.

So, when Bakugo timidly asked you out, you were just as nervous. “U-uh, wait you’re asking me?”

Like a light switch, his mood changed to his common anger, “Yeah, you got a problem with it?”

“No!” You said, raising your hands slightly to show you weren’t upset by it. “I’m just taken aback by it.”

“Well, get used to it. I’m taking you to the amusement park since I’ve heard you’ve never been.” His eyes turned away, a clear sign of hiding something.

Your eyes widened as you took note of the subconscious mannerism. You’d only told... Kirishima. Gosh darn it, you’ll have to smack him later. But this also meant they had talked about you, which neautralized what could’ve been possible damage. “When will this be?”

“Tomorrow.” Then, class started soon after he said that, leaving you in a dazed state.

Since you all lived in the dorms, word spread fast. You were carrying out your Friday night ritual of self-care, when you heard a knock on the door. A face mask on your face, you had to withhold a sigh as you opened the door. Immediately, all the girls started swarming you with questions; they ranged anywhere from which amusement park; what you’d wear; if you wanted to kiss him on the first date. Overwhelmed, you became a blushing, flustered mess.

“Okay, okay. I think we’ve all overwhelmed Y/N enough,” Jirou muttered. You wanted to kiss her in that moment, but then remembered the last question. Once again, your face reddened.

“You’re right; we’re sorry, Y/N. But we’d love to help you get ready for your date!” Momo added, ever the voice of reason.

Mina jumped with a fist in the air, “Yeah! We want you to look as cute as possible to make that Bakugo blush!”

Through the face mask, you sputtered out. “Ah, thank you all. But that won’t be necessary since I already chose something to wear.”

Ochako’s face lit up, “Can you show us?”

You smiled with a nod. Opening your closet, you pulled out a short, white dress. It would look especially nice since your skin was beginning to tan and it’d compliment your hair.

After several nods and compliments, you felt much more confident for your date with Bakugo. Then, the morning came. Your skin was glowing, your hair was shining, and everything was amazing. Thank goodness. You slipped on your dress, some comfortable shoes, and gathered some money just in case.

To say you were nervous around Bakugo was an understatement. Some elderly woman, around Ochako’s height, complimented you two as being cute together. All you could do was stutter out some alien language. Beside you, Bakugo was blushing. Was it the sun or were you just hot from embarrassment? Did Bakugo even like your dress? Well, he blushed so that was a sure sign.

As you two entered the amusement park, there were shops for candy and food everywhere. Some rollercoasters and rides could be seen in the distance, with the water park in a separate space. “What do you want to do first, Bakugo?”

He smiled, “I want to get on some rides first. Have you ever ridden a rollercoaster?”

When you gave a slight shake of the head, Bakugo basically picked you up and ran towards a rollercoaster. It was called the Diamondback and it was the tallest one there. As you looked at where the top practically reached the sky, you gulped. Bakugo was excitedly looking at you, but you could only pray for your safety.

“Hey, you don’t need to be scared,” Bakugo reassuringly said. His usually fiery eyes were demure, soft, and concerned. “You’re one of the best students at UA; you’ll be able to make it out safe if anything happens.”

You gave a soft smile, happy to see a softer side to his rough edge. “Thank you, Bakugo.”

A blush rose to his face and then he laughed it off, “Plus you’ll be with me. So nothing bad will happen at all.”

Before you knew it, you were locked into the ride. The ride started slowly, and then took a fast, wild turn. You screamed and yelped, “Bakugo, hold my hand.”

His sweaty, caramel-smelling palm took yours instantly. He smiled as you screamed. When you reached the top, muttering “no, no, no” under your breath, he started laughing. Once the ride was over, Bakugo had to nudge you so you both could exit. Your legs were jittery and you were still shaking from the thrill.

“As much as I loved it, we don’t have to do more. I don’t know if you’ll be able to take it,” Bakugo challenged. You didn’t want to take the bait, since you were already wobbling as you walked and clutching your stomach.

But you took the bait. “No! We’re getting on the next one!”

“If you need to hold my hand again, I won’t mind,” he said, standing next to you as you held onto him to stay standing.

You blushed and whispered, “When did you get so flirty?”

After a few hours of rollercoaster riding, you should’ve stopped. Your body was no longer having fun but mentally, the excitement of the drop grew on you. No longer were you screaming in fear, but from enjoyment. No doubt, you still had that shaky feeling after getting off, but it was now seen in a different light.

