#william would be the best s/o try and convince me otherwise | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

meat--grindr · 4 years ago

Note

another trans man fixated on Martin here!! 💕

could i request some NSFW of an ftm S/O teasing Martin while hes on the phone trying to do another interview as The Count? not a lot of talking from the S/O while hes on the phone, mostly physical stuff & feeling him up thru his clothes. the rest is up to you >:)))

(def going to use as a drawing prompt im just so so embarrassed to request off anon 😔😔😔)

Alright, so, this prompt has been living in my head rent-free ever since I first read it and I am so freaking excited to finally get to it. I’m sorry it took so long. I will admit this was a bit of a challenge for me because I am notoriously bad at writing dialogue. But I feel like it was good practice. Sorry if it sounds a little stilted in spots, I’m still learning.

Please, please, please link me to that art if you ever get around to it! You knocked it out of the park with this prompt and I’d love to give the art some love if you’re comfortable with sharing!

The Count Didn’t Count on This – Martin Mathias (Trans-Masculine Reader) – NSFW.

· It’s late, and for once, you’re exactly where you feel you should be at this late hour—not sprawled across a chair reading, or gazing out of the window, watching the cars pass and counting the neighbours’ lights as they flick on and off in lieu of stargazing. And for the first time in at least a week, you’re not trapped at your desk, frantically typing the final draft of a paper, hindered by the slow keys of a typewriter that does not care a whit about the deadline steadily hurtling toward you. No, thankfully, this night has brought with it far more comfortable circumstances—you find yourself in bed, tired bones sinking into the plush mattress, consciousness caught in the bleary space between sleep and not.

· Even better, you aren’t alone.

· Tonight, your bed is warmed by another body, long and thin, curled tightly against your own, as though it were some sort of crime to leave even an inch of space between you. A bony hip digs into your thigh and you’re sure the press of your head and shoulder against his chest must make breathing difficult for him. But he’s made no attempt to shrug you off or shift your weight to a more comfortable spot, so you likewise let it be. In all honesty, you’re simply too comfortable to bother and you feel it’s safe to assume the same is true for Martin too.

· The slow, even beat of his heart pulses against your cheek, and his long fingers stroke absently over your bare shoulder. The rough texture of burgeoning callouses catches against your skin—the sensation, though not wholly unpleasant, makes you shudder. Sometimes, you forget Martin works with his hands. When you hold them, they seem so delicate—his long fingers better suited to playing the piano than tightening screws or hammering nails. But he’s good at repairs and more importantly, he seems to find enjoyment the work. It certainly keeps him busy enough on the few afternoons that Cuda isn’t running him ragged in the shop, much to your personal dismay. But his nights—the nights like this—belong to you and you alone.

· Your eyelids flutter closed, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, maybe even longer, you feel like you can rest. Really rest. Dimly, you find yourself wondering if it had more to do with finished papers and diminished responsibilities, or the reintroduction of the physical intimacy you’ve been missing so dearly. Though you can’t say for certain, you have a sneaking suspicion it’s the latter.

· The longer you know Martin, the more you’re convinced that there is a preternatural bubble of calm that hangs around him. You can feel it in the way even the grouchiest old women in the store seem to soften toward him—hiding small smiles behind their sleeves, sometimes even calling him ‘dear,’ or in the way Cuda’s volatile temper deflates when his cruel words slide off Martin’s back as though he’s heard it all before from people who frightened him far greater. You’ve seen it at work on the feral cats that roam the neighbourhood—while they hiss and swipe at the children who chase them through the dusty streets, they sit willingly at Martin’s feet, rubbing against his legs with a familiarity that borders on friendly. And it’s in the way he looks at you—looks into you with those dark eyes that seem far too old for that handsome, youthful face—intense and all-seeing, but never judgemental. He is a point of unflappable calm in a world which never seems to slow for even a second. That calm has settled into you now, seeping into your bones as you lay there, listening to his heart thumping in the darkness.

· The low crackle of the radio hovers at the edge of your hearing, a burst of static cutting through the droning voices. You’d stopped listening properly ages ago—the third time the DJ had made an attempt to dismiss his latest caller. It was an old man who was seven shades of pissed about the ‘teen-age hooligans’ who were ‘tipping over his bins every night and eating his trash.’ Of course, everyone with half a brain, including the host himself, knows it’s an animal—probably a raccoon, or a family of raccoons, but this old geezer has somehow convinced himself it’s a gaggle of ‘Satan-worshipping teenagers who have been brainwashed by heavy metal music and Pepsi Cola.’

· Okay. Sure.

· It’s utterly ridiculous, and just the sort of thing you’ve come to expect from the people who live in Braddock. Or the ones who call in to a show like this anyhow.

· In a way, you feel bad for the poor DJ. Sure, he welcomes strange callers of all kinds, from alien abductees and bigfoot hunters to bereaved parents who teenagers are ‘just growing up too fast,’ or ‘a little too interested in the works of William Shakespeare.’ He even encourages them at times, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and in your mind, this, funny as it may be, is probably it. You’re sure whatever the station is paying the guy, it isn’t enough to suffer through being called a ‘brainless sack of human garbage’ by a crazy old man.

· “And that’s about all the time we have,” Despite his cheery tone, the poor guy sounds exhausted. “Thank you for calling!”

· Another burst of static drowns out the old man’s reply, but you’re sure that whatever he’d said, it was not ‘radio-friendly.’

· “…our next caller. You are on the air, Sir!”

· “Yeah, uh…hi, Barry.” The man sounds young—probably not much older than yourself—and very nervous. He must be a first-time caller. As he and the DJ share opening pleasantries—what’s your name, how old are you, where are you calling in from tonight, is that a cat I hear in the background? —your attention begins to drift again. You teeter for a moment on the edge of sleep, the clean scent of your linen sheets and Martin’s shampoo filling your nose.

· “I was just wondering if you’ve heard from the Count again since last time?”

· And just like that, you’re awake again, attention fully focused on your radio and the funny little show that whispers through it.

