#union grove

[20th-century-railroading]

CNWs Finest

CNW 8607 and 8575 lead a EB Coal load thru Union Grove IL on the Geneva Sub towards Proviso. July 12 1994. Photo by Randy Williams

[xtruss]

Why Robert Oppenheimer's Atomic Bomb Still Haunts Us

— By Richard Rhodes | Published May 15, 2013

Oppenheimer spearheaded the creation of the atom bomb. René Burri/Magnum

Robert Oppenheimer oversaw the design and construction of the first atomic bombs. The American theoretical physicist wasn't the only one involved—more than 130,000 people contributed their skills to the World War II Manhattan Project, from construction workers to explosives experts to Soviet spies—but his name survives uniquely in popular memory as the names of the other participants fade. British philosopher Ray Monk's lengthy new biography of the man is only the most recent of several to appear, and Oppenheimer wins significant assessment in every history of the Manhattan Project, including my own. Why this one man should have come to stand for the whole huge business, then, is the essential question any biographer must answer.

It's not as if the bomb program were bereft of men of distinction. Gen. Leslie Groves built the Pentagon and thousands of other U.S. military installations before leading the entire Manhattan Project to success in record time. Hans Bethe discovered the sequence of thermonuclear reactions that fire the stars. Leo Szilard and Enrico Fermi invented the nuclear reactor. John von Neumann conceived the stored-program digital computer. Edward Teller and Stanislaw Ulam co-invented the hydrogen bomb. Luis Alvarez devised a whole new technology for detonating explosives to make the Fat Man bomb work, and later, with his son, Walter, proved that an Earth-impacting asteroid killed off the dinosaurs. The list goes on. What was so special about Oppenheimer?

He was brilliant, rich, handsome, charismatic. Women adored him. As a young professor at Berkeley and Caltech in the 1930s, he broke the European monopoly on theoretical physics, contributing significantly to making America a physics powerhouse that continues to win a freight of Nobel Prizes. Despite never having directed any organization before, he led the Los Alamos bomb laboratory with such skill that even his worst enemy, Edward Teller, told me once that Oppenheimer was the best lab director he'd ever known. After the war he led the group of scientists who guided American nuclear policy, the General Advisory Committee to the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission (AEC). He finished out his life as director of the prestigious Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey, where he welcomed young scientists and scholars into that traditionally aloof club.

August 9, 1945: Nagasaki is hit by an atom bomb. Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum/EPA

Those were exceptional achievements, but they don't by themselves explain his unique place in nuclear history. For that, add in the dark side. His brilliance came with a casual cruelty, born certainly of insecurity, which lashed out with invective against anyone who said anything he considered stupid; even the brilliant Bethe wasn't exempt. His relationships with the significant women in his life were destructive: his first deep love, Jean Tatlock, the daughter of a Berkeley professor, was a suicide; his wife, Kitty, a lifelong alcoholic. His daughter committed suicide; his son continues to live an isolated life.

His Choices or Mistakes, Combined with his Penchant for Humiliating Lesser Men, Eventually Destroyed Him.

Oppenheimer's achievements as a theoretical physicist never reached the level his brilliance seemed to promise; the reason, his student and later Nobel laureate Julian Schwinger judged, was that he "very much insisted on displaying that he was on top of everything"—a polite way of saying Oppenheimer was glib. The physicist Isidor Rabi, a Nobel laureate colleague whom Oppenheimer deeply respected, thought he attributed too much mystery to the workings of nature. Monk notes his curiously uncritical respect for the received wisdom of his field.

Monk's discussion of Oppenheimer's work in physics is one of his book's great contributions to the saga, an area of the man's life that previous biographies have neglected. In the late 1920s Oppenheimer first worked out the physics of what came to be called black holes, those collapsing giant stars that pull even light in behind them as they shrink to solar-system or even planetary size. Some have speculated Oppenheimer might have won a Nobel for that work had he lived to see the first black hole identified in 1971.

Oppenheimer with Albert Einstein, circa the 1940s. Corbis

Oppenheimer's patriotism should have been evident to even the most obtuse government critic. He gave up his beloved physics, after all, not to mention any vestige of personal privacy, to help make his country invulnerable with atomic bombs. Yet he risked his work and reputation by dabbling in left-wing and communist politics before the war and lying to security officers during the war about a solicitation to espionage he received. His choices or mistakes, combined with his penchant for humiliating lesser men, eventually destroyed him.

One of those lesser men, a vicious piece of work named Lewis Strauss, a former shoe salesman turned Wall Street financier and physicist manqué, was the vehicle of Oppenheimer's destruction. When President Eisenhower appointed Strauss to the chairmanship of the AEC in the summer of 1953, Strauss pieced together a case against Oppenheimer. He was still splenetic from an extended Oppenheimer drubbing delivered during a congressional hearing all the way back in 1948, and he believed the physicist was a Soviet spy.

Strauss proceeded to revoke Oppenheimer's security clearance, effectively shutting him out of government. Oppenheimer could have accepted his fate and returned to an academic life filled with honors; he was due to be dropped as an AEC consultant anyway. He chose instead to fight the charges. Strauss found a brutal prosecuting attorney to question the scientist, bugged his communications with his attorney, and stalled giving the attorney the clearances he needed to vet the charges. The transcript of the hearing In the Matter of J. Robert Oppenheimer is one of the great, dark documents of the early atomic age, almost Shakespearean in its craven parade of hostile witnesses through the government star chamber, with the victim himself, catatonic with shame, sunken on a couch incessantly smoking the cigarettes that would kill him with throat cancer at 63 in 1967.

Rabi was one of the few witnesses who stood up for his friend, finally challenging the hearing board in exasperation, "We have an A-bomb and a whole series of it [because of Oppenheimer's work], and what more do you want, mermaids?" What Strauss and others, particularly Edward Teller, wanted was Oppenheimer's head on a platter, and they got it. The public humiliation, which he called "my train wreck," destroyed him. Those who knew him best have told me sadly that he was never the same again.

For Monk as for Rabi, Oppenheimer's central problem was his hollow core, his false sense of self, which Rabi with characteristic wit framed as an inability to decide whether he wanted to be president of the Knights of Columbus or B'nai B'rith. The German Jews who were Oppenheimer's 19th-century forebears had worked hard at assimilation—that is, at denying their religious heritage. Oppenheimer's parents submerged that heritage further in New York's ethical-culture movement that salvaged the humanism of Judaism while scrapping the supernatural overburden. Oppenheimer, actor that he was, could fit himself to almost any role, but turned either abject or imperious when threatened. He was a great lab director at Los Alamos because of his intelligence—"He was much smarter than the rest of us," Bethe told me—because of his broad knowledge and culture; because of his psychological insight into the complicated personalities of the gifted men assembled there to work on the bomb; most of all because he decided to play that role, as a patriotic citizen, and played it superbly.

Monk is a levelheaded and congenial guide to Oppenheimer's life, his biography certainly the best that has yet come along. But he devotes far too many pages to Oppenheimer's Depression-era flirtation with communism, a dead letter long ago and one that speaks more of a rich esthete's awakening to the suffering in the world than to Oppenheimer's political convictions. He doesn't always get the science right. Most of the errors are trivial, but a few are important to the story.

Their Fundamental Objection Was to Giving up Production of Real Weapons so That Teller Could Pursue His Pipe Dream, a Dead-end Hydrogen Bomb Design.

A fundamental reason Oppenheimer opposed a crash program to develop the hydrogen bomb in response to the first Soviet atomic-bomb test in 1949 was the requirement of Edward Teller's "Super" design for large amounts of a rare isotope of hydrogen, tritium. Tritium is bred by irradiating lithium in a nuclear reactor, but the slugs of lithium take up space that would otherwise be devoted to breeding plutonium. To make tritium for a hydrogen bomb that the U.S. did not know how to build would have required sacrificing most of the U.S. production of plutonium for devastating atomic bombs the U.S. did know how to build. To Oppenheimer and the other scientists on the GAC, such an irresponsible substitution as an answer to the Soviet bomb made no strategic sense. It's true that the hydrogen bomb with its potentially unlimited scale of destruction made no military sense to them either—and was morally repugnant to some of them as well. But their fundamental objection, which Monk overlooks, was to giving up production of real weapons so that Teller could pursue his pipe dream, a dead-end hydrogen bomb design that never worked.

Julius Robert Oppenheimer (April 22, 1904 – February 18, 1967)

More egregious is Monk's notion that the Danish physicist Niels Bohr, Oppenheimer's mentor during the war on the international implications of the new technology, pushed for the bomb's use on Japan to make its terror manifest. He did not. He pushed, to the contrary, for the Allies, the Soviet Union included, to discuss the implications of the bomb prior to its use and to devise a framework for controlling it. Bohr foresaw that the bomb would stalemate major war, as it has, but correctly feared that U.S. secrecy about its development would lead to a U.S.-Soviet arms race. He conferred with both Roosevelt and Churchill about presenting the fact of the bomb to the Russians as a common danger to the world, like a new epidemic disease, that needed to be quarantined by common agreement. Churchill vehemently disagreed, and Roosevelt was old and ill. The moment passed. The arms race followed, as Bohr foresaw, and with diminished force, among pariah states like Iran and North Korea, continues to this day.

Monk's Oppenheimer is a less appealing figure than the Oppenheimer of previous biographies, perhaps because, as an Englishman, Monk is less susceptible to Oppenheimer's rhetorical gifts and more candid about calling out his evasions. He pulls together most of what several generations of Oppenheimer scholars have found and offers new revelations as well. Yet there's a faint whiff of condescension in his portrait, and the real Oppenheimer, the man whom so many loved and admired, still somehow escapes him. He misses the deep alignment of Robert Oppenheimer's life with Greek tragedy, the charismatic hubris that was his glory but also the flaw that brought him low. But maybe I'm expecting too much: maybe only a large work of fiction could assemble that critical mass.

[360nw]

Union Pacific in Cottage Grove Oregon - March 2009

[gigijb1969]

2024 SystemsGo Rocket Launch Event Preparations for White Sands Missile Range

The SystemsGo team left Fredericksburg in two shifts, one at 5:30 a.m. and the second at 9:15 a.m. this morning headed to Alamogordo,, New Merxico for lodging for White Sands Missile Range (WSMR) rocket launches. Schools from Union Grove, Alamo Heights and Brazoswood also traveled to Alamogordo today to meet and begin preparations for launches this Saturday The early crew, Rebekah Hyatt, George…

[newleasemusic]

Listen To Laura Groves' Full-Length Album, 'Radio Red'

Listen To Laura Groves' Full-Length Album, 'Radio Red'

Much of ‘Radio Red’, the first full length album LAURA GROVES has released under her own name, was written, produced and recorded by Groves in her studio, watched over by two radio transmitting towers. “I became very drawn to them and they became like symbols to me; they were always awake, sending their messages, the red lights always came on at night and watched over whatever was going on in my…

[piasgermany]

[Album + Video] Laura Groves kündigt Debütalbum "Radio Red" an!

Laura Groves' Debütalbum "Radio Red" erscheint am 11. August digital über Bella Union.

Ein Großteil von "Radio Red", das auf die Ende 2020 veröffentlichte "A Private Road" EP folgt, wurde von Groves isoliert in ihrem kleinen Studio geschrieben, produziert und aufgenommen, das von zwei Funktürmen bewacht wird. “I became very drawn to them and they became like symbols to me; they were always awake, sending their messages, the red lights always came on at night and watched over whatever was going on in my life."

Passenderweise – oder vielleicht auch genau deshalb - ist das übergeordnete Albumthema Kommunikation geworden: zufällige Begegnungen, verpasste und abgefangene Signale oder auch Kanäle, durch die wir versuchen, unsere wahren Gefühle auszudrücken. Die Klangwelt von der zehn Songs reicht dabei von synthetischen Ambient-Klängen, Klavierballaden oder zerhackten TV-Titelmelodien bis hin zu Electro-Pop und experimentellem Folk.