You laughed, having conquered all the rides available. Bakugo smiled, his hand still in yours, just watching you beam. It was a few hours before they would have to return to the dorms - unless they wanted Mr. Aizawa to murder them - so they started walking back towards the entrance.

“Bakugo, I want to thank you for this,” you grinned ear to ear.

“Katsuki. You can call me, Katsuki. And of course, it’s about time.”

An initial look of surprise turned into a small smile, “Okay Katsuki, thank you again.”

The two of you were towards the entrance now when you eyed a cute stuffed (favorite animal). In fact, you slowed down to look at it. Katsuki, who had a quick pace, noticed. His eyes followed yours to where the stuffed animal was, hanging above a basketball game. “Do you want it?”

“O-oh, it’s fine. We need to get goi-“

“I’m getting it for you,” he declared and stepped towards the little game. The person in charge of the game provided Bakugo with three tries to get at least two through the hoops. If he could get three in, he could get the big stuffed toy you were eyeing.

With a confident “tch,” Katsuki threw the balls with ease. Each ball landed in perfect sequence one after the other. An impressed look reached the host’s face and he asked Katsuki which prize he wanted. The best student at UA pointed to the animal you wanted like he was simply going down the aisle of a grocery store. Aka, he acted like this happened easily and all the time.

A stranger screamed, “Whoa! So manly!”

Katsuki smirked from that comment. He lifted the big stuffed animal and offered it to you with pride. Eagerly, you took it in your arms and squeezed it with joy. You didn’t notice but while your face was buried in the softness of the toy, he smiled at how lucky he was.

The two were waiting at the train station, sitting side by side. “Thank you again for this, Katsuki. I loved it!”

Your happy face made him blush. He averted his eyes, “Tch, don’t mention it.”

“I mean it. It was like a movie,” you smiled, looking at his flustered form.

“Really?” He sounded unsure, like you’d make a fool out of him at any moment. But when you nodded, a small smile graced his face. “So do you mind if we end our date like one, too?”

Now you were red, “I-I mean, if you want to.”

He didn’t say anything, but responded by leaning in. His eyes were beginning to close and so were yours. You met each other’s lips and it was like his quirk was working on its own. It was explosive. Once you retracted, you heard a small gasp.

Looking around, you both saw the rest of your class in poorly dressed costumes. It was Mina who did it, as made evident by her wide eyes and hand over mouth. You facepalmed, embarrassed by being watched. Next to you, crackles of tiny explosions made themselves known.

#bakugou imagine #katsuki bakugo imagine #mha bakugou #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou katsuki #my hero academy fanfiction #my hero academia #bnha bakugou #bnha imagines

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daughterofzagreus · 4 years ago

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Assigning Zodiac Signs to Greek Gods

Zeus - Sagittarius

*sigh*, my sign. During Sag season too, LMAO.

Sag is ruled by Jupiter, which is Zeus's Roman counterpart. And it's fitting. It's the planet of expansion and good luck which relates to Zeus. He was the only one of his siblings who wasn't swallowed by his father, which makes him pretty lucky to me. Zeus is a cheating fuckboy, with a love for chasing tail that is the root cause for about 90% of all the issues and conflicts in ancient Greek mythology...that's a pretty typical Sag male move. It's no secret that Sags can be hoes (I say this with love🤗). According to the myths, Zeus was actually a pretty fun, jovial guy who loved a good party, singing, dancing and some drink (the word "jovial" comes from his Roman name Jove/Jupiter). He's impulsive and has a bad temper when angered, though. All fairly Sag tendencies.

Poseidon - Pisces

Pisces is ruled by Neptune, the Roman counterpart to Poseidon. It makes sense that the god of the Sea would be a water sign. Uncle Sy was an emotional MESS in Greek mythology, he's been described as emotionally unstable, temperamental and moody. I'm sorry Pisces but (as someone with a Pisces mother) I can definitely see it. He was quite a hoe too, so I don't know if it's just a mutable sign thing (In which case, welcome to the Hoe club, Pisces👏🏾). His moods and emotions change like the tides (like Pisces), so he's either in a very good mood or a very bad one. Apparently he was quite the sweetheart when in a good mood, as well. Although, man gets a lot of good PR from the Percy Jackson series😒.