· The caller is asking about Martin. A cold shiver rumbles through your body. People ask about Martin on the show all the time—of course, they don’t know that’s who they’re asking about, but you do. It’s so strange, to hear a stranger talk about someone you know so well—even worse when they speak about him like they know him too. Sometimes, they make you laugh with their outlandish theories, but sometimes they make you sick—sick with worry: when he’s threatened with violence or exposure, sick with fear: when they make guesses that hit a little too close to home, and sick with jealousy: when they claim to have had an ‘encounter’ with him, or worse, try to set one up on air.

· You know about Martin, of course—that he is a vampire, or at least he thinks he’s a vampire. Whether or not you believe him is another question entirely. He certainly does not abide by the ‘vampire rules’ as you know them from stories and television—he doesn’t sleep in a coffin, filled with dirt from his homeland or otherwise, rather he sleeps in a bed (curled up beside you more often than not these days). He cuts a handsome figure in mirrors and the photographs that you have pinned up above your desk. He walks about in the sun most days without complaint despite his pale complexion, and though he may not be a sleek. Predatory creature that oozes confidence, grace, and sex appeal, he’s no slouch either—lithe and handsome in a boyish sort of way, all knees, elbows, and wide dark eyes.

· In fact, the only requirement he seems to meet on the proverbial ‘vampire checklist’ is his fixation with blood—and the need to consume it. Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t. You’ve come to the conclusion that what you think really doesn’t matter in the end—your opinion isn’t going to sway him on the subject one way or another. This is a truth about himself he believes perhaps more deeply than anything else. Who were you to try and change that?

· So, you do your best to take everything in stride, and when you can’t, you humour him. Still, every once in a while, something will trip you up—you still can’t quite decide if he’s joking about being over eighty years old or not. But you do your best. You had even let him feed on you once. Though only once. In the end, it was Martin who had decided the experience was not one he would like to repeat.

· He had laid you out on your bed, “I don’t want you to get hurt if you faint.” Though you’d told him nearly a hundred times that you’d be just fine, that you’d had blood taken before at the hospital, he had insisted.

· You had expected things to be different. For a start, you had expected him to climb into your lap, to press his lips against your neck, seeking your pulse the way it’s done in the movies. Instead, he’d taken out a little white kit from his bag. He had unzipped it and laid it out on the bed, revealing a little bottle of clear liquid, a row of sterile, hypodermic needles, and a pack of fresh razor blades.

· His long fingers fell upon the needles, caressing them lovingly one by one. Much to your relief, he did not pick one up. As if he could sense your apprehension, he’d said, “Don’t worry, I won’t need these.” He’d glanced up at you, measuring your reaction, “I won’t need them because you’re not going to fight me. Are you?” It wasn’t really a question. You shook your head, and the corners of his lips quirked up into a smile, “Good. It’s so much easier when they don’t fight me.” Those words had made you shudder. He really had done this before, then. Part of you hadn’t believed him—he seemed so…harmless

· He’d picked out a single blade from the package, meticulously removing the white paper wrapping, taking extra care not to tear it, or let the blade cut into it. When he was through, he folded the paper into a neat square and dropped it onto the comforter. He lay the blade flat on his palm for you to see. “I don’t have pointy teeth, you see.” He took your hand, opening his mouth and guiding your fingers along the edges of his flat, dull teeth. “They aren’t sharp, so they don’t cut deep enough. You understand?” You’d nodded and he had kissed your fingertips gently, one by one.

· “I’ll be careful, I promise,” He’d said, “I’ll only take a little. Just enough to take the edge off.” Despite the hungry glint in his eyes, you’d known he was telling the truth. He didn’t need to reassure you of that. You trusted him. Besides, you had asked for this. At least, he’d stopped asking if he still had your permission every five minutes. Of course he did.

· And yet. Your heartbeat had kicked up, jittering like a frightened bird when you’d seen the needles and the razor. It was as though actually seeing them had made the whole situation feel more real. There was no denying you were afraid, but you didn’t tell him to stop—you didn’t want to. You had made up your mind. You wanted this; wanted to help.

· He’d held your hand in his own like it was a thing made of glass. His fingers gripped the razor with a practiced grace as he held it just above your palm. Watching him, you were struck for the second time by just how rehearsed this seemed. How many times had he done this, with or without permission?

· “Take a deep breath for me, okay? There’s a good boy.” Did he talk to the others too? Even the ones who fought back? You could picture him, chattering softly against the skin of some poor soul, sprawled limp across the floor.

· Limp or lifeless?

· The thought unsettled you, but you did as you were told, filling your lungs nearly to capacity as the sharp edge of the blade bit into the meat of your palm just below your thumb. As promised, he had been quick, pressing only as hard as was necessary. Even so, the sting of it made your flinch, your hand jumping in his own. His fingers tensed around yours, the tightness of his grip reflected in the grimace that flashed across his face as he bent his head to seal his lips around the wound.

· You had expected to feel him pulling the blood from you, but he simply let it flow into his mouth, the coppery taste heavy on his tongue. He exhaled through his nose, long and low—a pleased sound. Something about that set you more at ease. He hadn’t recoiled or wrinkled his nose at the taste of your blood. You hadn’t even realized you were worried about how you tasted until that moment.

· You had started to feel dizzy beneath him—dizzy not from a loss of blood, but the wet heat of his mouth against your skin. Your heart had stuttered in your chest as his tongue probed gently around the edges of the wound, soothing your sparking nerves, even as the blood continued to drip down his throat.

· When at last, he pulled away, his face was flushed, and his breath came hard; his chest heaving as though he’d just run a great distance. Immediately, his hand shot to his front pocket, fingers searching for the roll of gauze bandages he’s swiped from Cuda’s first-aid kit.

· He’d wrapped the clean white fabric around your hand with such care it made your heart ache almost as much as the wound itself. When he was finished, he’d flipped your hand over and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. Then, he spoke. His voice was small, barely more than a ragged whisper, “Thank you.”

· “Was that…was it okay?” Your skin felt feverish, as though the heat of his mouth had seeped into your flesh and was burning you from the inside out. And the dizzy feeling had only grown worse, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut for a long moment.

· Martin was still struggling to get his breathing under control, “Yes. I-It was good…better than good, actually. But…”

· “But?” Had you done something wrong? Had you tasted bad after all? You cracked open one eye, then the other. The spinning had mostly subsided, but you still felt unsteady. “What can I do better next time?”