Zeitgleich mit der Ankündigung hat Groves ein selbstgedrehtes Video zum Album-Opener "Sky at Night" veröffentlicht. “It’s about feeling your way; finding intuition and trust amidst confusion and conflict. Inspired by late night drives with the radio, Sky at Night is about belief in a love that might not always be tangible but will always makes itself known.”

Tracklist "Radio Red": 01. Sky at Night 02. Good Intention 03. Synchronicity 04. D 4 N 05. I’m Not Crying 06. Any Day Now 07. Time 08. Sarah 09. Make A Start 10. Silver Lining

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[ienjoywritingfilth]

teach me, general

hi: i wrote this because general acacius is still making me feel hornee things®. I don't know shit about roman gladiator times, about the language, about a n y t h i n g this is just a debauched excuse to think of this man naked and fucking.

You've been promised to another man to save Rome, but you have no desire to become his wife. Marcus Acacius has been assigned to ensure you do not flee before your wedding. Things happen.

trope: enemies to lovers

pedro character: Marcus Acacius x female reader (you)

warnings: innocence kink, age gap (not specified, but he an old peepaw just how we like him) , Marcus tries to be good but we like him bad, AU as fuck because i have no idea what happens in the movie, virgin bullshit, eating out, allusions (are what whores do for money or candy) to other sex, , i think that's everything.

RATED 18+

wanna see my other stuff?

"I will not play nursemaid to a spoiled child."

Marcus sweeps the scroll from the desk angrily, standing and stalking to the window, his cape fluttering behind him. 

Commander Cassius, an older man and one of The emperor's most trusted advisors stands in the corner, his gnarled hands folded in front of him. 

"She has not been a child for quite some time, General Acacius," the commander replies, a smirk crossing his lined mouth. 

Marcus only makes a scoffing noise at that, refusing to turn around and give the older man the respect he thinks he deserves. 

"She is desperate." the commander adds, walking in Marcus direction. "She is to be wed tomorrow."

"The city talks of nothing else." 

Marcus is sick to death with talk of your marriage to a neighbouring royal family. The marriage means bountiful coin and harvest for Rome. It's a step towards unification and the future. 

But for the last several months it's all he's heard of between battles. The dress, the food, the entertainment. It's all so grating to hear about when he throws himself into daily combats. 

"She has made her feelings on the matter quite clear," the commander says with a gentle exhalation. "There is concern she will flee in the night."

"Why?"

"She has no desire to marry. No interest in continuing the bloodline."

There are rumors of course. That the Prince you've been promised to is dim, that he drinks too much, that he has an eye only for men. It's no wonder you don't look forward to such a union.

"She says she will study at the universities instead," Cassius chuckles. "A silly fantasy. She is a woman after all." 

Marcus is quiet with contemplation. He'd just returned from battle days ago. He was still weary, his patience thin. The poor reception home from his family adds to his bitter mood. 

"But she is wise beyond her years," the commander says. "She has managed escape more than once, as you well know. It was you yourself who retrieved her the night of her eighteenth birthday in the olive grove was it not?" 

Marcus rolls his eyes recalling how you screamed and punched his armour as he dragged you down from the branches, throwing you over his shoulder. You screamed until your voice was hoarse as he carried you home that evening, shouting obscenities in his ear the entire way. 

All because you'd wanted a chance to see the Gladiators. You'd begged your parents and they'd been quite clear that it was no place for you. You'd snuck out anyway, caught by Marcus before you could even get to the Coliseum. 

When he does not reply the older commander stepped forward, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder. 

"You have your orders from the Emperor."

Marcus shrugs off the older man's touch, his dark eyes sharp. 

"And why must it be me?'

'"Because, General Acacius, you are the one man that cannot be fooled by her."

The slave is at the door when Marcus knocks at your bedroom. Their face is covered; their stance cowered when they open the door widely. 

"General Acacius," the quiet voice observes eyes on the ground. Marcus is grim-faced, entering into the room.

"I have been instructed by the Emperor to keep watch tonight."

"I see," the woman nods, her face still tilted respectfully to the floor. "I was just about to fetch her dinner."

Marcus steps further into the lavish room with its bright, white walls and smooth marble floors. 

"Where is she?" 

"She is in her bed," the slave replies bowing even more lowly. 

Marcus' dark eyes move to the bed, seeing the sleeping figure's chest rise and fall through the gauzy curtains that hang on all sides. 

"The sun is not yet set."

"She is overcome. Her wishes for the marriage to be called off have been ignored."

Marcus nods, watching as the slave goes to move past him. Her feet slap the floor slowly, everything in her body suggesting an unhurried dedication to her position. 

She brushes Marcus' sleeve and he sniffs the air, a familiar scent wafting over him. Roses. 

Without warning his large hand darts out, grabbing the slave by the arm and dragging her back into the room before she can leave. The door is slammed shut, her exit blocked. 

"General-"

Marcus says nothing; he simply rips the veil from the woman's face, shaking his head in frustration as your uncovered visage stares unblinking back at him. 

He watches as you sneer, your irritation clear. 

"How did you know?" 

"Rosewater," he replies in a husky murmur. "No slave could afford to bathe in such luxury." 

You pull your elbow from his grasp, furious at being caught. You call out to the girl in your bed. 

"Amilius you are released." 

A taller woman a haggard face and wild hair rolls out of the bed. She is clearly a slave but wears an embroidered toga meant for royalty. 

"You will still be paid," you assure her as she approaches you both, her eyes on the floor. You retrieve the pouch of clattering coin from your locked cabinet, placing its heavy bundle into her shocked hands. 

"It is too much."

"Not at all," you insist. "I thank you for trying. You may keep the clothing as well." 

"You are most welcome." 

The smile the two of you exchange is sweet and Marcus is furious at the sight of it. How dare you think up this scheme and how dare this slave go along with it? 

"You are bold," he says, stepping towards her. "To defy the word of your Emperor and not expect retaliation." 

"She did it only to defend me," you break in, stepping between Marcus and the girl. "To give me a chance at escape."

"Treason," Marcus snarls, his eyes still on the girl behind you. "You will be put on trial."

Amilius shrinks back, her eyes wide. The thought of punishment like this never occurred to her. She simply follows what you tell her, as she always has. 

"I will say I drugged her," you shoot back. "I will be put on trial. I will be sentenced to death. I choose that. Anything is better than a marriage to that self important caenum!"

Your chest heaves with untapped anger. Marcus knows that this is true. You are just stubborn enough to choose death but it would mean only calamity for Rome. 

"Leave us."

Amilius nods and shuffles from the room, closing the door behind her. You watch as Marcus locks it before coming back to you. 

"So they sent the General," you say with a laugh as you remove the slave’s cloak you were wearing. You drop it into a chair before looking at him. "How fearsome a creature I must be if the strongest General in the army is sent to watch me."

"Fearsome I think not. An annoyance to be sure." 

You roll your eyes, going to the table that holds the wine and other spirits. Several chalices are there, empty and ready to be filled. 

"Some wine, General?"

Marcus shakes his head. He would never drink when on such a job. He doesn't trust you. You shrug, pouring two glasses anyway. 

Marcus is surveying your room, quietly taking in all the personal touches. He notices you position your writing desk to the east, to enjoy the midday sun. Your bed is soft and layered with furs to keep away the chill. 

You walk back over to him, holding out the larger chalice to your guest.

"Here." 

You watch as Marcus takes both chalices in hand, swapping the one you poured for him with yours. You go to deny him this but he's already taken a deep pull from his glass, smiling at you when you make no move to do the same.  

"None for you?"

You try to keep your voice even, not wishing to show your hand. 

"I find my thirst rather quenched." 

"Is that so? Or is it that I caught onto your pathetic ploy to drug my wine?" Marcus smirks, taking a deep sip.

You say nothing; you bite the inside of your cheek instead. Marcus digs the blade in a little deeper. 

 "The vial made a rather obvious noise when it hit the rim of the chalice." 

You bite so harshly you draw blood. 

Its hours later and the fire has been cracking for the better part of the evening since the sun went down. 

Marcus sits on an ornate chair before the fire, his body stoic and broad and strangely intimidating despite his continued silence. He has the chair facing you, not letting you out of his sight for even a moment. 

You sit at your writing desk, hunched over parchment as you write hurriedly. The scratch of the stylus is the only sound in the bedroom. 

Marcus exhales slowly, irritated at needing to be here at all. Knowing his luck, he'll also be forced to be at the royal wedding as well. 

You stand and take a stretch, cracking your back as you arch your spine. The flowing fabric drifts over your body pooling at your feet. Marcus takes note of your head tilted back, eyes closed. He doesn't remember your profile being this striking. He muses it is one that should be etched onto roman coins, remembered by those to come forever after. 

You walk over to him with a tired look in your eyes. 

"It is late," you tell Marcus. 

Marcus doesn't reply. He simply sits there, waiting for you to tire of whatever game you've begun. 

"I thank you for the fire, General." 

"You are most welcome."

He isn't expecting you to walk behind him pretending to stoke the fire. And he can only blame his lack of focus on his extreme lack of sleep. He'd managed none during battle and at home it seemed he was more than a little restless. 

He feels your hand slide the dagger from his hip, realizing too late. You go streaming across the room, your eyes wild when he races after you. 

"Impudice fur!"

"I have stolen nothing," you shoot back at the insult. 

The two of you circle what another in the room like your own miniaturized version of the Gladiator pit. 

"You have stolen years off my life," Marcus growls. "You have turned my hair silver."

You look at the dark hair threaded with grey in parts. 

"You have done that yourself, General, thanks to your love of bloodshed and the battlefield."

Marcus rolls his eyes. "Only a stulte would think my strategy anything other than necessary."

"If you insist," you say rolling your eyes, clearly disbelieving. 

"Return the weapon."

Marcus is strong, he is quick and you will have to submit to him. There is little else to do, aside from throwing yourself out the window behind you. The thought of that horrible childish man being your husband makes you seriously consider it.

You can't help it, thoughts of being his wife, of being tethered to such a man disgusts you. You would more readily marry Marcus Acacius if you had to. At least the man had honour and dignity.

And then all at once the answer is clear to you. You drop the knife onto the floor, hearing it clatter as you spin and throw yourself towards the large open window. 

Your feet slap against the stone floor as you fling yourself towards the open air. The realization that before you die you will know what it is to fly. 

Marcus is on you almost immediately, grabbing you around the middle before you can tumble to outside. He yanks you back, tackling your unwilling body to the ground. He pins your hands to the ground. You attempt to wrench from his grip, squirming under him. 

"Stop these foolish games."

"It is no game," you shout. "It is my life! I will choose if I live or die!" 

All at once Marcus is very aware that you are not the child he once saw in the halls or at events. The child and then teenager he found so grating with her questions that he took to ignoring her. 

"Still yourself."

You wriggle in his grip like a worm. As you do your hips graze his cock and he's shocked to find a stab of arousal hit him. 

It's as if for the first time he sees that you've become a woman. A beautiful one at that, all soft curves and kissable mouth. He stares at the damp plump of your lips and realizes that he's growing hard under his toga. 

He throws himself off of you, hunched over until he gets to the window. You're rubbing your wrists, completely unaware of what happened as you stand, glaring at him. 

"It is what is fated," Marcus barks at you. 

"How easy for you to say!" You scoff disgusted. "Tomorrow I will be the wife of a childish boor who would rather chase cock than spend a moment with me. Rome will be safe for a time, yes, but at the cost of my entire being. And you, General Acacius, will go on living your life free of restraint." 

"I come with my own shackles, believe me."

"And what is that? Too much coin for wine? Too many prostrating followers who blindly obey you?"

"A wife who married me for my title. Two stepsons with the combined intelligence of a pomegranate seed.” Marcus shakes his head. "You act as if everyone may rule their destiny but true freedom is granted to only the few." 

He can see the fight leave your body. 

But he knows you’re still upset. He moves over to your desk, needing a break from your smoldering glare. The parchment you were working on earlier sits there, writing unfinished. Marcus takes a scroll in hand, squinting down at it. 

"What are these?" 