Hades - Scorpio

Obvious Scorpio is obvious💀. Scorpio is ruled by Pluto, which is the planet of death and rebirth. Makes sense, as Hades rules over the underworld. Pluto is also Hades's Roman counterpart. Hades isn't technically an Olympian because he doesn't stay in Olympus, his kingdom is in the underworld. I think that's significant because Scorpios like to keep to themselves. The stereotype of Scorpio is that they're morbid, secretive and mysterious. Into the macabre. Kind of like an intellectual brooding, which all fits for Hades. He's not an unfair guy, though. Likely, more on the misunderstood side. I think the fact that only a few people (like his wife Persephone) understand him shows that he doesn't open up or get vulnerable easily or with just anyone. A very Scorpio trait.

Hestia - Cancer

We don't know much about Hestia's personality. She's demure, simple and rules over the hearth and home. Cancers tend to be family oriented. If not, they do have a significant relationship with their home (be that their actual house, or their hometown. Wherever "home" and the family is). The hearth is the centre of the household. It keeps the home warm and provides a place for the whole family to gather around to commune or just feel safe. So, I think that's fitting.

Hera - Virgo

Oh gosh, I can't help comparing her and Zeus's relationship to Jay-Z and Beyonce 😔. Bless her heart, that Sag man has her looking a fool. A complete fool 🤡. Anywho, Hera is beautiful and a perfectionist. Very regal, and strives to maintain perfection. Besides being the queen, Hera is also the goddess of motherhood, monogamy, family marriage, home and protector of all married, so I imagine that she's quite conservative and that (despite the fact that her family is a hot, hot mess) she likes to present the image of the perfect family, kind of like a first lady. She just brings to mind the type of wealthy lady-of-the-manor Virgo woman who runs a tight ship (i.e.: the house/the estate).

Demeter - Cancer

I was debating on whether or not to make sis a Pisces. But, Cancer is linked to the mother and maternal instincts, which I think is fitting. Cancer is a very maternal sign (at least, there's a lot of significance with Cancer and its relationship to motherhood). The most famous myth involving Demeter is about her daughter Persephone being kidnapped by Hades, and how that affected her emotionally. Demeter is described as being very maternal, protective and kind and embodying a very specific type of love, the "mother's love". One the flip side though, she's also quite OVER-protective. She really does embody some of the more negative traits of Cancer as well such as smothering and being a bit over-bearing with her love. She also strikes me as the type to be emotionally manipulative and play the melodramatic "after all I've done for you, how could you be so cruel to your own mother😭" and "so what are you going to say at my funeral now that you've killed me😔" victim card that overbearing mothers like to use so much. But she doesn't play when it comes to her babies and loved ones.

Ares - Aries

Obvious Aries is obvious😠. Do I even need to say anything? Aries is ruled by Mars, which is Ares's Roman counter part. The planet Mars symbolizes raw masculine energy (you get words like "martial arts" from that), and so does Ares. Both Aries the sign and Ares the god are loud, quite aggressive, and they like conflict (they find it quite funny, and they can move on from it pretty quick, it doesn't really distress them). There's also the passion and explosive temper. Ares is also brave, strong and straight forward. He's also incredibly protective of those he loves. According to Greek mythology, the first murder was committed by Ares when he killed a man who raped (or tried to rape) his daughter, so don't fuck with an Aries's loved ones.

Athena - Capricorn

Capricorn is ruled by Saturn. In astrology, the moon (which rules Cancer - Capricorn's opposite compliment) is The Mother. It's soft, maternal and nurturing. Saturn is The Father. It's the planet of obstacles and boundaries and is a very harsh, stern planet. Success will come, but only after learning some very hard lessons. If the moon is like a emotional parent that coddles and nurtures their child (Cancer), then Saturn is that strict, tough parent that teaches their child (Capricorn) from day dot that the world is going to be cruel and unfair, and so they want to break you to make you stronger and prepare you for the world. That's what I get from Athena. Athena was born fully grown and fully clothed (in battle gear, at that). She literally came into the world with her guard up. She's the goddess of wisdom and battle strategy (among other things), so she's very pragmatic and somewhat cold (not cruel, but just realistic). She's Zeus's favourite child, which links to her ruling planet being The Father. She's kind of like the embodiment of the woman who works in a male dominated field (which, she does) so she has to work harder, adopt more masculine traits and develop a harder exterior in order to survive and thrive. She's not the most emotional or vulnerable person either, and it's noteworthy that she never had a childhood (again, she was born fully grown), so she's never had any of the innocence and naivete.