· He’d gone stiff all over then, and his reply had come sudden and sharp, “No!” He cringed, the force behind his words clearly surprising himself as well. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, “No ‘next time.’ I…I can’t stand hurting you like that. I won’t do it again.”

· You’d gazed up at him, blinking in confusion for a second. Then you realized what he’d meant—you had flinched when he’d cut you. Oh.

· You reached up, cupping his cheek, “Oh, Martin. You didn’t hurt me. Not really.” It wasn’t strictly true—it had hurt a little, but you had been prepared for it to. You brushed a stray droplet of blood from the corner of his mouth with a careful swipe of your thumb.

· “Yes, I did. I saw it.” You had tried to protest further, but he’d cut you off, much to your surprise. Martin almost never talked back like this, though perhaps you’d simply never given him a reason before. “I saw you flinch. I won’t put you through this again.”

· And he hadn’t. Though you’d brought the idea up more than once, he had dismissed it each time with the same stubborn shake of his head. If Martin was anything, he was true to his word.

· “…and it’s been such a long time since we heard from the guy.”

· The DJ hums in agreement, “It has indeed, my friend. Maybe we’ll hear from him later tonight. If you’re out there listening, Count, don’t be a stranger! Give us a call,” He begins rattling off the stations toll-free number. “We’re all dying to hear from you again!”

· You feel Martin stiffen up against you. You knew about the interviews he had done; you’d even heard one of them, back when Martin was little more to you than a silent, sullen face behind the counter at Cuda’s shop. And even when he’d started talking to you, he sounded different over the radio—his voice was deeper, and he sounded so confidant, so sure of himself when he talked about his ‘sickness.’ He almost never sounded like that in day-to-day life. You weren’t embarrassed to admit you found it attractive.

· Martin on the other hand, was mortified to know you had heard him. He had known that people were listened to him, obviously, but they were supposed to be strangers. You actually knew him, and he’d talked about sex. Of course, reminding him you’d done a lot more in your time together than simply listen to him talk about sex did little to lessen his horror.

· Of course, you also knew he’d been doing fewer and fewer interviews now that he had you to talk to and share his life with. But on occasion, when the pleading from the DJ gets too desperate, or he was simply that bored, Martin could be coaxed back onto the other end of the phoneline once again.

· You glance up at him, but in the darkness, his expression is unreadable, eyes cast down toward the end of the bed, long lashes throwing feathered shadows across his pale cheeks. From the very beginning, he’s been hard to read. As you’ve come to know him better, you’ve needed to get comfortable with the idea of asking when you want to know something you could easily intuit if speaking to anyone else. He’s very good at hiding his thoughts and feelings behind a neutral expression and placid silence, but he would tell you almost anything if you asked him directly; so long as he had the words to explain it to you.

· Do you want to make a call, Martin?”

· For a long moment, he’s silent, turning the idea over in his mind a few times. You had never actually been with him when he’d done an interview in the past. He’d usually wait until you were three days deep in an assignment with no quick end in sight, or out of town with family. Maybe he would be too embarrassed to do it with you here or maybe he’s just not in the mood tonight. But, after a minute, he tilts his head down toward you and says, “Why not?”

· The radio crackles out a jaunty tune—a commercial for some small business or another. “I’ll call in a few minutes. He doesn’t seem busy tonight.” Martin sits up, bracing his back against the headboard of your bed, and dislodging you from your perch. You grumble a little, irritated by the loss of your comfy spot, but you crawl into his lap anyway.

· You press soft kisses into his skin, beginning at his hairline, and trailing down over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks—the right then the left—the very tip of his nose, and finally his lips. He smiles against your mouth, leaning into the kiss with his whole body.

· When you pull away only a moment later, you can practically hear the pouty turn of his mouth. He whines softly, but you pay him no mind, trailing kisses down his chin. “Are you nervous, Martin?” The question comes out muffled by the soft curve of his jaw.

· “Not really, no…” He trails off, eyes cast to the ceiling, “I like the attention, I s’pose.”

· You pull back to look at him, barely stifling a snort of amusement, “Don’t I give you enough?”

· His eyes slide from the ceiling, falling upon you dark and wide. For a moment, you think he’s taken you seriously, but the pouty turn of his mouth breaks into a blinding grin, “You give me lots, sure, but I’m a creature of the night, remember? We always want more.”

· The two of you sit there for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, the silence stretching on into the night. Then, you collapse into each other in a fit of giggles. Martin buries his head into the crook of your neck, shaking with quiet laughter. Sure, when he’d said wasn’t untrue, but when he put it like that, it was hard not to laugh.

· “Welcome back, everybody. It’s almost the top of the hour at 01:57! I’m your host Barry…”

· You hadn’t even heard the ads end! Martin scrambles for the chunky landline phone that rests on the beside table, nimble fingers punching in the numbers at speed. Though his calls had become less and less frequent, he evidently kept the number somewhere in his memory.

· Martin’s voice is hushed as he speaks to whoever manned the phones down at the radio station, muttering something about ‘the Count.’ As he speaks, he winds the coiled phone cord around a delicate finger. It’s a simple, distracted habit of Martin’s but it makes your heart flutter whenever you catch him doing it.

· You stretch your arm as far as you can, reaching for the radio, unwilling to give up your perch in Martin’s lap for even a second. Your fingertips brush the cool metal—once, twice—then you manage to curl your fingers around it. Pulling it into your lap you turn the volume down low so only you can hear it.

· “I’m just getting word that we have a special guest on the line,” the DJ sounds positively elated, “Folks, it looks like the Count is back in town. Hello, Count! Where have ya’ been?”

· Martin hesitates for a moment, his jaw working as he searches for the words, “Around.”

· There is a definite lag between the words in his mouth, and those same words coming through the radio. The dissonance confounds your ears and makes your head ache in a dizzy sort of way, but you want to hear both halves of this conversation, not just Martin’s.

· “So, what trouble have you been getting into since we last spoke, Count? Murdered any pretty ladies recently?”

· There’s a smile in Martin’s voice, “Not ladies, no.”