You rush over, your face red as you rip the scroll from his hands. 

"Nothing!"

Seeing your weakness Marcus holds it up out of reach, a childish grin on his face as you leap up, trying to grasp them. But it's no use, he's taller, stronger and you fall back, defeated. 

“Tell me and I will return it to you.”

"They are poems," you mutter exasperatedly, feeling shy.

"Your own?"

"Yes."

"I wonder what about," Marcus says and he reaches into the desk to find several more scrolls. "What dress to wear to the market? How best to complain about having everything?" 

Marcus takes them in hand, a sneer evident in his face as you reach for them again.

“You promised!”

“As you promised your fidelity to the prince.”

“My father promised him. I promised him nothing.”

Marcus lets out a small huff before turning his back to you. You can see him unrolling the scroll, beginning to read.  You watch him, feeling both furious and anxious. These are some of your innermost thoughts that he’s reading.

There is a long bout of silence. You watch his broad shoulders sag, his hand flipping the page over and continuing to read. He does this through several sheets until you can't stand it anymore. 

"Give it here!"

You pause with your hand on his elbow. He's solemn, but that's not what shocks you. It's the tears that he wipes quickly away with his free hand. 

"Are you---"

"No."

You step backwards, your hands falling to your sides. You have known the general since you were a child of thirteen. Over ten years you have been in his company and only now have you seen him lose his composure. 

As a child you were convinced he didn't feel true emotions. He was always this tall, impressively stoic figure. You never spoke to him outside of your father's company. You only heard everyone talk of his skills on the battlefield, of his keen mind. The only time he truly emoted in front of you was when he ripped you from the warm embrace of the olive tree, forcing you back to your boring life. Hissing at you that you were ungrateful for all you'd been given. 

"This is very beautiful," he admits in a voice dragged over sand. "The way you describe death is very," he searches for the word. "Vivid." 

"Thank you," you reply dumbstruck. 

You've never received praise for you writing outside your friends. So to receive it in the form of your current enemy is more than a little shocking. Marcus has no allegiance to you, in fact, his response is so genuine because you know he's fighting against his inner desire to chastise or condemn. 

Seeing this hulk of a man with tears still damp along his waterline has you softening everywhere. He's looking at the pages and then back at you. 

"Have you any others?"

"Yes," you nod.

"All on the same theme?"

"A variety."

"May I see?" 

You walk to your writing table, pulling out the parchment you hide from prying eyes and pass them into his outstretched hands. You wait with your lower lip lodged under your top teeth, your fingers twisting together. You don't know why but you crave to know what he's thinking. 

You don't need to wait very long. 

"It is clear there are limitations to your skills."

He has the familiar arrogant expression on his face as he says this. You bristle sharply at his words and he notices. 

"You write of death, you write of jealousy, you write of fear,"' he says. "All of these you compose with obvious talent, with a voice I feel here." 

He taps the centre of his chest before he holds up some of the pages you laboured on. 

"But these? The poems of love, of desire? They feel false."

You take a moment to digest what he's saying. He's treating you like an equal, as if you're someone who can take the criticism. It propels you to explain instead of running away in embarrassment. 

"People want poetry to transcend them, to deliver them somewhere beautiful. How else to do that other than with poems on such topics?"

He holds up the pages. 

"It clearly does not come naturally."

"It is a challenge at times."

"You write of loss with such acuity," Marcus explains. "Why then do you describe the action between a man and woman so stiffly?"

"I have experience with loss."

Marcus stares at you, surprised.

As the daughter of the emperor he'd just assumed you'd have your fair share of romances. You're a beautiful woman and if you were anyone else but the Emperor's daughter he might have pursued you himself. 

You feel his gaze trained on you and you walk to the fire. The flames reflect in your eyes as Marcus continues to watch you. You swallow your embarrassment and look over your shoulder at him. 

"Will you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"What I am to expect on my wedding night." 

Marcus lets the scroll fall from his hand onto the stone floor. At the sound of its contact he shakes himself, retrieving them and placing them on your desk. 

"You have not known the touch of a man?"

With cheeks stained in embarrassment you shake your head. 

"I have not. The life of the privileged daughter isn't one that allows for entanglements," you sigh. "I fear for what awaits me."

Marcus thinks of your future husband, a man who doesn't want any part of you. You'll wither on the vine, ripened and juicy and waiting. 

What a waste. 

"I cannot," Marcus says. "I am simply here to ensure you do not flee."

"Perhaps I will not flee if I know what is to occur."

Marcus sighs and strides towards you. You watch as he pulls over one of the chairs you had at the window, placing it across from the chair you sit in before the fire. 

"You will be wed; there will be the wedding celebration with most of Rome at your unity. Then he will take you to his chamber." 

You lick your suddenly dry lips. 

"I am no fool. I know what the day’s events will be, General. I want to know what happens in consummation."

Marcus inhales deeply. He can feel himself growing stiff. You are a delectable thing, forbidden in so many ways. He itches to touch your skin and taste your cunt. 

"He will, he will press his mouth to yours."  

"Show me."

"No."

"Please," you beg, coming to stand closer to him. "Once I know what is to come I will feel more able to conquer this fear I feel."

Marcus debates this as he stares at you. And it's his cock that does the thinking for him when he steps closer to you. 

Marcus sighs heavily through his aquiline nose. You hold your breath as he grips the back of your neck, like you're a bothersome kitten. Holding you there he lowers his face to yours, grazing your lips with his. 

You coo gently at the sensation, your nipples hardening as he wraps his arms around you. He's so broad, so muscular, you feel so vulnerable and yet safe in his arms. 

You cling to him, body immediately wrapping around his, pressing so tightly to him that you feel everything. Your hips roll against his and you shudder pleasantly when you feel his breathing hitch. 

"More," you beg. Marcus groans, his large hands coming to cup and knead your breasts as his tongue invades your mouth. 

He's murdered men, he's plotted army overtaking, and he’s attacked the unarmed, but touching and kissing the virgin daughter of the emperor? This is the most corrupt thing he's ever done. 

And you're so desperate for him, no hesitation in any part of you. You just allow him to plunder your body, his mouth moving down your jaw to your neck and then the barely concealed valley of your breasts. 

His hands move around your body, pressing and caressing and skimming until they land at your backside. You kiss him fervently, feeling his palms tug you against his hard cock.

You whimper, eyes rolling back as the two of you grind against one another. It feels so sinfully good to do such a thing. 

"That is enough," Marcus says stiffly, pulling back from you when you make that sound. He looks at your swollen lips and dazed expression. 

"Please, show me everything," you whisper. "Teach me." 

Marcus has a fairly good idea that your wedding night is going to be brief and awful. The least he could do is give you some pleasure before you're thrust into a lifetime of timid touches and non-existent intimacy. 

Just once, a sinful voice whispers. Fuck her just once to see how it feels. 

"I cannot." 

You feel insecurity wind its way around your ribs before tugging brutally. Its clear Marcus does not find you handsome enough to tempt him or he still sees you as a child. In humiliation you turn from him and take a seat before the fire once more. Your shoulder sag as you gaze down at your clasped fingers on your lap. 

You hear Marcus sigh from the window before you sense his approach. He comes to sit in the chair opposite you, his gaze so serious. 

"It would be wrong."

"But I desire it."

"It would be dishonourable." 

"Please," you beg him again, finally raising your head. "My entire life you have been there for me, coming to my aid. And now I turn to you for the final time, General. Please help me." 

"I cannot do it."

"But why?" You demand now, knowing that your patience is wearing thin. "Give me one true reason." 

He lifts his muscular frame out of the chair, crossing until he gets to you. You gaze up the length of him, not flinching when he drops to his knees between your parted thighs. 

Marcus tilts forward until his body nears yours, his hands on either side of your chair arms. His body is so warm, so broad. You fight the urge to touch his chest as his swollen mouth brushes your ear. 

"Because if I were to start, it would take the entirety of the Emperor's army to stop." 

You blink slowly, your eyes trailing over his face and body. Your entire body is fizzy, like lightning is coursing through your veins instead of blood. 

"I would pull you apart," Marcus hums against your skin. "I would draw noises from you that you cannot begin to imagine. I would have you shaking and begging for more and I would continue."

You can't breathe. 

“I would fill you with my seed, marking your womb as mine. I would do it over and over until I was spent, only to do it all again at dawn." 

Marcus groans softly, his dark eyes scanning down your toga to the swell of your breasts. 

"And even then I would not be able to cease," Marcus says as he squeezes your breasts through your toga. "I would train your mouth, your cunt, every hole you possess in the ways of pleasure. All would be mine, nothing left for another." 

You stare at him, unblinking.

"And so you see why I must refrain," he finishes huskily. "Why I cannot give you what you believe you desire."

When did he go from the scowling general to a real man with such a filthy mouth? You’re quivering all over, desperate for him to be even closer. Your eyes drop to his full mouth, aching to feel it again.

"What if that is what I crave? What if I have no desire for you to cease?"

Your fingers go to his, pulling one hand under your toga, leading him up between your silken thighs. Marcus allows it, eyes on you but his hand inching towards your centre. 

"You do not know what you ask."

"Show me, Marcus," you whisper, your mouth nearing his. "Make me yours if only for tonight."

Your lips slot between his, kissing with uncertainty as your hands go to the buttons at his shoulder. His fingers are slowly teasing your entrance as he stares at you. 

You arch as his thumb begins to circle your clit, his long fingers starting to nudge your liquid heat. 

Marcus knows that every inch of you he touches is another year in the pit if he's discovered. You are the most forbidden fruit in Rome. Yet he continues to slide two fingers to the knuckle into your core, curling them as you cry out for him. 

At the sharp sound of your cry he withdraws his fingers, glossy with slick. He stands, needing to clear his head. He feels your confused gaze on his back. 

"I cannot defile you before your wedding," he explains. "Your chastity is of the utmost importance." 

"The slaves tell me of ways to circumvent such an issue," you tell him as the cape he wears falls to the ground. 

He watches you untie his toga, urging it from his body until he stands there in nothing but his gladiator sandals. 

He is truly a sight to behold. Golden, muscled, captivating in the same way blood along knuckles shine in sunlight. You take your time to walk around him, admiring the tight taut of his ass, the breadth of his wide shoulders littered with scars and the curls that tease the bottom of his neck. 

You save his front for last, taking your time to watch the trail of hair move from his navel downward. 

His cock is hard, thick and heavy. It weeps at the tip, already so eager. It hangs there; too large for you to imagine entering you as you reach out and touch it. He hisses at the first point of contact. 

He watches as you carefully touch him, marvelling at the iron of his cock until the silk of his skin. You trace the vein on the underside, trailing it from the base to just below the mushroom head. 

You slide down to your knees, fascinated. Amilius has spoken to you of men when you’ve asked.  She has been married and has a child. You know a bit of what men like but only in theory. You lift your eyes up to see Marcus staring down at you with a heated gaze. Your hands go to his thighs, gently resting there. 

You grin before leaning forward and placing the sweetest peck to the tip of his manhood.  

Marcus growls softly in the back of his throat. His eyes close briefly before opening, looking darker than before. You watch as he takes his cock in hand, gripping it by the base and pulling it towards you. 

You part your lips, ready to take him on your tongue and are surprised when instead he drags the tip along your bottom lip, leaving a trail off pre-cum there. You lick the remnants, curious at the salty taste. He watches you with increasing interest. 

"Irrumabo," Marcus murmurs, his cock tapping against the full of your bottom lip. "Yes?"

You nod, opening your jaw. Marcus smiles, thumb tracing the curve of your mouth. 

"Not tonight," Marcus says as he shakes his head, bringing you to a gentle stand. "Tonight is your pleasure." 

He tugs the gown from your body, letting the silk pool on the ground beside you. You shiver under his gaze, noticing his length which twitches. 

Marcus feels his breath leave him as your nude body is bared to him. You look so innocent there, waiting for him, gazing nervously at him through your lashes. 

"Goddess," Marcus hisses, his hands coming to cup your breasts. "I am a condemned man for even looking at you."