Artemis - Cancer

With the twins (Artemis and Apollo), Apollo is the sun while Artemis is the moon. Since Cancer is ruled by the moon, it makes sense that Artemis would be a Cancerian. This is the third time I'm bringing up Cancer being maternal, but here we are. Artemis has a close relationship with her mother (she killed this one woman's 7 daughters, because said woman was talking smack about her mother), but Artemis also acts as a foster mother for a lot of different people. She's nurturing, compassionate and protective. Artemis is the protector of young women, and women in childbirth (right after she was born, she helped her mother deliver her twin brother, Apollo). She has a group of huntresses (which any girl is allowed to join, so long as they forgo marriage) and she basically becomes like an adoptive mother towards them (she also, in general, likes to take in strays. She’s goddess of moon and hunting so she spends more time in the wild and at night, whereas Apollo spends more time in civilization in the daytime).

Apollo - Leo

Obvious leo is obvious 🦁. Leo's ruling planet is the sun, and is symbolized by a lion with a ~fabulous~ golden main. Apollo is the sun god (among other things). He drives the sun chariot every day and is always described as having long blond (or ✨golden✨) locks, a golden tan, and is just ridiculously bright and golden overall. Hence his other name being "Phoebos Apollo" (Phoebus meaning “bright”). Leo rules the 5th house, which is basically the house of having fun and being yourself, which matches Apollo. He's one of the more active and fun personalities. He's an over achiever (God of music, poetry, prophecy, archery, young men) and is considered to be the most beautiful male god on Olympus. Like most Leos, humility is not his greatest strength, to say the least. He's dramatic, loves attention and likes to stand out and be the sun (around which everything revolves), like a leo, too.

Hephaestus - Taurus

I really don't know why, and I'm exhausted from writing so much for everyone else. I really don't know which sign to put him in, but Taurus seems to match him. Mainly because he's patient and calm. He's a kind(er) soul who just minds his business and does his work. I know Taurus gets a bad rap for being "lazy", but Taurus actually are quite hard workers. They just like to work on their own terms, and usually the more "slow and steady" type (but still hard work with results). Tauruses also love beautiful things, and Hephaestus is an amazing craftsman who's created the most beautiful jewelry that's ever been made. Taurus is also a very possessive sign that is easily prone to jealousy when it comes to their romantic partner. This is exactly how Hephaestus is when it comes to his wife, Aphrodite (who frequently cheats, since she never wanted to marry him in the first place). The fact that Haphaestus STILL loves her and tries his best to prove himself to her an impress her by making all that jewelery for her (even though it's clear that she just doesn't love him, and the relationship won't ever be what he wants) is something a Taurus would do, as they are solid, committed people. Once they've decided they want to make a relationship work, they're fully committed to it. He does have a temper, but it's generally a long fuse, and he seems to function by the law of "don't start none, won't be none". Very Taurus. They mind their business and they don't start mess...but they will end it. The Taurus fuse is very long, but once it goes off...

Aphrodite - Libra

Obvious Libra is obvious😘. Libra is ruled by Venus, the Roman counterpart of Aphrodite. As the goddess of love and beauty, I don't think it's all that surprising to have Aphrodite be a Libras. Libras could flirt for their nation. They're also a bit vain, like Aphrodite, and they can be people pleasers. But, it's well intentioned. Libras are the scale because they like balance and harmony, and they generally don't care for discord or unpleasantries. Aphrodite is the mother of the goddess Harmonia (goddess of harmony) as well. The vanity also comes from their artistic love of beauty, as libra a generally a very creative sign. If the libra themselves isn't creative, they at least appreciate creativity and art.

Hermes - Gemini

Obvious Gemini is obvious. Gemini is ruled by Mercury, which is the Roman counterpart to Hermes. Gemini are multifaceted which makes sense for Hermes as he does a lot of different things. Kind of like a jack of all trades but master of none kind of deal. Hermes is one of the smartest gods in a witty, inventive and humorous way. He was Zeus's second favourite child and his favourite son, and has a more trickster vibe to him. A bit of a scam artist. Hermes is also the god of travelers and thieves. Man just has a way of charming people into liking him, which is a very Gemini trait. As the messenger for the gods, Hermes is also the god of communication (probably a bit of a gossip)...and lord knows Gemini's can talk your ear off. Hermes has a pair of sandles with wings to help with his messenger duties, so he's very fast and is all over the place, since he was so much to do and is always on the go (Gemini rules the 3rd house which is the house of, among other things, short distance travel).