· “Oh really? Any men then?”

Martin glances down at you, though he makes a non-committal noise. The DJ takes a breath, as though he’s going to say something, but Martin cuts him off, “I wouldn’t call what I do murder, anyhow.”

· “No? But you still need to drink blood, right?”

· “Oh, yes.”

· “How have you been getting your food, then? Don’t vampires uh…kill with every strike?”

· Martin laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shudder through you. “I’ve been managing.” His tone is damn near conversational. You gaze down at him, marvelling at how easy this seems to be for him. The Martin you’ve come to know and love rarely (if ever) speaks to strangers, and when he has no other choice, he’s never this talkative. It’s strange, but by no means an unwelcome change. You nuzzle against him, letting his voice thrum through your skull as it vibrates around in his chest.

· “Enough talk of blood and guts, Count. What about your other problems, huh? Tell me, are the streets of Braddock safe at last from the real terror stalking them? Have you…” He pauses conspiratorially, “Found yourself a girl yet?”

· Those words drive an icy spike of hurt deep into your guts. No, he had not found himself a girl. Martin must have felt your jaw clenching, as his free hand begins to card through your hair—soothing and soft.

· “I’ve found…someone.” The implications of that word settles you almost as much as his touch. ‘Someone.’ Not a woman, but someone of significance, nonetheless. He bends down to press a quick kiss into the crown of your head. “Someone special.”

· The DJ gasps, sounding scandalized. “Someone special! Well, I never. Good for you, Count.” You can’t say you’re a fan of the man’s tone—pleasant enough, but with a sharp edge that borders on condescending. But there’s little you can do but grit your teeth and bear it. “How long until you suck this one dry and move on?”

· Wow. Fuck this guy. On some level, you’d known he was an asshole—sure you felt bad for him when people were rude, but he could dish it out just as well as he could take it. Every once in a while, he’d push a caller too hard or make a snide comment the conversation could have done without. You didn’t like hearing it when strangers were involved, and now that you were the subject of such a comment, you like it even less. He makes it sound like you’re some random conquest, or worse, little more than a meal to Martin. How wrong he was.

· Suck this one dry and move on? Fat chance, Buddy. Though, his wording did give you an idea…maybe you could make this night just a little more interesting for the both of you.

You sit back, uncurling your legs and dropping your knees to either side of Martin’s hips, straddling his lap properly. Settling your weight back into his lap, you pull a face, pointing to the radio in your lap and mouthing, ‘What a jaggoff!’

· Martin’s lips press into a thin line as he tries to stifle his laughter. He nods sympathetically but doesn’t say anything about it to the DJ. He’s slow to anger, preferring to divert the conversation rather than cause a scene. You can’t help but admire him for that. You lean forward, stamping a kiss against his collarbone.

· “I…uh…try not to eat the things I love.”

· “Ooooh, so it’s love, huh?”

· You roll your eyes at the DJ, though you can’t deny hearing Martin say he loves you sends a little thrill through you—it was the same thrill you’d felt the first time he had said it to you, and the same thrill you hoped to feel for years to come. You trail little, open-mouthed kisses up the column of Martin’s throat, your mouth feverishly warm against his skin. A shudder jolts through him like an electric shock as your teeth scape across his Adam’s apple. You grin against his flesh, sliding up to nip along the underside of his jaw. There is a sensitive spot at the very corner that you love to exploit, and now seems like the perfect opportunity to do so.

· Your teeth graze over the spot and his body jitters beneath you. His voice catches in his throat, though if the DJ notices, he doesn’t comment. You nip gently at the spot, reddening the pale skin as you worry it with your teeth. You long to suck a bruise there—the purple-blue hue would doubtless look stunning against the pallor of his skin, but you knew Cuda would have a conniption if he saw it, and you didn’t want to put Martin through that again. Not after last time. The pair of you had agreed that perhaps in future, it would be better if any hickeys you left remained under your clothes.

· Pressing one final kiss against that spot, you pull back to look at him. You can tell he’s getting flustered—there’s a flush beginning to creep up his neck from beneath the collar of his t-shirt, deep pink and blotchy. You know, given time, it will reach his cheeks, the colour blooming high on his cheekbones. When you get him worked up enough, you could make Martin blush to the very tips of his ears. It was adorable.

· Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt as you drag your nails down his chest. His teeth catch his lower lip. You can almost hear the whine trapped behind those pearly teeth.

· “Why don’t you tell us a little about this special someone, Count?”

· Martin hesitates, “I don’t know about that.”

· “Nonsense! You can tell your good ol’ pal Barry. Who am I gonna tell?”

· Martin isn’t that stupid. He knows Barry doesn’t need to tell anyone anything—he’s live on air, he’d be telling them himself. His eyes flick down to yours, searching for something, be it permission or resistance. He pulls the phone away from his ear, resting it against his shoulder as he waits for you to make up your mind. You know he’d hang up in an instant if you asked him to—he’d likely do you one better and never call in again if the DJ was just going to ask questions about you all night long. But you trusted Martin not to give too much information away—he’d managed to stay hidden all this time, after all.

· You nodded at him, smiling and thumbing gently over a nipple. Though your touch is light, and the sensation is dampened by the fabric of his shirt, Martin makes a sound as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He shifts beneath you, tucking the phone underneath his chin as he moves.

· You grip the striped fabric of his shirt, working it in your hands. You lift it a little, fingers slipping just beneath it to splay against the flat plane of his stomach. His skin is warm and soft beneath your hands. You look down at him, arching a brow and asking for permission with only your eyes.

· “Fine.” He says, and though the word is an answer for the DJ’s pleading, he’s talking to you, looking directly into your eyes—granting the permission you were so hoping for.

· “Great! So, how long have you been together?”

· You fall into him, hands pushing the soft cotton of his shirt up over his chest. Your lips are on his skin in a matter of seconds, trailing kisses across every inch of exposed skin—stomach, ribs, hips, and everything in between.

· “It’s been ahh—” His words are cut short by a tight little moan as you bite down hard just below his left nipple. However, he manages a solid recovery as your tongue laves over the spot soothing the sting, playing the whole thing off as though he had needed time to stop and think about it, “—bout a year, maybe a little longer.”