He lowers his head eagerly, nipping and licking your nipples as you cling to him, urging him to take more as you arch your spine. 

"Marcus, please more," you moan. 

Unceremoniously he pushes you back to sit in your chair, your legs splayed in surprise. He drops to his knees, moving your legs to hook over his wide shoulders. You allow this, your body limp and eager to be posed by his strong arms and hands.

He looks up to see you panting, staring down the length of your body at his face between your legs. Without breaking eye contact Marcus dips forward and licks a stripe up the centre of your sex. 

Your eyes immediately shut as pleasure ripples through you. His wide hands grip your creamy thighs, holding them in place as he continues to probe his tongue deeper into your channel. 

Your hands grope the air around you fruitlessly. You don't know what to do with them. Marcus notices and he takes your wrists between his grips, forcing them to card through his hair. 

He goes back to sucking your clit and you feel your hips buck. Your fingers dig into his skull, holding the curls and you understand why he placed them there. 

"Harder," he tells you sharply as he peppers your inner thighs with sweet kisses. You tug harder on his curls and he groans softly in approval. 

You make a shuddering noise of pleasure and it dies in your throat as he pulls back from you. His eyes are stormy as he looks up the length of you to give you a disapproving shake of his head. 

"Silence, cherub. We do not need the guards coming to investigate your shrieks." 

You nod breathlessly, clapping a hand over your mouth as he continues. The sounds are muffled against your palm as he brings his hands to slide under your ass, pulling your sex deeper into his mouth as he consumes you, groaning into your cunt when you cum. 

"Marcus!" 

"Quiet," he reminds you between licks. 

As you sit there in the chair he brings you to a second steady orgasm, revelling in the muffled yips you make when you begin to writhe against his face, coating him in your essence. When your shuddering ends Marcus slowly withdraws his tongue from your cunt, gazing up at you with a dazed look.

"My husband will do this to me?" You pant; your body shiny with perspiration. "It was so pleasant. I felt the sun within my body." 

Marcus remains on his knees, his mouth glistening with your arousal. He gives you a pitying look, knowing full well that your husband to be likely won't see you past your wedding night. 

The thought enrages him as he sits there, cheek against your thigh as you give him that hopeful expression.

"No," Marcus finally admits. "I believe his actions will be more perfunctory." 

You frown.

"How? Show me."

"You ask too much."

"Yes, I do," you admit with no hesitation or embarrassment. 

Marcus gives you a calculating look before standing. You sigh, waiting for him to leave when he crouches down beside your chair, sliding his hands behind your back and under your knees and hoists you into his arms. 

"I will give you what you desire," he tells you gently. "I can deny you nothing." 

"You have denied me much over the years," you remind him with mirth. "When I tried to see the Gladiators fight and you pulled me from that olive tree?"

"And I never heard the end of it. Imagine denying this request? You'd have me hanged."

You give a shy giggle before lacing your fingers behind his neck, your mouth finding his with ease as he carries you to the bed. 

The two of you lay in the twisted blankets of the bed, bodies gleaming with sweat. Marcus did exactly as he promised. For hours he took you apart, forcing you to come on his fingers, his mouth, his cock. You took him at every turn, eyes shut and your mouth covered by his palm or his lips. 

And now that the dreamy haze bleeds into reality you find yourself frowning. Marcus, with his arms holding your body to his notices immediately. 

"What troubles you?" 

“Tomorrow I will be another man's wife," you say with tears in your eyes. "Rome will be saved for a time but at what cost? I'll never feel pleasure like this again. I'll never have you in my bed again."

Marcus feels a pull behind his ribs, and he leans forward to kiss you gently. You respond, your tears damp on his cheeks.

"Your lessons will continue," Marcus promises, kissing behind your ear. "I will make sure of it." 

"My husband--"

"Will be thankful when you are with child," Marcus tells you in a hush, his hand curving over your stomach. "My child."

Your eyes are luminous. 

"After your wedding night he will not come to your chambers," he promises. "But I will. I will drink the nectar between your legs and I will spill myself down your throat. I will have you everywhere and when we pass in public although there are no words to be uttered you will know I think only of you. That I am yours and you are mine."

He wipes away your tears with his large thumbs before pulling your mouth to his. You fall asleep in his arms, the sensation of his body there to protect you through the night. 

Marcus stirs the next morning to the sound of birds outside the window; it's cheerful and bright as the sun that hangs high in the sky. 

It feels right that your wedding day should be beautiful when you yourself are so exquisite. 

Marcus feels his cock hardening immediately at memories of last night. Of the sounds you made and the way you felt. He looks forward to a life with you, even if it must be in secret. You are something special, something like freedom.

He cracks open his eye to take in your sleeping face, but your side of the bed is empty. A scroll is there beside him in the empty bed instead, his name written. With a panic in his heart he unrolls it, finding a lock of your hair tied with a ribbon inside. He takes it, pressing his lips against it as he reads the words from your hand. 

Carissamus General. I know that as you read this you will think me a villain, but I promise that my words were true and my body forever yours. Please understand why I could not possibly allow another to touch me. Freedom is for those who take it. I leave you a piece of me in exchange for the piece of you I will carry in my heart. I owe you everything and perhaps in the next life we will have the future you dream of. Until then I wish you the same joy and pleasure you gave me. With all my love, and all that I am. 

Marcus reads the beautiful words over and over. They spin around his skull as he dresses, pulling on his toga and cloak. But instead of anger in his expression he smiles serenely. 

He's always enjoys a good chase. 

[obsidian-pages777]

Pick a card: Your family's & your view of your future spouse [Fae Realm]

Top Left[Pile 1], Top Right[Pile 2], Bottom Left[Pile 3], Bottom Right[Pile 4].

Reading 1: The Enchanted Forest

Your perspective:

Cards Drawn: The Lovers, The Empress, The Six of Wands Interpretation: Your future spouse is someone who embodies deep and genuine love (The Lovers). This card suggests a soulmate connection, implying that your relationship will be harmonious and balanced. The Empress indicates that your spouse will have a nurturing and caring nature, possibly possessing a strong connection to nature or creativity. They may also have a very attractive physical appearance and a warm, welcoming personality. The Six of Wands reveals that they will be successful and confident, admired by others for their achievements. Your union will be celebrated, bringing both of you a sense of pride and joy.

Your Family's perspective:

Cards Drawn: The Star, The Lovers, The Hanged Man

Pros:

The Star: Your family sees your future spouse as a beacon of hope and inspiration. They believe this person will bring a sense of renewal and positivity into your life, filling it with optimism and bright prospects.

The Lovers: This card signifies deep, genuine love and harmony. Your family sees a strong, soul-level connection between you two, indicating their approval and belief in a harmonious and loving relationship.

Cons:

The Hanged Man: Your family may also perceive your future spouse as someone who has an unconventional perspective or approach to life. This could cause some concern about whether their unique outlook will mesh well with familial traditions and expectations.

================================================================================================

Reading 2: The Whispering Winds Your perspective:

Cards Drawn: The Fool, The Queen of Cups, The Ten of Pentacles

Interpretation: Your future spouse will bring a sense of adventure and spontaneity into your life (The Fool). They might have a free-spirited and optimistic outlook, encouraging you to take leaps of faith and embrace new beginnings. The Queen of Cups suggests they will be deeply empathetic and emotionally intelligent, capable of understanding and supporting you on an emotional level. The Ten of Pentacles points to a future of stability and abundance. Together, you will build a prosperous and harmonious life, filled with family, comfort, and shared traditions.

Your Family's perspective:

Cards Drawn: The Empress, The Tower, The Page of Cups

Pros:

The Empress: Your family sees your future spouse as nurturing, loving, and capable of creating a warm and abundant home environment. They appreciate this person’s ability to foster growth and support within the family unit.

The Page of Cups: They also see your future spouse as someone who is creative, gentle, and emotionally expressive. This card suggests a refreshing and youthful energy that your family finds endearing.

Cons:

The Tower: There is a fear of sudden changes or disruptions. Your family may worry that your future spouse's arrival could bring unforeseen challenges or shake up the family dynamic in unexpected ways.

================================================================================================

Reading 3: The Moonlit Grove Your perspective:

Cards Drawn: The Star, The King of Pentacles, The Two of Cups

Interpretation: The Star signifies that your future spouse will bring hope and inspiration into your life. They might have a healing presence, helping you to see the beauty and potential in the world around you. The King of Pentacles indicates that they will be reliable, practical, and financially secure. They might have a strong work ethic and a successful career, providing stability and security. The Two of Cups highlights a deep and romantic connection between the two of you, suggesting a partnership based on mutual respect, love, and understanding.

Your Family's perspective:

Cards Drawn: The High Priestess, The Devil, The Knight of Pentacles

Pros:

The High Priestess: Your family views your future spouse as intuitive, wise, and possessing a deep understanding of the world. They appreciate their depth and the sense of mystery and insight they bring.

The Knight of Pentacles: They see this person as hardworking, reliable, and committed. Your family values their dedication and practical approach to building a stable and secure future.

Cons:

The Devil: There is a concern about potential obsessive tendencies or unhealthy attachments. Your family may worry about whether your future spouse might have controlling or possessive traits that could be problematic.

================================================================================================

Reading 4: The Twilight Glade Your perspective:

Cards Drawn: The Magician, The High Priestess, The Four of Wands

Interpretation: Your future spouse is someone with a dynamic and charismatic personality (The Magician). They have the ability to manifest their desires and bring about positive change. The High Priestess suggests they will possess a deep intuition and spiritual awareness, possibly having a mysterious or enigmatic quality about them. The Four of Wands indicates that your relationship will be filled with joy and celebration. Together, you will create a harmonious and happy home, where both of you feel a strong sense of belonging and contentment.

Your Family's Perspective:

Cards Drawn: The Sun, The Moon, The Ten of Cups

Pros:

The Sun: Your family perceives your future spouse as a source of joy, vitality, and positivity. They believe this person will bring a great deal of happiness and warmth into your life.

The Ten of Cups: They see your future spouse as someone who can contribute to a fulfilling and harmonious family life. This card represents emotional contentment and a strong sense of community and family bonding.

Cons:

The Moon: There are concerns about possible hidden aspects or uncertainties. Your family might feel that there are aspects of your future spouse’s character or past that are not entirely clear, leading to some unease or mistrust.

================================================================================================

TUNE IN FOR MORE!

[professional-yapper]

You

Lo'ak x Tayrangi! Reader

Warnings: mistaken identity kind of, teens having fun, arranged marriage, fighting/arguments, how they meet is very 101 Dalmatians and i love it, they're both oblivious asf

Neytiri sent Lo'ak to go collect fruits from the grove near the other end of the Omaticaya territory. Normally he'd complain about extra chores, but not today. It was one of the better tasks to be landed with, anyway, even if it would consume his whole day.

But then Jake said Lo'ak could take his ikran, and that would cut the journey in half at least. Maybe more, since Lo'ak, like every other teenager, was all too fond of letting his ikran set the pace. Which, more often than not, simply meant break-neck speed, especially since Lo'ak's ikran was as young as himself in ikran years, according to Neytiri, and just as headstrong.

Lo'ak's ikran, named Spitfire by Jake in one of his rare moments of fatherly affection, was raring to go, practically launching himself into the air the second Lo'ak settled on his back and made the bond.

Kiri had, at one point, taken to calling the ikran Spitty, resulting in Lo'ak pitching a fit and pulling her hair, which then meant days of not speaking to each other. Lo'ak still got sulky every time he remembered the undignified name.

Lo'ak whooped, punching his fist in the air, gripping tightly with his thighs and trusting Spitfire not to let him fall, or at least to catch him if he did. The wind whistled past him, snatching at his braids, whipping a brisk flush into his face.

It was a good day. The sun was already high in the sky, warm on his back despite the wind. The air was heady with the scent of flowers coaxed into bloom by the warm weather, even at this height.

Spitfire, after a little urging from Lo'ak, evened out, gliding smoothly through the sky, occasionally letting out a screech of contentment. Lo'ak settled back, keeping one hand on the handle and feeling for the pouch strapped across his hips Neytiri had given to him to store the fruits in, making sure it was strapped on securely.