Dionysus - Aquarius

The laid back stoner of the group. And a cult leader. He not only invented wine, but was also the god of substance use, ecstasy and madness. I find it hard to describe Dionysus just like I find it hard to describe Aquarius. I know that traits, but they're just too complex to be able to describe in a single sentence. Like Aquarius, Dionysus and his cult originally was a place where marginalized people could feel free. Sticking it to the man and whatnot, which goes with the activism and revolution that comes with Aquarius, along with the idea of paradise.

#astro observations #astrology #percy jackson #greek mythology #percy jackson and the olympians #sagittarius #pisces #scorpio #cancer #virgo #aquarius #libra #gemini #greek gods

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scapegrace74-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Dopamine

A/N We’re going back in Metric Universe time to when Claire and Jamie were only flatmates with the unrequited hots for one another! Set around the same time as Halo, so early October 2017.

With special thanks to @gotham-ruaidh for the prompt!

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page.

Friday, October 13, 2017

Spittalfields, London, England

“Argh!”

Jamie heard Claire’s frustrated cry through his wireless headphones, even over the thrum of MotoGP. He faced away from where she sat at her desk, ostensibly studying for a biochemistry mid-term, but it was hard to miss the tickertape explosion that skittered across the hardwood beneath his feet.

When he turned, Claire was leaning far back, staring up at the ceiling with hands tangling through her unbound curls. A stack of cue cards, each containing a neatly drawn organic compound on one side and its name on the reverse, now lay strewn across the floor in an arc of momentary outrage.

“Somethin’ the matter, Claire?” he ventured tentatively after pausing his game. He generally tried to ignore his flatmate while she was studying, leaving her to mutter arcane medical terminology under her breath and brew endless cups of tea in peace. This latest event seemed outside the norm, however.

“Nothing an extra twelve hours in the day wouldn’t fix,” she replied tartly, looking his way. The usual amber warmth of her gaze was dim and lined with strain. “I apologize for disturbing you with my outburst,” she added.

He bent down and started to collect the dozen or so cards that had slid as far as his perch on the sofa.

“Dinna fash. I was only killin’ time until my shift. I gather yer studies arenna goin’ well, then?”

“I can’t seem to wrestle my brain into focusing. Every nucleic acid looks exactly the same, and don’t even get me started with amino acid chains, with their bloody polypeptides and... Jesus, I’m sorry, Jamie. You aren’t interested in hearing about my biochem headaches.”

He approached the window, collecting cue cards from the floor as he walked.

“Nah, tis interesting. I barely recall Sixth Year Chemistry, save fer the fact that my lab partner was a budding arsonist. I canna imagine all the compounds and such ye’re expected tae ken. The exam’s Monday, aye? Why don’t ye take a wee break, tae recharge yer mind?”

Even as he said it, he knew it was a lost cause. Claire’s will was indominable, and conceding defeat, if only by way of a temporary reprieve, was out of the question. It was the warrior’s spirit he’d recognized in her from the start, far too cherished to wish away.

“What’s this do, then?” he asked, holding up a card where she could see the molecular structure.

“That’s dopamine.”

“Aye, I ken that fine. It says it right here on yer wee note. I asked what it does,” he goaded.

Claire huffed and rolled her eyes, but he knew she couldn’t resist the urge to put him in his place.

“It’s a neuro-transmitter associated with certain executive functions like motor control, reward motivation, lactation and sexual arousal. Often referred to as the love chemical,” she recited drily, eyebrow lifted in provocation.

“Ah,” he replied, shuffling the cards in his hands to avoid further eye contact. “And this one?” he asked, leaning back against the surface of the desk.

They carried on in this way for another fifteen minutes until it was time for him to leave for the fire station. As he donned his boots and jacket he could hear Claire humming along to a phantom tune while she drew on the back of a fresh cue card, a spare pen stuck into the crow’s nest of her newly upswept hair.

“Have a good night, Jamie!” she called out as he opened the door.

“And you,” he replied, waiting until he was safely in the hallway to quietly add, “mo nighean donn.”

***

Claire woke late the next morning, grateful for twenty-four hours without work or classes to really knuckle down and finish studying. After her brief tantrum the day before, she managed to complete a full preliminary review before finally succumbing to sleep. Even after Jamie left for work, she found herself reciting the characteristics of each compound aloud, finding the detail made the names and corresponding structures easier to remember.

You see, Jamie, carbon, hydrogen and oxygen form the core bonds of every carbohydrate, from simple sucrose all the way up to complex polysaccharides...