· Clever boy.

· You drag your tongue a little higher, flicking over the sensitive skin of his nipple. He arches into your touch, hips canting up against yours, threatening to buck you from your perch. He tilts his head, trapping the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, reaching for you with both hands.

· He takes your cheeks into his hands, pulling your head away from his chest. You grin up at him, taking in his expression—his pupils blown so wide with want they swallow all but the slimmest ring of brown iris, his lips parted and shining in the semi-darkness, flushed to the tips of his ears.

· You surge up to kiss him, remembering only at the last moment, he needs to keep his mouth free to carry on the conversation. With a huff, you divert your course, and fix your lips back against the skin of Martin’s neck.

· He swallows hard as you press your lips back against his pulse, pushing his hips back up into yours. You can’t keep the grin form your face as you feel him pressing up against you—the outline in his pants far more noticeable now.

· His hands tremble slightly as they search for yours, dragging them down to the front of his jeans. You grin widens as you press down. Even through the thick denim, you can feel his cock throb under your palm. Someone’s excited.

· You look down at him and he turns his head away, flushing a shade darker. He was so easy to wind up like this, it was almost unbelievable. A few kisses here, and gentle touch there, and he was a blushing, whining mess spread out on your sheets for you to enjoy however your pleased. You had chalked the over-sensitivity up to a lack of experience, and had expected it to fade after a few months, but it hadn’t. He was just that reactive, not that you were complaining.

· With deft fingers, you pop the button of his jeans, quietly dragging the zipper down. He lifts his hips, wriggling helpfully as you drag his pants and underwear down over his thighs.

· His cock bobs free, flushed and leaking already. You ghost the pads of your fingers over the soft skin of his shaft, and he shudders, his whole body tensing. His knuckles are white where he grips the phone, and his jaw is tight with the struggle of keeping quiet.

· You wrap your hand around him, stroking gently from base to tip. His back arches off from the headboard, and he falls forward, burying his head in the crook of your neck. The phone receiver bumps against your collarbone, hard and hollow. The plastic is pleasantly cool against your feverish skin.

· “Is it different being with a…uh…forgive the expression, normal person?”

· “They’re a…” His laugh is breathy, almost a moan as he glances down at you, “a real handful.”

· You barely stifle a laugh. You glare down at him in mock disapproval, and he sticks his tongue out at you. Cheeky little bastard. Though the colour still sits high on his cheeks, and his breathing comes through parted lips in short puffs, he seems to have adjusted well to your pace.

· “Nothing you can’t handle though, I’m sure. Do they know about your…condition, shall we say?”

· “They are aware, yes.”

· The DJ laughs, “And how did that go? Can’t be an easy thing to hear—that your boyfriend might vamp out and eat you whole!”

· Martin sighs, “I already told you, I don’t eat people…” His voice is much steadier now, even as your fingers brush along the sensitive spots on the underside of his cock. That means its time to switch things up. You can’t have him getting too comfortable. Where would the fun be in that? You tighten your grip—something that usually makes Martin thrash against the sheets and sob into your pillows—and begin to swipe your thumb gently over the tip of his cock with every upward stroke. He almost drops the phone as he yanks it away from his mouth. He covers the receiver with a shaking hand just in time, as a soft whine slips through his teeth, “Oh, fuck…”

· You press a finger up against your lips, reminding him to be quiet. He presses up into your fist, his hips stuttering as your thumb traces a lazy circle around his head. His free hand flutters nervously about his mouth, as he tries desperately to keep quiet. His breath comes sharp and quick though his nose as he struggles to keep control. You shift your weight, pinning his hips back down with your thighs, and though he tries to buck back up against you, you hold him firmly in place. He whines high in his throat, shooting a pleading look up at you, but you just shake your head and point at the phone, ‘Keep going.’

· Slowly, Martin brings the receiver back up to his ear. His tongue flickers out over his lips and he lets out a shaky breath, “S-Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

· “I said, ‘let’s circle back to what you said before,’ about not eating what you love. Why not? If you don’t need to kill to feed, why not feed on this special someone? Surely if they love you back, they’d be willing.”

· You slow your hand, wanting to give Martin a fighting chance at answering. You were momentarily intrigued by the DJ’s line of questioning. You knew why Martin didn’t want to feed on you, but you were curious as to what sort of excuse he would give.

· “W-Well…it’s come up mo-ore than once but…” Martin goes silent as you squeeze down on him, his posture going rigid, his head thrown back against the headboard.

· The DJ lets the silence hang for a moment, but when Martin doesn’t finish his thought, he cuts in, “But…? You still there, Count?”

· You let up, and Martin takes a big gulp of air, as though he had only just remembered he needed to breathe. “Y-Yeah, I’m here. It’s…it’s complicated.”

· “Oh yeah? How?”

· “Well, it’s not about whether they’ll let me or not…” He takes a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he steadies himself. When he speaks again, his voice is low, barely more than a whisper, “It’s that I want more.”

· He tries in vain to buck up into your fist, his hips rolling in shallow, abortive little thrusts. His teeth are sunk into his lower lip, his eyes boring deep into your own.

· ‘I want more.’ Those words were meant for you.

· You blink down at him, momentarily dumb founded. Then a grin spreads across your face, sharp and hungry. If he wants more, you’ll give it to him—you’d give it to him until he was begging you to stop.

· Sliding down his body, you know this is risky. Martin has never been good at keeping quiet, especially not when you’ve got your mouth on him. But the idea is simply too enticing to pass up on. When were you ever going to get the change to suck his cock live on air again? Besides, this might be good practice for him in the art of keeping his voice down—not that you didn’t love to hear him, it just might be nice to keep your…activities a secret from the whole neighbourhood for once.

· You wriggle down onto your stomach, bringing your face level with Martin’s cock. Settling yourself into a comfortable position between his knees, you bend your head, pressing a gentle kiss against the tip of his cock.

· He makes an involuntary choking sound in the back of his throat. You look up at him, resting your chin on the tops of his thighs. You want to give him the time he needs to make up his mind. If he tells you ‘no,’ or pushes you away, you’d gladly go back to stroking his cock and kissing his neck. You would get just as much pleasure from the shivers and whimpers you could wring out of him that way.