It wouldn't take him long to gather enough fruits to satisfy Neytiri. Maybe a few hours.

Maybe more if he decided to take a nap. Lo'ak loved naps, especially deep in the forest amidst the undergrowth, where he could burrow himself into the sun-warm grass and no one would bother him for hours. He probably liked them so much because they restored all the energy he burned living up to Jake's expectations. Very high expectations.

Yeah, he could use a nap. It was just that kind of day.

And it would give him time to think, too. About what his parents had told him a few days ago. About how, since Neteyam had mated with the youngest child of the Olangi olo'eyktan, Lo'ak would do the same, but with the only child of the Tayrangi olo'eykte.

It would benefit the Omaticaya, Neytiri had soothed him, smoothing a hand over his braids. These kinds of unions would prevent any conflict and better the relationships with other tribes. Jake, on the other hand, had told him there was no wriggling out of it, and he'd be mating with this stranger before the end of the year whether he liked it or not.

Comforting, right?

Neteyam had tried to comfort him over it. It was easy for Neteyam. He and his mate were arranged too, but they were crazy about each other, and Neteyam had always wanted to settle down and have a mate of his own and a family anyway. It was why he'd bent so easily to their parents' decision.

And it was easy for Kiri too. She was their dad's favourite, his babygirl. She wouldn't get married off to Aonung or some other guy if she didn't want to. Lucky shit.

Tuk was... well, she didn't have to worry about marriage for a good while yet.

But Lo'ak did. He didn't care about maintaining good relationships with other tribes, or having a mate of his own and settling down. He didn't care about any of that shit. He just wanted his freedom, and the freedom to choose who he mated with. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

Spitfire shrieked, and a ripple of confusion and panic hit Lo'ak through the bond, right as something large and colourful shot past them like a flash of lightning.

Lo'ak caught a glimpse of a face with an equally panicked expression, then swore as Spitfire reared and shrieked again. Though this time, instead of confusion in the bond, all Lo'ak felt was a sudden burst of childish joy, right before Spitfire dived after the other ikran.

Lo'ak yelled in exhilaration as both ikrans went into a nosedive, and crouched low over Spitfire's back, knuckles going white as he tightened his grip. It was dangerous, and if his parents found out, he'd never hear the end of it, but they weren't here now and Lo'ak found this was too much fun for him to care.

He whooped, and heard an answering cry from the rider of the other ikran below, you, which made something in his heart twist with further excitement.

Spitfire was uncontrollable with the excitement of having what was probably another young ikran to play with, and Lo'ak let him have his head, content to just go along for the ride.

The other ikran straightened out before it hit the canopy, and Spitfire followed, flying alongside, steadying himself with a few flaps.

"Sorry," you called, face flushed and apologetic, but then began laughing breathlessly. "Great Mother, I am so sorry! Kikorangi- my ikran- saw you down below and he just took off-"

"It's okay," Lo'ak shouted back, smiling uncontrollably at you. You were probably the most attractive person he'd ever seen, so one couldn't exactly blame him for being so quick to forgive you for the scare. "But I've never seen you before. You're not Omaticaya, are you?"

He didn't have to ask. He knew you weren't. You looked like a young warrior from another tribe, like him. Your skin was covered in a pearly white paint, in swirling patterns. It was mesmerising.

"What?" you called, then raised your eyes skyward, laughing again. "I can't hear you. Wait there."

Lo'ak blinked, confused, as you steered your ikran up and over his head, flying along above him. He tilted his head back, looking up, trying to see what you were doing, only to nearly smack heads with you. You were performing some risky manoeuvre, sliding around to the underbelly of your ikran, gripping on with only your thighs, swinging upside down and smiling at Lo'ak, eyes bright and beautiful, nose nearly brushing against his.

You chuckled at his stunned expression, then righted yourself and leapt down onto Spitfire, breaking the bond with your own ikran. Spitfire jerked at the foreign addition to his cargo, and tilted his head, shooting you a baleful look.

Lo'ak stiffened as you seated yourself behind him, one arm loosely around his stomach, making his abs tense beneath your warm skin, your thighs pressing against his own. "Sorry, what were you saying?" you asked airily, mouth next to his twitching ear, like this wasn't the most intimate position he'd ever been in.

Words failed him. He could only hold very still, in the hopes you wouldn't become uncomfortable and move away. He liked having you there, the weight of your body against his back comforting.

But you shifted back, away from him, laughing again, and the sound rang through his mind, etching itself into the walls of his skull. "Sorry," you apologised for a third time. "I didn't mean to freak you out."

"It's okay," Lo'ak replied almost robotically, words feeling clumsy and foreign on his tongue. Great Mother, get it together! he told himself firmly. There's a beautiful warrior cuddling up to you, wanting to talk and all you can say is it's okay?!

He forced himself to relax, turning his head and smiling crookedly at you over his shoulder.

Your face was like the sun. You seemed to be lit with a golden, gleaming warmth from the inside out, and it honestly made him a little dizzy.

"I was just asking what tribe you're from," he repeated.

"Tayrangi," you answered blithely. "You must be Omaticaya, I guess."

Lo'ak nodded, noting that you were from the same tribe as his future mate. He didn't want to bring that up, though, figuring if he was to have any chance with you he shouldn't bring up his imminent union.

Even though he wouldn't be able to pursue you because of said union... What the tribes didn't know couldn't hurt them, right?

"That's sick," Lo'ak said, smiling that same lopsided smile at you. "Never met any from the Tayrangi before."

"Never met an Omaticaya before either," you grinned back, leaning back on your hands.

"Am I living up to your expectations?" he teased, gathering all his courage to do so, ears drooping slightly in apprehension of your response.

"Who said I had any expectations?" you teased back, nudging the back of his thigh with your knee, sending hot flames of want up his spine.

Lo'ak rolled his eyes, but couldn't hide his delight at finding someone who could match him blow for verbal blow. "Oh, come on!" he scoffed. "You came all the way here, you must've thought about what we'd be like at some point!"

"Maybe I did," you agreed, and the glint in your eyes told him you were being purposefully elusive.

"Go on, then," he encouraged. "Am I everything you hoped?"

You pretended to think, finger pressing into your chin, eyes fixed on the clouds above. Then you smiled again. "Nope."

Lo'ak scoffed again, preparing to fire back some surely witty retort, before you inched forward again, leaning on his back, arm tightening around his middle again, pressing your lips to his ear decisively.

"You're better."

@frogletscribe

Woohoo done! Proud of this one tbh everyone enjoy x

[20th-century-railroading]

The North Western Way by Don Kalkman Via Flickr: Running on the "wrong track" as was the CNW way of doing things, an eastbound intermodal was hammering through Union Grove in the winter of '96.

A pair of matched former CNW GE C44-9Ws were approaching the US 30 overpass, a very tight and dangerous spot to hang out.

It's a great shot but I wouldn't recommend doing it today. Especially for Union Pacific GEVOs.

December 7, 1996

[hypnos333]

Changing Fate

Eros x Goddess reader

Synopsis: Fate had it easy for you as you were a goddess of fate until you got in the away with another’s fate

You were the daughter of Hera and Zeus, you were the third born after Ares and Hephaestus. Of course your parents adores you especially your mother. Being the goddess of Fate was easy then one, two, and three.

You were as beautiful as Aphrodite but you were no goddess of beauty.

“U-Uhm ___?” Eros called out holding your golden paged journal.

“Oh my Zeus! Thank you so much Eros” You said excitedly holding the book with delicacy. His wings flutter in shyness.

“Of course my cupid” He said back making you blush before hold the journal close to you.

“I should be calling you that Cupid” You flirted back making him blush again. He always haded feelings for you and since you lost your fate book you didn’t see that his fate now changed.

“So what should I call you? Oh! How about my love?” he asked excitedly making me agree instantly

“Whatever you like my cupid but right now I have to do my job” you said your goodbye. “Bye my love” Eros said back dreamily making you giggle as you turn back to your mansion.

You reread the journal to make sure everything was in shape in normal but it wasn’t….

See with the journal you can see everyone’s fate even gods or goddesses with Eros it holds a sparkling pink thread around his fate. It’s fading…. And not for the right reasons it should.

Eros fate is about love…

A king and queen has three daughters, all three of the girls are attractive but one of them is absolutely gorgeous- Phyche was her name. People would come all over to check out how beautiful she was. neglecting the proper worship of Aphrodite, instead prayed and made offerings to her. It was rumored that she was the second coming of Venus, or the daughter of Venus from an unseemly union between the goddess and a mortal. Venus is offended, and commissions Cupid to work her revenge. Cupid is sent to shoot Psyche with an arrow so that she may fall in love with something hideous. He instead scratches himself with his own dart, which makes any living thing fall in love with the first thing it sees. Consequently, he falls deeply in love with Psyche and disobeys his mother's order. Although her two humanly beautiful sisters have married, the idolized Psyche has yet to find love. Her father suspects that they have incurred the wrath of the gods, and consults the oracle of Apollo. The response is unsettling: the king is to expect not a human son-in-law, but rather a dragon-like creature The transported girl awakes to find herself at the edge of a cultivated grove. Exploring, she finds a marvelous house with golden columns, a carved ceiling of citrus wood and ivory, silver walls embossed with wild and domesticated animals, and jeweled mosaic floors. A disembodied voice tells her to make herself comfortable, and she is entertained at a feast that serves itself and by singing to an invisible lyre. Although fearful and without the proper experience, she allows herself to be guided to a bedroom where, in the darkness, a being she cannot see has sex with her. She gradually learns to look forward to his visits, though he always departs before sunrise and forbids her to look upon him. Soon, she becomes pregnant.

One night after Cupid falls asleep, Psyche carries out the plan her sisters devised: she brings out a dagger and a lamp she had hidden in the room, in order to see and kill the monster. But when the light instead reveals the most beautiful creature she has ever seen, she is so startled that she wounds herself on one of the arrows in Cupid's cast-aside quiver. Struck with a feverish passion, she spills hot oil from the lamp and wakes him. He flees, and though she tries to pursue, he flies away and leaves her on the bank of a river.

The rest of his fate was faded

You stood there shocked, this never happened before… this should’ve never happened. Why is it fading?

The ink was supposed to stay as it should so why is his fate changing?

You couldn’t say that you were glad his fate was changing, you were falling for the cupid after all but that did not mean he couldn’t be happy.

All she could do was watch the ink disappear like his fate was never there, and hope a new fate can appear for him. You slammed the book shut and rush to make sure Eros was safe.

When you saw him getting an apple from a tree you immediately rushed to him with a hug. Eros almost fell from the rush of someone.

“Woah My love, are you alright?” he asked gently not wanting to trigger you.

You put your hands on his cheek to make sure he has no injuries. “Of course, Are you okay?” you asked worriedly.

“Yeah? ___ we saw each other ten minutes ago, what’s wrong?” he asked making you hesitate on the question it’s self. It’s not like you can hide his dying fate from him but know something could be wrong is killing you.

“Y-Your fate changed and I couldn’t do anything about it and I thought something was wrong” You admitted making him nod.

“My fate with a human girl?” he asked making you instantly nod.

“Yeah a-and wait how did you know?” You asked making him chuckle awkwardly before clearing his throat to explain.

“W-Well I look in the journal and saw how my fate went and honestly I don’t want that to happen because ___ goddess of fate i’m in love with you” He confessed making you blush in shyness.

“W-What?” You whispered.

“I got approval from you family especially Ares and Zeus even though they’re scary as hell but I was willing to do it for you and I have been falling for you for decades but you were to busy in your work” He explained

“Well Eros of love and sex I will happily be yours” You said making him spin you around in joy.

“I’ll definitely make you the most happiest goddess in this earth my love” he stated making you hum as you leaned in as you both kissed passionately.