The door to her flatmate’s bedroom was shut tight, and she knew from experience that he’d sleep until noon after working a graveyard shift. Making herself some toast and fruit, she set the coffee on to brew, knowing Jamie would want it later.

Rather than sit at their tiny table, Claire stood beside the wall-to-wall windows while she ate, and watched the improvisational theatre of the street life below. She enjoyed these quiet mornings, watching the city come to life, in solitude but not solitary.

Once she was fully awake and fortified, she settled into her chair and prepared to do battle with her biochemistry notes. Next to her stack of textbooks, a small piece of paper with Jamie’s distinctive cursive caught her eye.

Spotify Playlist, Dopamine by JAMMF

Intrigued, she opened the app on her phone and typed in the search bar. As she read down the list of songs, she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry, so she ended up splitting the difference with a watery giggle. The ridiculous, precious man had made her a mixtape, and its theme wasn’t subtle. She plugged in her headphones and began to study.

Several hours later, the door to Jamie’s room cracked open and he emerged blinking like a bemused russet owl. He shuffled towards the kitchen, where she knew he’d drink a mug of black coffee in long, bracing draughts before truly waking up for the day. Her eyes sheered away from watching his progress as he lifted the torn hem of his favourite Mogwai concert t-shirt and absently scratched the line of hair that bisected his taut belly.

By the time he returned, she was engrossed in a chapter about protein sequencing. A fresh cup of tea was deposited near her left elbow.

“Thank you,” she smiled up at him.

“Ye’re welcome. How is yer studying comin’ along?”

“Really well, actually. This playlist is amazing! It must have taken you forever to pull together. Was it a slow night, then?”

“Aye, more or less,” he demurred.

“Well, it worked a charm. I may actually survive this mid-term. It was incredibly thoughtful of you, Jamie.” Bashful under praise, he raised his free hand to rub through his sleep-mussed curls, doing nothing to diminish their resemblance to a rooster’s comb.

“Weel, I’ll let ye get tae it, then,” he muttered, turning back towards his bedroom.

“Wait!” Claire startled. “I... uhhh... I could use a little break, actually. Did you want to watch the Australia Fiji match for a bit?”

“Aye. Aye, that would be excellent.”

***

Jamie’s Playlist for Claire

And for those without Spotify, here are the songs:

The Scientist - Coldplay

Chemistry - U.N.K.L.E.

Neutron Dance - The Pointer Sisters

The Light Behind Your Eyes - My Chemical Romance

Weird Science - OINGO BOINGO

Let Forever Be - The Chemical Brothers

She Blinded Me With Science - Thomas Dolby

Better Living Through Chemistry - Queens of the Stone Age

D.N.A. - The Kills

Radioactive - Imagine Dragons

Natural Science - Rush

Sounds of Science - Beastie Boys

Novocaine - Beck

Synthetica - Metric

#my writing #outlander

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ffangirlingsince2001 · 4 years ago

Text

The Witcher and the Princess: Scorched

*not my gif*

Geralt x Reader

Geralt of Rivia is not a babysitter, he is not a bodyguard, and he has no interest in transporting princesses across the continent. Until gold is offered and for the next 90 days he’s saddled with a chirpy, bubbly, princess, who is betrothed to the prince of Narok and has a desire to see everything before she’s trapped behind another set of walls.

Warnings: SMUT, angst, derogatory talk, rough sex

Geralt hoped that she would forget. He hoped it was simply a moment of sadness that had led her to his bedside and that the matter would be dropped the next morning. He hoped that as they neared the land where she would be wed, she would forget about him and start thinking about her husband.

It’s not that he didn’t want to do all the things he was sure she had been thinking about the night that she straddled him. He wanted nothing more than to fuck her into the next week, the constant tightness in his pants was proof of that, but the thought of her husband and his duty to the king who was paying him kept him hoping it was all a moment of weakness on her part.

He prayed that it would be so, but as they rode into the first town in two weeks his stomach still turned within him, and his legs clung a little tighter to Roach. They reached the inn and without a word she hopped from the horse and glided into the inn.

Almost nervously, he followed.

The room had two beds, a bathtub, windows. Nothing out of the ordinary. Even Y/N remained demure and cheerful, humming to herself as she flipped over pillows and aired out blankets, as she did in every room they had stayed in previously. When she smiled at him there was no hint of what had happened before and when she brushed by him she did not linger.

When she reached the door she pushed it closed with a soft click and pressed her forehead against the smooth wood. The cheer rushed out of the room in a great wave, leaving the room heavy with something he could not detect.