· But he doesn’t tell you no, rather he pushes his hips up against you, pressing the tip hard against your lips. You flick your tongue out, ghosting for only a moment over his sensitive flesh, but it’s enough to make his eyes roll back, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You do it again, and his mouth falls open. Though no sound escapes the look on his face is just as glorious.

· This is going to be fun.

· You crane your neck, opening your mouth and gently taking the head inside. Martin’s free hand shoots to his mouth, and he bites down hard on the meat of his palm to stop himself from sobbing out loud. You press your tongue flat against him, dragging it slowly against his hot flesh. He thrashes beneath you, jostling the phone against his cheek.

· Carefully, you sink further down on him, taking him in inch by inch. He lets out a long sigh around a mouthful of palm.

· “What was that, Count?”

· “Oohh…nothing,” Martin grinds out, “Just…closing a window.”

· The lie was flimsy, but the DJ, despite his skeptical tone, didn’t seem interested in pressed him on it further, “…Right…so how is your control around this person, huh? Do you ever get the urge to just go to town on them?”

· Martin’s laugh comes out as a low purr, and he bucks into your mouth once, “Mmm, sometimes.” Ever so slowly, as you’ve sunk down onto his cock, he’s been curling in on himself. His head now rests atop your own, and you can feel the heat of his cheek radiating against your scalp. If that heat is anything to go by, he must be positively scarlet.

· “And what does that entail for you exactly?”

· With a little jolt, his cock brushes up against the back of your throat. You swallow down a little choking noise, breathing steadily through your nose in an attempt to calm your gag reflex.

· The warmth of Martin’s cheeks is suddenly gone as he straightens up again. His head hits the headboard with a thump. “I-I just wanna…” He swallows thickly, his breath coming hard, “Push into…p-push my teeth into their throat and just,” He bucks up into your throat, either unable, or simply unwilling to stay still any longer, “just take what I want.”

· “Their…blood?”

· You swallow around Martin and his back arches so far he practically lifts off the bed “Yes! Yes, everything they have to give!”

· “Right…for a moment there it sounded a bit more, uh, sexually motivated than that.”

· Again, your throat contracts around him, and a hiss of air escapes through his teeth, “No difference really…”

· The DJ is silent for a moment, “Now that’s an interesting tidbit about you, Count. I’m sure all the ladies out there would love to hear more about that.”

· Marin fucks up into your throat again with a soft groan, “I’m…I’m sure they would but,” His breath is coming harder now, “unfortunately, I’m taken.”

· The DJ laughs, “Hear that, Count? That’s the sound of hundreds of hearts all over Braddock breaking. Sorry, folks but it looks like you’re out of luck.”

· Oh. He’s taken alright. You can just imagine the anguished looks on their faces when you learn he gets taken almost every other night by another man.

· Though you’d love to keep him in this position, you’re struck by the sudden, possessive urge to have him on his back. You tap his thigh thrice in quick succession and Martin withdraws almost immediately. He’s always so respectful of your wishes, even if he whines a little when his cock slips from the wet heat of your mouth. The sudden chill of the air on his wet cock sends a shiver through him.

· You scoot back, grabbing Martin by the calves, and pulling him down into a more horizontal position. He fumbles with the phone, as it slips from his grasp, landing on the bed near his shoulder.

· “What’s going on, Count?”

· “S-Sorry, I just…I just dropped the phone is all. I’m…I’m feeling awful shaky these days.”

· “Oh, yeah? How long has it been?”

· Martin’s tone is distracted, “Ages.” He is far more focused on you, his dark eyes trained on yours as you loom over him.

· The DJ asks another question, but you’re not listening as you slip Martin’s slick cock into your mouth, wasting no time in taking him back into your throat where he belongs.

· Though you can’t make out his words so well over the rushing in your ears, Martin’s voice sounds strained, slightly higher than usual. He’s fighting the pleasure hard.

· His free hand fists itself in your hair, pushing you down tighter against his cock. You swallow hard, trying desperately not to gag as he rolls is hips into your mouth. He’s come such a long way since the first time you asked him to fuck your mouth. He’d been so nervous that you did most of the work, bobbing your head faster and faster until he’d spilled deep into your mouth. He had apologized for almost an hour after, thinking the rasp in your voice was all his fault. Now? He’s practically asphyxiating you, and you hadn’t needed to say a word.

· Martin is shaking—his thighs tremble on either side of your head, and the phone in his hands nearly slips from his grasp again with the force of the tremors passing through him.

· You hollow your cheeks and he’s forced to cover the receiver again as a series of whimpers tear free from his lips. You press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, and he sobs, his hips canting up off the bed.

· “I-I’m close,” His frantic whisper comes tight through his teeth, an edge bordering on panic creeping into his voice. You grip his thigh and redouble your efforts, gaining a high whine in return.

· “Hey, Count? Count there’s a lot of interference on your end…I can’t really hear you. I think this is where this conversation has to end, but call back another night, huh?” Martin doesn’t even respond, he simply slams the receiver back into the cradle, ending the call.

· Almost as soon as the call has disconnected, he’s a whimpering mess. “Oh, fuck! Your mouth…I-I can’t! Is it okay? Is it okay if I…?”

· He can’t bring himself to say it, but you know what he means and hum a soft affirmation around his cock. He cries out as the sound vibrates around his over-sensitive flesh.

· With a whimper, he fucks up into your mouth, once, twice, then he shudders, his whole body going rigid as he cums. His knees clamp around your ears, squeezing your head as he shakes with the pleasure. His fingers pull at your hair, any tighter and you’re sure he’ll pull some out. But you press on, hollowing your cheeks, letting him ride the high for as long as he can.

· The sound he makes as you swallow around him is nothing short of wrecked. His fingers claw the sheets as though he’s trying to drag himself away from you, from your mouth, but his body remains locked in place beneath you.

· His cock twitches against your tongue as you slowly pull back, the wet drag of your tongue digging raw little whimpers from his throat, and a shudder passed through him when you pull of and his cock is again exposed to the chilly air of the room. His hips press forward, seeking the tight heat of your throat again. It would seem almost desperate if the motion wasn’t so sluggish, almost sleepy.