[marrkopolo]

A Wise Man Once Said

Precious lost its ring in the scrap yard with no metal detector the lavender pussywillows hide the trolls

Hong Kong wheel of fate UW spinned it first Knights of Templar slaughtered at a mass concert of bloody crimson tide

Tithe on a full moon for 2x the glee The crash of waves against the rocks, like bodies slapping against each other during sex blood shooting through veins Hot heat, sticky, in Iceland together I too, know of these lands

Tax season says the King! blue knots on a tent red food buckets hung like death #four crosses in a foreign land alone is no place to exist

An underwater welder lying on the blue tarp, is like a union of troops led by a zebra.

Flying flags at Disney welcome to the world of water failed regret, emptiness and betrayal tattered flags get left to rot sew it in with the others together and the quilt becomes strong and scintillating

Crush you with your own history headless horseman and halo hair dark horse donuts This is as good as it gets!

Red-lipped lipstick cracked porcelain face You can't hold a candle to this

King of the Hill My pool stick is clean now true Kings swim in the swimming pool together King of the Hill Jack of Spades went with the stolen crown and robots learn to volunteer.

Pledge to a sanitizer salute to a gong beat your chest it's loud and strong Love at first sight or sounds like a good idea Wisdom of the crowd or individual motivation?

A rabbi with the yachts Fortified lamps sees all UFOs, telekinesis and even explosive lingerie. One denarius for a days work Why they get more? Stand while another sits. Then switch roles and you'll see why.

What sees with three eyes? The melatonin-like parental bond, third eye awoken, Moksha.

Insane Luke has a scar red dots that kill. Baldie takes biosphere crown the bald animal is cutting loose again Is doraphilia still fun to you?

I attempt to transform but the tea is too strong my hands have small heart Lying down a tiny raindrop falls into my ear swirling into the cochlea My whole world has changed!

Eczema stealing make-up twice North Face go north Racks of weapons are not enough this time

My mask is old but gold bars had paved my fortunate path …a fortunate path(whispering)

Tik Tok vault one exit is enough The eagle has docked into spray-painted madness. Not to fret I hear a falcon cry Jump when the law is bent it will help you fly

Six shooter Six pack 3 sewers 3 fires Twin-spirit 1 spacesuit

Mountain top king of the hill climb Nepal Hajj pilgrimage princess climbs like a pirate piggyback down the wedding aisle

Opposites attract

One fell to its doom down the abyssal void towards the bottom and a ghost ship lost in the Bermuda Triangle with Pandoras Box Lazarus

Gunpowder in shoes Footprints in the sand Jesus did not tap

Short and tall fat and thin Lookalikes Soundalikes Smellalikes the hunt of touch and taste What double currencies create the ultimate Yin Yang effect? AI said to cure pride and competition, exchange abacus rubik-cubed calculators instead of cash.

Echoes and reverberation voices become lightning WATTS= AMPS X VOLTS

Float your payloads into the troposphere with skinny vertical structures of contained saltwater Heat a planet with a satellite asteroid belt

A call for help QR codes morse code gun flare smoke signal what are your coordinates? R-E-B-O-R-N

Some ancients say gunpowder only made flee then gun made to kill Oil spills from bronze age to silicon chips flood the market cut the mall castle cake in half Zangief on a segway You win.Perfect.

Lawrence Groves copyright©2024

[samimarkart]

Excited to announce my first solo exhibition 𝘊𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘊𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘴 opening in July at the Downers Grove Public Library in their North Gallery. So happy to be showing art in the town where I live, in a building I am so thankful for! Will share more details as the show gets closer, for now I’m busy finishing (and starting) quilts, and getting them ready to hang. Meet the artist event details are available on the DGPL website here

(Chicago friends, the library is a 2 minute walk from the metra BNSF Downers Grove Main St. stop, accessible from Chicago Union Station. If you ever wanted to play Sami Simulator and experience my old daily commute to school now’s your chance LOL)

[queenshelby]

Chemical Reactions (P. 20)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy as J Robert Oppenheimer x Student Reader

Warning: Age-Gap, Infidelity, Smut, Torture

Words: 1,889

Note: The fic is spoiler free and my own fantasy and imagination. It is not historically and scientifically accurate.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the separation between Robert and you became agonizingly long. The weight of the situation bore down heavy on both your hearts, as you tirelessly navigated through the treacherous waters of uncertainty and danger.

Albeit the fact that you had been moved to more pleasant prison just two days after you had been arrested by Pash, you were still confined to a secure facility which, luckily for you, had medical care.

In this facility, the months dragged on, a never-ending cycle of uncertainty and despair.

While you were away from him, Robert felt as if he were living in a purgatory, caught between his duty and his love for you. The revelation that Kitty Oppenheimer, his own wife, had betrayed him like this was a bitter blow. It shattered any semblance of trust he had left, leaving him feeling betrayed and empty.

It was her who leaked secret information to an agent of the soviet union and the investigation into Kitty's actions revealed a web of secrets and lies that she had woven meticulously.

She had leaked information and tried to divert the blame onto you in order to get rid of you and this, itself, was a dangerous game that she was playing.

It was a twisted and cruel act, one that Robert never thought he would witness from someone he had once loved. The fallout from Kitty's betrayal only complicated matters further. The authorities were now wary of potential moles within the project, questioning everyone's loyalty and motives and despite her partial admission, the investigation into your past continued.

With Kitty’s actions, it seemed that no one was above suspicion, including Robert himself. Every step he took was scrutinised, his every move monitored while he led the project. Desperate to protect you and ensure your safety, Robert used his influence where he could. He pulled strings, called in favours, and pleaded with higher-ups to expedite the investigation so that you could reunite. But bureaucracy moves at its own pace, and justice seemed painfully slow.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. Robert could only imagine what you were going through, locked away in a military facility, while the world passed you by.

His heart ached at the thought of you being subjected to the harsh realities of prison life, especially with a child on the way. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each passing day marked by a dull ache of longing and a gnawing fear of the unknown.

Robert grappled with his own guilt, feeling responsible for the situation that had befallen you. He questioned every decision he had made, wondering if there was something he could have done differently to protect you.

As the months went by, Robert found solace in his work. He threw himself into research and experimentation, channelling his frustrations and fears into the pursuit of scientific breakthroughs. He pushed the boundaries of his own knowledge, hoping that some great discovery would alleviate the pain of his separation from you.

***

Unable to see each other or communicate directly as visitors were strictly prohibited at the facility, the only solace came in the form of letters.

General Groves became the messenger, reading your heartfelt words and delivering them to each of you personally.

Every letter was a lifeline, a fragile thread connecting your hearts in the midst of an unpredictable and unforgiving world. Through ink-stained pages, you shared your hopes, fears, and struggles, desperate to hold onto the love that had been abruptly torn from your grasp.

The letters were filled with a mix of joy and sorrow, as you recounted each day's events, except those related directly to the development of the gadget.

You described the unbearable loneliness and longing for each other's embrace, the difficulty of trying to remain strong amidst the harsh conditions. But amidst the darkness, there were glimpses of hope as you spoke of the unwavering belief that one day, you would be reunited.

Robert, ever the optimist, wrote poetry to cheer you up and you poured your heart onto the pages, documenting the challenges you faced, both physically and emotionally while being confined.

The uncertainty of your fate weighed heavily on you, but you refused to succumb to despair. Instead, you clung to the memories of your time together, allowing them to fuel your determination to overcome the adversities you faced.

General Groves, touched by the depth of your love and resilience, took it upon himself to ensure the safe passage of each letter. He knew the importance of this lifeline, recognising that their words held the power to inspire and sustain you. With each delivery, General Groves witnessed the unwavering devotion that bound you together.

Your love, tested by distance, confinement, and uncertainty, remained steadfast, growing stronger with each passing day. These letters became a testament to the power of love in the face of adversity, a bond that refused to be broken. And so, the months crawled by, punctuated by the arrival of each letter. They became the rays of hope that pierced through the darkness, reminding you that love could endure even in the bleakest of times. Every word, every sentiment, forged a connection that transcended the physical divide, drawing you closer together even in your separation.

***

Then, one day, General Groves attended Los Alamos without a letter in his hand, informing Robert that he had something much more exciting to give to him.

Handing him a photograph, he said “Congratulations Robert! You have a healthy baby boy.”

With trembling hands, Robert took the photograph from General Groves. As his eyes settled on the image, his heart skipped a beat. There, captured in a moment frozen in time, was a tiny bundle of joy cradled in your arms. The weight of the world seemed to lift from his shoulders as he gazed at his son for the very first time. Tears welled up in Robert's eyes, a mixture of relief, longing, and overwhelming joy. It had been a year of unimaginable anguish and uncertainty, but seeing the radiant smile on your face as you held their child close, he knew that everything he had fought for had been worth it.

“He is perfect,” Robert declared tearfully, unable to take his eyes off the photo. In that instant, all the heartache faded into insignificance compared to the overpowering sense of pride and love surging through him. This new life embodied the essence of your undying commitment to each other, standing tall against the forces that sought to rip them apart.

Looking anxiously, Robert said, "This baby will change things and all our sacrifices won't go to waste."

"No, they won't Robert," the General said before he nodded resolutely, acknowledging the weight of responsibility resting on Robert's shoulders as well as his own.

"Please, can I see him. He is my son," Robert asked, his voice cracking, but General Groves told him that this was not an option due to security reasons.

Heartbroken yet understanding, Robert swallowed back tears and thanked the General for the photograph.

"I understand, General," he managed to say, his voice hoarse with grief and happiness mixed. 

"When you see her next, can you give her my letter and tell her that she is doing amazing and that I am proud of her?" His voice breaking slightly, he added, "Tell her how brave she is. How beautiful she looks holding our little miracle. Tell her I miss her dearly. And let her know...let her know..."

His voice trailed off as Robert realized he couldn't quite put into words exactly what he wanted to express about his feelings toward you, about their relationship, about their shared experiences - especially after learning about your bravery in giving birth under such difficult circumstances.

"I suggest you write it down, Robert. I will be here until noon," said General Groves, sensing Robert's struggle to articulate his feelings. "Take your time," he told him with a pat on the shoulder. 

Grateful for the supportive presence, Robert nodded and quickly retrieved paper and pen from his office. Sitting down, he began scribbling feverishly, trying to find the right words to convey his thoughts and emotions towards you.

In a few moments, he finished composing the most honest and vulnerable message he had ever written and it was this very honest and raw letter of his that brought tears to your face. 

*** The Letter ***

My Dearest [Your Name],

Words cannot express the overwhelming emotions coursing through my veins as I hold this photograph of our beautiful baby boy. Seeing his innocent face has cast a brilliant light upon the darkest corners of my weary soul. In this single image, I find solace, hope, and an abundance of joy that courses through my every fiber.

I stand here, with tears streaming down my face, in awe of the miracle you have brought into this world. Our son, our precious creation, is a testament to the strength and resilience of our love. He is a beacon of hope, a symbol of our undying commitment to one another and to a brighter future.

I cannot help but think of the sacrifices you have made, the hardships you have endured, and the relentless determination that has guided you through this tumultuous journey.

Our love has endured the trials, the uncertainty, and the immense pressure placed upon us. And now, in this moment, the weight of the world seems insignificant compared to the boundless love radiating from this tiny bundle of life.

As I gaze upon this photograph, I am filled with an indescribable pride for what we have created together. Our love, our bond, has transcended distance, sacrifices, and the devastating impact of this war.

Please tell our son, when the time comes, that his father loves him more than words can convey. Tell him about the countless lives that will reap the benefits of our sacrifices. Whisper to him our story, a tale of resilience, bravery, and the unwavering love that binds us all together.

And to you, my love, I want to express something that words alone could never encapsulate. Your indomitable spirit, your unwavering courage, and your unyielding love have sustained me through the darkest of days. In you, I have found my anchor, my refuge, and my reason.

Please know that you are an extraordinary woman, my love. Your bravery, your strength, and your unwavering spirit during the pregnancy and birth have left me in awe. The thought of you going through such a monumental moment without anyone by your side breaks my heart, but it also fills me with immense pride. You are my rock, my source of inspiration, and the embodiment of everything that is beautiful in this world. Our son is fortunate to have you as his mother, and your love and guidance will shape him into an incredible human being.