“How much longer?” she whispered.

“What?” he asked, not sure he had understood her through the layers of melancholy.

“How much longer until we reach Narok?”

“Thirty days.”

“I can tell, I feel old, my limbs are seizing up and knuckles click when I move them,” she laughed sadly and then turned to face him. She looked tired and much older than he had seen her throughout their journey. It was like her back was laden with a burden, causing her to stoop low in demeanor. She stepped closer, hand outstretched. “Listen, can you hear it?” She pressed her hand to his skin, tucking hair behind his ear with aching slowness. Silently, he shook his head. “Strange, it must be my imagination.”

“Are you alright, Y/N?”

“Did you know I’ve never been outside of my home until this trip? They wanted to make it quick and easy, but I begged them, I pleaded, I threatened to leap from the highest tower if they didn’t let me make the trip. It wasn’t until you showed your face in our little kingdom that they finally relented.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they knew you’d do whatever it takes.” Her eyes were sad as she whispered her response but before tears could well up in her eyes, she climbed onto his lap, hands sliding to where his stitches had once sat. “And you did.”

“Y/N-,” he choked, pushing her from his lap. She jumped away as if he had shocked her and glared.

“Why? Why did you do it? I know you can barely stand me, it would have been easier to just let it get me.”

“I like you far more than you’re giving me credit for.”

“I’d never be able to tell. You barely look at me and when you do it’s a glare. At first I thought it was because you wanted to fuck me, and then when I offered myself to you, you turned me away. Even now you can’t bare to have me touch you, am I really that repulsive?” she spat, tapping her foot in annoyance, trying to hold in the anger that was racing through her mind. When he didn’t response, she huffed in response and whirled around, marching towards the door.

He should have let her go, it would have been easier for the both of them, but instincts made him reach out for her and push her against the door she had been trying to escape from.

“Do you want to know why I look at you that way, why I turned you down, why I won’t let you touch me?”

“Obviously,” she snarled and he leaned in closer, breath rustling her hair.

“I look at you that way because every time I see you I want to throw you into my bed and pound you until the only word you know is ‘please’ and then I am reminded that you already belong to someone else. And when you touch me it’s utter agony, because it feel so wonderful but I can’t.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Aren’t you listening, I cannot, there is a marriage at the end of this journey and it is not ours.”

“I can assure he does not mind.”

“Then you really do know nothing of men.” She scoffed and pushed him away, but he caught her wrists and pulled her closer. She struggled against him but as his hands left her wrists and rested against her hips she froze, chest heaving against him. “Tell me Princess, why does it matter so much that I take you.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I simply desire it? Can you not find it within yourself to imagine me dreaming about my legs wrapped around your waist while your hands pin my wrists against the pillow? Do you not even consider the idea that I simply yearn for you to growl in my ear while you force yourself inside of me? Can you not bear to imagine that I wish the moan your name loud enough for all to hear? Is it-.” A hand resting on her lips cut her off. Her eyes met his and he found her pupils were just as wide as his, the delicious innocence he had grown so used to covered with lust.

“That’s enough,” he growled lowly. He could feel her grin beneath his hand and her hand drift to his thigh, slender fingers brushing delicately against the fabric of his pants. “You don’t know how this will end.”

“If it is half of what I dare to imagine, I am sure I will not be disappointed.” He growled and backed her against the wall before hoisting her legs around his waist and attaching his lips to hers. Her arms snaked around his neck, moaning against him

“I won’t be gentle,” he whispered against her throat.

“I should hope not.” He bit her throat and she yelped, nails digging into his back. He pulled away but a hand pushed him back, tangling its fingers in his hair. “I’m not fragile, Witcher.”

He carried her towards the bed and tossed her onto the thin mattress. The frame creaked beneath her. She stared at him from where she lay, propped up on her forearms.

“Undress,” he ordered and she smirked before sitting on her knees and lazily undoing the strings of her corset. It silently fell to the bed and with taunting fingers she slid her dress up her thighs, and then her stomach and over her head, leaving her completely bare.

His mouth practically watered at the sight. He had been right of course, that she was undeniably beautiful beneath the fabric he had often imagined tearing from her body. Even with the scars she had gained from her fight with the monster she was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Other girls had annoyed him with their shyness, but she did not seem any less ferocious than before. She thrust her chest forward, eyes daring him to take control.

A dare that he did not turn down.