· He reaches for you then in the dark. His hands, hot and sweaty from exertion and gripping both the phone and the sheets for so long, grasp either side of your face as he pulls you up for a kiss.

· The salty taste of his cum still coats your tongue, but he doesn’t seem to care as he presses his lips against yours with a desperation you rarely see in him.

· Pulling back, you whisper against his lips, “Was that enough attention?”

· He smiles, “For me? Yes.” He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “But now it’s your turn.”

#martin x reader #slasher x reader #martin 1977 #slasher imagines #ripper fics #sorry for how late this is #enjoy!

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undertaker1827 · 4 years ago

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Hi! Can I get some headcanons for William T. Spears and his S/O who’s an artist? Thank you so much!

Absolutely, sorry these took so long!!

Masterlist

I personally do not think that art is one of William’s strong suits

Just a vibe I get from him

And if that’s the case, it means he gets to enjoy what you do from the point of view of someone who could never hope to replicate it

It doesn’t matter what kind of art you create - be it drawing, painting, or something more physical, like woodwork or metalwork, or if crocheting or knitting is your go

He absolutely loves all of it

He thinks you’re incredibly talented and he can sometimes hardly believe that you were the one who created the thing that you just presented to him

The fact that you truly value his opinion is something else he finds incredible

Like, if it were more academia based he’d get it

New timetable, organisational plans, filing systems, all things he feels fully qualified to assess

But you’ve just made this thing and held it out to him and now you’re asking if he likes it, if it looks like the thing it was meant to look like??

Seriously though he loves all the things you do

And if you draw/paint/make/otherwise create something for him specifically? It’s his favourite thing you could possibly give him

It’s really personal and you’ve had to work to make it come out right, not to mention the amount of thought that must have gone into deciding what to make him

In his eyes that makes it truly special

He’ll be utterly thrilled with what you’ve created, even though he won’t outwardly show it necessarily

You’ll be left in no doubt that he loves your gift dearly, but he’s not the type to jump about proclaiming his love for it in the way that some might ahem Grell

But anywho

The only thing he isn’t so excited about is the sheer volume of stuff that comes with being an artist

Whether it’s an armada of paints and canvases, a whole collection of pencils to be used for different things when they seem to him to be identical, boxes of carving tools, piles of hardware attachments for digital artwork or really any of the materials you use

There’s just so much of it all

And it’s everywhere

You’re incapable of going to his place without bringing at least something with you, often ‘in case you get an idea’, and you seem to always leave something there as well

Initially, he made the effort to put everything you left behind in a bag and give it to you the next time he saw you, but it started happening so often that he decided what he was doing really wasn’t all that useful

Therefore, a better option was to just keep a permanent box of your stuff at his place, so you could take it with you if you wanted to or failing that, you could leave it there for next time

That said, as a direct result, you’ve called him up more than once whilst flying around your own house trying to find that one thing you need, only for him to tell you had had left whatever it was at his

This of course meant you then had to go and pick it up, even though William was at work more often than not

You’d been together a long time now and had exchanged spare keys so you could go and get whatever it was at a moment’s notice

You wished the reaper could be there to see you and so did he, but it just wasn’t possible

That didn’t stop you leaving a little note on his kitchen counter in front of the coffee machine whenever you went

It generally just said that you’d picked up your things, you loved him, the usual

But you also made sure to always draw a little sketch for him

Often you do a little stylised heart, occasionally just whatever happens to come to your mind

And as a token gesture, you always get out a sachet of his favourite type of espresso and leave it next to the note

Unbeknownst to you, when the reaper does finally get home from a long day at work, it always leaves a smile on his lips

His genuine smile is very small; you would hardly even notice it if you didn’t know him so well, and even when it’s only the two of you it’s very rare to see, but your actions do bring out his smile even if you aren’t always present to see it

Now the other thing is this

If you draw or paint and you want to draw or paint him

He’s quite certain he doesn’t know what to say

He’s never had anyone ask to draw him before and he’s torn between ‘Why on Earth would you want to draw me?’ and ‘You really want to draw me?’

The first would upset you and he thinks the second would make him seem foolish (it wouldn’t of course, but he doesn’t realise that) so he ends up just sort of standing there blinking at you for a moment (you left the William T. Spears speechless. Impressive) and eventually comes out with “If you want to..”

You just grin and grab up your supplies, not acting at all concerned about how genuinely unsure he looks and just telling him how you want him to sit, where to look, etc

When you finish, you proudly lift up your piece and turn it to show him, convinced it’s one of your best yet

Again he’s not really sure what to say, this situation is not one he’s experienced before, but thinks your work is perfect and wastes no time in letting you know that

He softly takes your hand and gives you one of those small, rare smiles

“Do you like it?” You ask, still holding the drawing and positively grinning when he squeezes your hand

“I do”

#william t spears #william t spears x reader #black butler william x reader #black butler william #black butler #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji x reader #black butler reader inserts #kuroshitsuji william x reader #kuroshitsuji william #William #william x reader #black butler reapers

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gayoperatorgunclub · 4 years ago

Note

Twitch/Cav for the ultimate ship meme pleass? Anyways, I hope you have a wonderful day!

of course!!! and thanks anon, i hope you have an awesome day!!

General:

How long will they last? - FOREVER BITCH

How quickly did/will they fall in love? - it was love at first sight babe

How was their first kiss? - vv romantic, a building was collapsing behind them and cav, thriving on that post-mission adrenaline rush, dips twitch and they have a very sweet lil smooch

Wedding:

Who proposed? - twitch! she presented taina with the most beautiful ring she’d ever laid eyes on. during his best man’s speech, rook tells the story of how he and emmanuelle convinced seamus to forge the ring

Who is the best man/men? - for twitch: rook, for cav: buck

Who is the braid’s maid(s)? - for twitch: finka, for cav: valk

Who did the most planning? - twitch! cav helped whenever she could, though

Who stressed the most? - neither! they were both confident this was the right choice for them

How fancy was the ceremony? - Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - twitch’s sister’s wife, as cav was not invited to their wedding. it’s an ongoing bit between the sisters that they believe their s/o’s will try to get them to have a civil conversation, no competition, no prize. unthinkable. what would they even talk about?!