When the time comes for us to be reunited, know that I will hold you tightly, for I have missed your touch more than words can express. Until then, my heart stays with you, my love.

Yours, forever and always,

Robert

Tags:

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[ash-rigby]

Verdant Transmigration (Spring/Fertility God) [M/M]

Featured Characters: Male human and a male nature god.

Description: Marion, a cleric of one of his town's four resident nature deities, undergoes a ritual to become the next Vessel for Ta'lir who, among many things, is a god of fertility. A merging with Ta'lir requires a more physical element than a purely spiritual one.

Contains: Masked Nonhuman, Size Difference, Aphrodisiacs, Sex Magic, Fellatio, Hand Jobs, Self Lubrication, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Excessive Cum, Mild Cardiophilia.

Completion Date: March 23rd, 2024

Word Count: 3485

This isn't the next requested piece but it was the one I was getting ready to submit to this year's Spring issue of M❤️NSTER. I wound up not making the deadline but I like it too much to wait a year to share it, so I finished it up and here it is!

-

Marion walked into the ritual chamber under the gazes of many, his nude body catching the flickering firelight. He knelt on the floor of the temple as one of the other priests began to lay out a circle in sacred earth around him. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, drawing in the spicy yet floral smell of the incense. Drums beat softly on all sides and the sound of low flutes seemed to tickle the nape of his neck. 

He wasn’t nervous, as those around him expected him to be; he had spent the last three days since the previous Vessel’s death in deep meditation to prepare for being the next. Adola was a magnificent woman, a constant through all of Marion’s twenty-five years. A solemn presence with a gentle, motherly hand. Her grace had inspired him to devote his life to the god she carried within her—whom he would carry in her stead.

His city enjoyed the watchful eye of four nature gods, corresponding to the seasons and each with their unique divine favors to bestow. Some blessings and miracles, others that brought simple comforts through the unavoidable trials and pains of life. Whatever their will, it was channeled through a human host; a Vessel that embodied all they were and served the people. But a mortal body is a mortal body, releasing both spirits in death. 

With Adola’s passing, Ta’lir—a god of Spring—had returned to the Ethereal Grove where he fell into dormancy, awaiting rebirth into the mortal realm. The Transmigration ritual for each god involved a performance to inspire a merging of their spirit and that of the willing Vessel. There was the exuberant dance for Summer, a melancholy yet ultimately hopeful song for Autumn, and a grueling test of endurance through cold for Winter.

Ta’lir, among other things, represented fertility. Pleasures of the flesh were a common mode of worshipping him. As a priest of Ta’lir’s temple, Marion had partaken many times; alone, with one or two other clerics, and in the grand orgies. He was more than prepared for what was required of him in the ritual ahead. A spiritual and physical union with Ta’lir.

Marion felt a presence step in front of him. There was a rustle of fabric and the sound of bare feet padding against stone. He opened his eyes to see the High Priestess smiling warmly down at him, her face framed by long, brown hair. She held an ornate cup carved from wood in her hand which she leaned down to hand to him.

“Euphoric passage to the Grove,” she said in blessing as Marion took the cup.

He brought it to his lips, familiar with its contents. The cooled, maroon-coloured tea was brewed from a dried mix containing amiculus clover petals; a powerful aphrodisiac despite its mild, unremarkable flavour. Its influence on the body was enough to carry over even in the spirit through astral projection. Euphoric indeed.

Marion gave the empty cup back to the High Priestess. Another cleric, short in stature, took it from her and replaced it with a shallow bowl of dark paint. She knelt and began to mark him with the shapes and lines that would be branded into his skin once he merged with Ta’lir, denoting him as his Vessel. 

The tea quickly took effect. Heat swirled in Marion’s stomach before migrating lower as a pleasantly tingling pulse. His cock throbbed, gradually filling without a single touch until it stood erect. Need washed over him but he would not be stroking himself or seeking partners in the crowd around him. For once, that wasn’t a part of things; his body and ecstasy were promised solely to Ta’lir that day.

Marion breathed, his cock full and heavy. The High Priestess’ touch was warm and soft, her captivating bluish-grey eyes frequently holding his as she worked. He shivered at the memories of times he had the honor of worshipping with her. A hitched gasp left him, hips jolting slightly, as she finished the final line—a single, agonizingly slow stroke up the underside of his shaft.

She left him panting in the center of the circle, stepping back to join the other clerics who began to chant. The sacred earth gradually gained a bright green glow. Fractal patterns drew themselves into existence and spread inwards from it. As they reached Marion, the lines painted on him erupted with the same light. He was struck by the extraordinary pleasure of it.

His entire body felt alight and sensitive. Nobody was touching him, but the very air seemed to caress and tease. The chanting grew louder, the glow around him flaring as the ripples of invisible sensation intensified. It was like a fire; wild, blazing, hungry. Nipping, licking and leaving trails of desperation across every inch of him.

He fell back and only just managed to catch and hold himself up on his shaking arms, legs spreading open of their own accord. The flutes faded out but the drums beat harder, the sound of them pounding through him. Somehow in perfect time with every throb of his leaking cock. 

Marion tilted his head back, face angled at the ceiling bathed in that green light. Splayed out like this—wantonly moaning and achingly erect—he couldn’t help but feel like a beast crying out for another of its kind to mate. With that thought, the words came to him, spilling from his lips as if someone else had seized his voice.

“Take me, Ta’lir,” he implored to his dormant god. “Oh, Lord of my flesh. My erotic master. Take me!”

His vision became an all-consuming white. Images flooded his mind but did not linger on a single one for long. Wet, dripping holes swallowing his shaft. Slick cocks rubbing against his own. Tangles of hot, sweaty bodies thrusting and grinding. Groping hands. Eager mouths. On top of the drums and chanting came a rising, desperate cacophony of disembodied moans.

Just as Marion felt it all coming to a head, like he might just cum, a hand was placed on the center of his chest. It gave a hefty push and everything stopped. 

The surging, full-body pleasure was whisked away in a second. Though his cock still strained and he could feel the effects of the tea coursing through him. Silence settled around him like a fog, broken only by his heaving breaths. 

Marion was outside; he could feel a cool breeze on his naked form. There was birdsong and the whisper of leaves. The smell of earth, flowers, and petrichor filled his senses. He only realized then that the white light was gone, leaving darkness. His eyes were closed. Feeling slightly foolish, he opened them and awe took his breath.

The Grove was laid out in all its glory before him.

He was kneeling on a stone circle, carved with the same patterns that had sprung up in light back in the temple. Four tall, mossy pillars rose around him, made into the shape of rabbits standing on their hind legs, noses pointed skyward. Beyond that was a rich, verdant sprawl; long grasses, full bushes, and a dense wood that ringed the clearing he was in.

Directly ahead was a short staircase which led to a colossal tree. Marion gazed at its thick trunk and spotted a carved-out portion in the middle which contained a floating, glowing green mass. Lower still, sitting on a throne that melded into the tree, was the unmoving form of Ta’lir. 

Marion stood, not expecting the strength in his legs given what he had just gone through, and walked towards him. He had seen all of the sculptures, scrolls, and murals depicting Ta’lir’s likeness, but nothing could have prepared him for the radiance of the genuine article. 

Even sitting, the god was tall. Whatever visage he had, if any, was completely obscured by a wooden mask of a hare’s head that bore three eyes. There was a thick, lush mantle of vegetation growing from his shoulders that flared behind his head, speckled through with flowering clover. The torso and arms of the body looked carved from wood, though sleek. Marion could see the intricacies of it. There were joints that would allow Ta’lir to move with the ease of flesh and bone. 

The chest was a hollow like the one he had seen in the tree, though the hole was grated over with thin, uneven, wooden lines that intersected and split here and there. The result was a myriad of varying-sized, ovular holes. There were no innards to speak of; sunlight peaked through them to show the solid plane of the other side.

The wood of the upper half faded into the more flesh-like appearance of the lower, though green and mossy. Marion swallowed when his eyes travelled there and he laid eyes on it. Though dormant, Ta’lir was sporting a large, impressive erection. His thick shaft, with its enticing slight upward curve, stood proudly. Waiting. Propelled by piety and arousal that had far from relented, Marion wasted no time in kneeling between his god’s legs.

His hands lighted on Ta’lir’s thighs. The cock before him was almost intimidating, but reverence won out. He mouthed at the hanging, virile balls before working his way upwards. The taste was an ambrosia on his watering, roaming tongue. He licked the sensitive underside of the head, bringing his hand up to the shaft as he did. The sheer girth of it showed itself as his fingers couldn’t close around it.

Marion closed his lips over the round tip, stroking all he could. As he did, he felt a sudden throb against his palm. It came with a sound; a deep, heavy heartbeat sounding above him. He looked up to see the mass in the tree beginning to pulse just as a bright green glow came to the eyes of Ta’lir’s mask.

The large body drew in a breath—into what lungs, Marion didn’t know—and released it with a low, appreciative groan. Ta’lir shifted, his head rolling on his shoulders before tilting down. Marion’s heart pounded as their eyes met, but he didn’t dare stop; he couldn’t bear the thought of taking his mouth or hands off Ta’lir. 

A chuckle, cavernous and gratified, resounded in his mind rather than outward.

“Hello, dear one,” Ta’lir said, his voice thrumming through Marion’s entire being. It was reminiscent of the feeling he experienced during the ritual, though far less sourceless. “And have my thanks for—mmhn—for restoring me.”

Marion responded by taking Ta’lir further into his mouth, bobbing his head and pumping his hand over hot, turgid flesh. The god moaned and it went straight to Marion’s dick, spurring such an intense throb that his eyes briefly rolled. He could cum like this. Just from sucking Ta’lir’s cock. Just from the divine presence of his voice. He upped his pace, yearning to please and dizzy from the pleasure of every noise his efforts worked out.

“I know you,” Ta’lir said. “This eagerness…this lust. Oh, sweet Marion.”

With a wet sound, Marion pulled off of Ta’lir, his hand never stilling as his chest warmed in admiration.

“My reputation precedes me, Lord?” he asked breathlessly, eyelids flickering from the simple action of Ta’lir brushing a tender finger behind his ear—what it was going to feel like getting fucked by this being in this state was beyond his comprehension.

“Come here,” Ta’lir said, tapping his thigh. “Let me see you.”

Marion obeyed, climbing up into his god’s lap and straddling him. His cock raged, weeping onto Ta’lir; a simple but effective tribute. He was panting, well aware of his hole’s proximity to what every part of his insides ached for. Three glowing eyes gazed upon him. Though no emotion could be discerned from them, he could sense the radiating fondness. 

“Such a handsome figure,” Ta’lir marveled, fingertips lightly trailing over his Vessel’s sides. The smile in his tone was felt. “And this…”

His hand went to Marion’s dick, taking it between his massive forefinger and thumb. He began to stroke. Slow pass up. Pause. Slow pass down. The pattern repeated as he remained fixated on Marion’s face, drinking in his moans.

“My previous Vessel was a woman without this,” Ta’lir said. “I did love the change of pace, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss burying myself.”

Marion gasped; unable to speak, shaking from his god’s touch and the waves of his voice.

“You must get a lot of attention,” Ta’lir continued, stroking a little faster. “Such a big, gorgeous cock. This heat…and you throb so strongly. I can’t wait for it to be mine. Oh…we’ll do great things together.”

Marion felt his other hand reach to caress the small of his back, gliding down over the mounds of his ass. A long, dexterous finger breached him with surprising ease; was it his imagination or was he wet? His spirit’s burning desire to take Ta’lir into him in more ways than one must have manifested such things. That one, brief coherent thought melted away as he was deeply penetrated, a second finger swiftly joining the first.

They pumped rapidly, striking true against that near-blindingly sensitive spot inside him. His body jolted, back locking into a rigid, trembling arch as his breath halted. He was lightheaded by the time he was able to suck in air again through in quick, whimpering heaves. With a loud wail, he partially collapsed against Ta’lir, his fingers curling onto the inconsistent lattice that was his chest.