He grabbed her leg and pulled her towards the edge of the bed, kneeling between her legs. She smelled sweet even here. The glistening mess between her legs beckoned him forward. He glanced up and found her watching him intently, lips parted with anticipation. He tipped his head forward and ran his tongue along her thigh, smiling to himself as she shuddered against him. When he reached the apex of his thighs she was already panting, pleading with him to get on with it. He dipped his tongue between her soft folds and she gasped, pulling away in surprise but he caught her thighs with his arms. He sucked against the sensitive bud, tongue teasing the flesh that was growing slicker with each passing moment.

She was trying not to moan, trying not to give into the foreign pleasure that was burning a hole in her stomach. He pulled his mouth away and she whined, only to squeak when he shoved two fingers inside of her. She tightened around them, pushing her hips closer, fighting the unmoving digits for more friction.

“That’s right Princess, fuck yourself against my fingers like the desperate little thing you are.” Her hips bucked against his hand and she moaned in pleasure as he added a third finger. He rubbed his thumb against her folds, watching with pleasure as she fought against his hand with hungry desperation. She was shaking now, walls clenching around his fingers as she neared the end. He coaxed her along, fingers curling within her and pulling her through the explosion of pleasure that had snapped within her.

She was still panting when he yanked her off the bed and placed her knees on the floor, taking a seat at the edge of the mattress. She tried to stand to join him, but he pressed her down with heavy hand. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to where her dress rested.

“Geralt,” she whispered and he nodded, guiding her hands to the waistband of his pants. With gentle fingers she freed him from the fabric. He could have come undone there, twitching in her hands as she uttered a small gasp at the sight of him. Eyes full of appreciation and lips full of hunger she leaned forward, taking him in her mouth.

She gagged when he brushed the back of her throat, pushing away but the hand that had wrapped itself in her hair pushed her closer. Her nails were digging into his thighs, drops of blood running down his leg and she struggled to take him and to take a breath. He could feel himself growing closer, and while he longed to finish with her staring at him with frantic eyes he wanted much more to finish inside her.

He pulled himself from her lips and she gasped for air. He pulled her into his lap, his cock pressed between their stomachs.

“I could have finished that for you,” she teased between heavy breaths. He shook his head, kissing her neck as he held her close.

“Oh no, the first time you make me cum its going to be with that sweet little cunt of yours. If I remember correctly you seemed to think very highly of it.” She blushed, recalling their late night discussion on whores. “But how I take you is an entirely different story,” he whispered, nipping at her breasts with harsh teeth. “On your knees, face pressed into a pillow as you try to muffle your sobs? Or perhaps straddling my lap, breasts bouncing freely for all to see?” She squirmed against him and he flipped the two over so he was hovering over her. “No, I think I will take you the first way I imagined you, on your back.”

And with that he shoved her legs open and pushed himself inside her. She was unable to take all of him in the first thrust, crying out, her nails clawing trails down his back as she struggled to take him.

“Fuck Geralt,” she screeched as he withdrew, preparing to enter her once more.

“You weren’t kidding princess, much tighter than a common whore,” he managed to gasp as she tightened around him again, more than half of his length inside of her. Her laugh turned into moans as he pushed himself closer to her center. She arched her back, trying to create space within her hips for the foreign pressure. The pressure was building inside him once again, aching to release within her, but he refused to let it be over so quickly. He pulled all the way out once more, providing her throbbing cunt a moment of relief, before wrapping her legs around his waist and plunging in until he was entirely sheathed within her.

He didn’t move for a moment, wanting to give her time to adjust but with an animalistic growl she thrust her hips forward, begging him to move inside her. He began to move ever so slowly, but she wasn’t having it. Latching onto her shoulders she began to move faster, whimpering and moaning with every movement. He pushed her against the bed and took hold of her thighs, slamming into her. She screamed his name, mixing it with every expletive in the book. She shook beneath him, hands scrambling to find something to hold onto. He yanked her closer, lowering his head to suck on the soft flesh of her chest. Purple spots broke against her skin as he littered rough kisses across her skin, never halting the rhythmic thrusting.

“I’m close,” she gasped and he nodded in agreement, hands roaming her thighs until they settled on her waist, tight fingers leaving bruises of their own.

“That’s right Princess, let go,” he praised quickening his pace. She spasmed around him, drawing him to his own ending. He pulled her into his arms as they rode out the end of their high, and then collapsed in a pile of panting limbs. He slid out of her and pulled the blanket over their naked bodies. He turned to ask her if she was alright but found she was already passed out in his arms, panting softly even in her sleep.

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