“T-Ta-Ta’lir! I can’t, I can’t—ahh!” Marion cried. “I’ll c-cum. I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum! I’m—!”

“Not until I do,” Ta’lir corrected, almost sing-song. “By what other power did you think we become one? I’ve been asleep for days…allow me some amusement.”

Marion’s head swum, time becoming an unknown blur. He wasn’t sure how long he experienced Ta’lir fucking him on his fingers, but every second was exquisite. If one was keen to equate the word to denial, that is; and he was. 

“You’re amazing, Marion,” Ta’lir praised. “Sucking me in so well. If this is how you take my fingers, then—.”

“Please, Lord,” Marion begged, forgetting himself at a mere insinuation. “I…I need it—.” 

“Not yet, my dear,” Ta’lir said, probing faster into the wet, yielding passage. “Not yet.”

True to Ta’lir’s promise, release didn’t come. Marion remained tottering on its edge. He bounced unconsciously, meeting the thrusts of those thick, relentless fingers. His cock felt engorged, hugged by his balls as his body was trapped in those euphoric seconds before orgasm. The roiling pressure, the fever overtaking his shaft, feeling the rivers he was leaking. He had never known such ecstasy; the Grove’s influence was a marvel.

Marion felt no exhaustion when Ta’lir finally removed his fingers. There was only exhilaration and hunger. He shifted his hips, moving until his ass found Ta’lir’s dick. Meeting the glowing eyes once more, he nudged it insistently. His hole was dripping. Twitching. Wanting.

There was that chuckle again. “How rude of me. Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you, Lord…thank you.”

Marion lined himself up and lowered down. His body shouldn’t have been able to take it entirely. Couldn’t have been able to. But it did, opening up as if driven by pure devotion. Every broad inch claimed him slowly until Ta’lir bottomed out. 

“Oh…oh, you’re perfect,” Ta’lir praised. 

The joy of such a connection with his god was overwhelming and Marion nearly cried. He sat there in hopelessly aroused disbelief, stuffed full and feeling every pulse that throbbed alongside that constant heartbeat. It grew faster as he began to grind.

He kept it slow; now that Ta’lir was inside him, he found himself wanting to savour it. Shallow thrusts were achieved as he lifted up slightly and slid back down. Even that pace felt like being stirred up, the sheer size of Ta’lir’s cock stretching him past his usual limits. His sweltering walls caressed and squeezed—mostly of his own doing, but involuntary clenches were inevitable.

“Yes,” Ta’lir breathed, a visible shiver running through his large frame. “Dance for me.”

His hands came up to cup Marion’s undulating torso, settling over his ribs as the thumbs found his nipples. The wide pads rolled and teased. Marion arched into the touch, expelling a breath that was equal parts a moan and a laugh; it tickled for a moment before settling on pleasure.

It wasn’t long before Ta’lir took control again. Effortlessly, he began to lift Marion up and down his cock. He would get him halfway up the shaft before dropping him to the hilt, that mysterious slick leaking out around him. His head tilted back against the throne as he groaned long and deep.

“Take me…take me.”

Marion’s breath hitched at hearing his own words echoed at him. “I’m yours.”

Ta’lir growled, a sound juxtaposed with the serene herbivore his mask depicted. It was more arousing than it had any right to be. He gripped Marion’s hips and began to pound up into him, grunting with each thrust. His cock seemed impossibly harder; thicker, swelling in its confines.

Marion’s mouth was open, stunned silence occasionally broken by moans cracking his voice to a higher register. He swallowed up that monstrous shaft as if he had been made as its sheath. Like he would be hollow without it. But Ta’lir would fill his empty spaces. Until death parted their spirits.

“I’m yours, I’m yours—ahhh, I’m yours!” he chanted.

He felt himself moving. Ta’lir was standing, hands supporting Marion’s ass as his cock stilled firmly inside. He turned them so he could kneel backwards on his throne and press Marion into its back. His thrusting resumed, faster than his previous position had allowed. A quick clap of meeting flesh filled the Grove.

Marion clutched at Ta’lir. The scent of earth and something more akin to a mammalian musk flooded his nose. The latter grew stronger the more Ta’lir thrust, close to overwhelming the rest and laced with intoxicating pheromones. Marion could practically taste it and drool began to gather in his mouth. He moaned, his hole becoming a desperate vice against the burning beast of a shaft plunging into him.

Gone were Ta’lir’s words, replaced by growls and other feral noises of pleasure as he slammed. Those once-gentle hands gripped, digging deeply into the meat of Marion’s ass. His precum was abundant and incessant in its flow, adding to the lewd squelch of every thrust. It had to be running down his balls, making a mess and dripping onto his throne.

The ever-present heartbeat above their writhing forms raced. Marion was vaguely aware of the glow of that pulsing mass reaching for them in vein-like streaks down the tree’s trunk. Their markings ignited and he felt the first tell-tale throbs making their way through his cock, matching the pace of that pulse. He was close. They were close.

“Cum with me,” Ta’lir said, his voice rough. “Cum…with…!”

He suddenly stilled deep inside and warmth surged into Marion a split second before his own orgasm gripped him. He wailed, explosive ecstasy rushing into every extremity as he excessively came. It seemed endless, spurting from him as his hole milked a similar, copious stream from Ta’lir. 

There was a flood; dripping down his sides, flowing into him. Pump after pump. Two voices, loudly moaning, were beginning to be drowned out by the furious thumping of the tree’s pulse.

Marion’s vision whited and—.

He was back in the temple, kneeling in that circle. His abdomen and thighs were covered in splatters of his own cum. It didn’t cease upon his return, pleasure working through him and making his hips buck as his cock continued to burst. His hole twitched uncontrollably; he could still feel the heat of Ta’lir’s seed and the stretch of his girth. The room was silent save for his own unrestrained moans as his divine orgasm was given proper reverence. 

A faintness washed over Marion as the magic tied to the ritual abated. He collapsed and was descended upon by some of the other clerics. They welcomed him back—a greeting for him and their god. He was vaguely aware of being wrapped in multi-coloured, flower-embroidered cloth and carried to the baths. Gentle hands cleaned him with steaming, pleasant-smelling water as he continued to shiver.

Through heavy eyes, he inspected what he could see of himself. The painted marks had permanently bonded to his skin in swirling lines of brilliant emerald green. But otherwise, he felt no different and a distant pang of concern came to him.

Did it work? Had he been enough?

The High Priestess was carding her fingers through his hair when a familiar voice came to him, clear in his mind; murmurs of praise and contagious excitement for a promising future.

End

Masterlist

[talonabraxas]

The Green Man by Talon Abraxas

Symbol of life and nature:

The most common and perhaps obvious interpretation of the Green Man is that of a pagan nature spirit, a symbol of man’s reliance on and union with nature, a symbol of the underlying life-force, and of the renewed cycle of growth each spring. In this respect, it seems likely that he has evolved from older nature deities such as the Celtic Cernunnos and the Greek Pan and Dionysus.

Some have gone so far as to make the argument that the Green Man represents a male counterpart - or son or lover or guardian - to Gaia (or the Earth Mother, or Great Goddess), a figure which has appeared throughout history in almost all cultures. In the 16th Century Cathedral at St-Bertrand de Comminges in southern France, there is even an example of a representation of a winged Earth Mother apparently giving birth to a smiling Green Man.

Because by far the most common occurrences of the Green Man are stone and wood carvings in churches, chapels, abbeys and cathedrals in Europe (particularly in Britain and France), some have seen this as evidence of the vitality of pre-Christian traditions surviving alongside, and even within, the dominant Christian mainstream. Much has been made of the boldness with which the Green Man was exhibited in early Christian churches, often appearing over main doorways, and surprisingly often in close proximity to representations of the Christ figure.

Incorporating a Green Man into the design of a medieval church or cathedral may therefore be seen as a kind of small act of faith on the part of the carver that life and fresh crops will return to the soil each spring and that the harvest will be plentiful. Pre-Christian pagan traditions and superstitions, particularly those related to nature and trees, were still a significant influence in early medieval times, as exemplified by the planting of yew trees (a prominent pagan symbol) in churchyards, and the maintenance of ancient “sacred groves” of trees.

Tree worship goes back into the prehistory of many of the cultures that directly influenced the people of Western Europe, not least the Greco-Roman and the Celtic, which is no great surprise when one considers that much of the continent of Europe was covered with vast forests in antiquity. It is perhaps also understandable that there are concentrations of Green Men in the churches of regions where there were large stretches of relict forests in ancient times, such as in Devon and Somerset, Yorkshire and the Midlands in England. The human-like attributes of trees (trunk-body, branches-arms, twigs-fingers, sap-blood), as well as their strength, beauty and longevity, make them an obvious subject for ancient worship. The Green Man can be seen as a continuing symbol of such beliefs, in much the same way as the later May Day pageants of the Early Modern period, many of which were led by the related figure of Jack-in-the-Green.

Symbol of fertility:

Although the Green Man is most often associated with spring, May Day, etc, there are also several examples which exhibit a more autumnal cast to the figure. For example, some Green Men prominently incorporate pairs of acorns into their designs (there is a good example in King's College Chapel, Cambridge), a motif which clearly has no springtime associations. In the same way, hawthorn leaves frequently appear on English Green Men (such as the famous one at Sutton Benger), and they are often accompanied by autumn berries rather than spring flowers. The Green Man in the Chapelle de Bauffremont in Dijon (one of the few to retain its original paint coloration) shows quite clearly its leaves in their autumn colours.

This may have been simple artistic license. However, acorns, partly due to their shape, were also a common medieval fertility symbol, and hawthorn is another tree which was explicitly associated with sexuality, all of which perhaps suggests a stronger link with fertility, as well as with harvest-time.

Symbol of death and rebirth:

The disgorging Green Man, sprouting vegetation from his orifices, may also be seen as a memento mori, or a reminder of the death that await all men, as well as a Pagan representation of resurrection and rebirth, as new life naturally springs out of our human remains. The Greek and Roman god Dionysus/Bacchus, often suggested as an early precursor of the Green Man, was also associated with death and rebirth in his parallel guise as Okeanus.

Several of the ancient Celtic demigods, Bran the Blessed being one of the best known, become prophetic oracles once their heads had been cut off (another variant on the theme of death and resurrection) and, although these figures were not traditionally represented as decorated with leaves, there may be a link between them and the later stand-alone Green Man heads.

There are several examples of self-consciously skull-like Green Men, with vegetation sprouting from eye-sockets, although these are more likely to be found on tombstones than as decoration in churches (good examples can be seen at Shebbear and Black Torrington in Devon, England). Such images might be interpreted as either representing rebirth and resurrection (in that the new life is growing out of death), or they might represent death and corruption (with the leaves growing parasitically through the decaying body).

The Green Man as archetype:

The very fact that images of the Green Man have appeared historically in such disparate and apparently unconnected locations have led some commentators, notably Roweena Pattee Kryder and William Anderson, to suggest that the figure is part of our collective unconscious, and represents a primeval archetype (in Jungian parlance) which is central to our relationship with Nature.

Phyllis Araneo has suggested that the appearance of the Green Man in European and worldwide art is a cyclical phenomenon triggered by times of crisis or significant change. For example, she suggests the proliferation of Green Man imagery after the 11th Century can perhaps be associated with feelings of relief and celebration after the widely predicted apocalypse of the millennium failed to materialize.

In the same way, the modern resurgence may have been triggered by the environmental crisis we are currently living through. In its modern revival, in the wake of James Lovelock’s Gaia Hypothesis and the birth of the modern Green movement, the Green Man can be seen as the archetype of the “conservator”, whose brief is to counsel us to take from the environment only what we need to survive and to conserve the rest, and to remind us of our responsibilities for the stewardship of the natural world. A quote from Mike Harding succinctly summarizes this position: “If anything on this poisoned planet gives us hope of renewal it is this simple foliate head that has been there in one form or another since the beginning.”

-The Enigma of the Green Man - Theories and Interpretations