Sex:

Who is on top? - cav! y’all already knew that tho

Who is the one to instigate things? - twitch is a horny lady and you cannot convince me otherwise

How healthy is their sex life? - Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

How kinky are they? - Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last? - AGAIN WITH THIS ONE!!!!!!! LONG ENOUGH!!!!!!!!

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - yes, unless they’re doing play that specifically requires a difference between # of orgasms

How rough are they in bed? - Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? - No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally? - none!!!!! they are cool aunts!!!!!!

How many children will they adopt? - NONE!!!!!!! SEE ABOVE!!!!!!!!!

Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - yucky

Who is the stricter parent? - twitch. regulations and structure got her where she is now!

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - twitch, but cav encourages the child responsibly

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - twitch. she’s literally so organized what the fuck

Who is the more loved parent? - NEITHER WHAT THE FUCK

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? - twitch, since cav has been banned for flashing a shank at judy when she commented on “that poor child, no father to learn something actually worthwhile from” but it’s not like twitch is any better, using her shock drones on a civilian after taina told her about judy’s sins

Who cried the most at graduation? - cav! she realized she had become the person she needed most in her life when she was the kid’s age, and she was so overcome with joy she burst into tears

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - cav. she hates cops

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking? - cav! twitch’s french ass does NOT get to cook snails in cav’s brazilian kitchen, no ma’am!

Who is the most picky in their food choice? - twitch. she fucking whines if taina makes her eat vegetables

Who does the grocery shopping? - cav. twitch got lost and store security had to make an announcement over the intercom for taina to come get her wife

How often do they bake desserts? - whenever taina can find the time, she makes twitch double fudge brownies

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - twitch prefers salad, and cav goes downright feral whenever she eats meat

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - cav. twitch is not allowed within 10 meters of kitchen appliances

Who is more likely to suggest going out? - twitch. she’s a legend among the staff at their local buffalo wild wings for how fast she devoured a bucket of wings after a particularly tough mission

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - TWITCH!!!

Chores:

Who cleans the room? - twitch! she’s very organized

Who is really against chores? - cav lives for chaos, so .

Who cleans up after the pets? - cav, but only because they’re her snakes and goats

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - cav

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - twitch!!! perfectionist check!!!!!

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - cav, and she used it to bet tachanka she could drink more than him before passing out

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths? - twitch. perfect skin-having bitch. i love you

Who takes the dog out for a walk? - uhhhh do people take snakes out for walks?? idk but cav takes the snakes and goats out for a walk every other day

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - taina refuses to admit it, but she watches the world cup religiously if brazil is doing well. i’m talking flag face paint, flags everywhere, brazilian snacks, the whole she-bang. if france ever beats brazil, taina will be extra rough during their......... late-night activities

What are their goals for the relationship? - happiness, comfort, contentment

Who is most likely to sleep till noon? - cav. the night life blood is still in her veins. at any moment, she is ready to attend a rave. her combat face paint? it glows neon under blacklights

Who plays the most pranks? - cav!!! she’s too sneaky for twitch’s heart. one of these days she’s going to give emmanuelle a heart attack, i swear

#ask #anonymous #r6s twitch #r6s caveira #Caveira/Twitch

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claudia1829things · 5 years ago

Text

“BECKY SHARP” (1935) Review

"BECKY SHARP" (1935) Review

Being something of a film history buff, I have been aware of the 1935 adaptation of William Makepeace Thackeray's 1847-48 novel, "Vanity Fair" for a number of years. But I have never been inclined to watch the film, until recently.

I cannot say what led to my recent interest in "BECKY SHARP". But it was a book on David O. Selznick that made me first aware of the 1935 film. John Hay "Jock" Whitney and Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney had founded Pioneer Pictures in 1933 as a means to produce color movies. "Jock" Whitney was close friends with Selznick. He even co-financed Selznick's production company, Selznick International, in 1935. Between the creations of Pioneer Pictures and Selznick International, the former released the first feature-length film to use the three-strip Technicolor process. "BECKY SHARP" is the sixth of eleven film and/or television adaptations of the Thackeray's novel. It is the first in color. "BECKY SHARP" took its title from the novel's main character, a poor, but educated young English lady who struggles rise in the ranks of Britain's social classes during the early years of the 19th century. Becky Sharp is the orphaned daughter of an English painter and French dancer, who graduates from Miss Pinkerton's Academy for Young Ladies with a friend named Amelia Sedley. Since Amelia is the daughter of a wealthy merchant, Becky manipulates her way into her friend's household, where she meets Amelia's portly and jovial brother, Joseph "Jos" Sedley. Before Becky can sink her hooks into Jos, the Sedley patriarch put an end to the budding "romance" by sending Jos away to India. Meanwhile, Becky finds employment as a governess at the estate of Sir Pitt Crawley. She eventually wins the heart and hand of Crawley's playboy son Rawdon, an officer in the British army. When news of Napoleon Bonaparte's escape from Elba reach Britain, Becky is reunited with Amelia, who has now married her childhood sweetheart George Osborne. The two women's husbands and William Dobbin are deployed to Belgium to face Napoleon's Army. But the last stages of the Napoleonic Wars proved to be the first of many crisis thrown Becky's way. Judging from the movie's title, it is clear to me that screenwriter Francis Edward Faragoh had deleted a great deal of Thackeray's novel in order to write a screenplay with a running time of eighty-four minutes. I found it odd that a film adaptation of such a famous epic novel would have such a short running time. Other epics and movie adaptations of literary works had running times that sometimes went past two hours - including "A TALE OF TWO CITIES", "MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY", "THE CRUSADES", and "CAPTAIN BLOOD". I can only assume that a minor and newly formed production company like Pioneer Pictures could not afford to produce the first Technicolor feature film with a running time close to or over two hours. If that was the case . . . if the Whitneys were that determined to produce the first full-featured movie in color . . . they could have chosen something that was not an adaptation of a famous epic novel. I find it ironic that Mina Nair's 2004 adaptation of Thackeray's novel had received a great deal of criticism for not being truly faithful to its source. I have encountered less criticism of "BECKY SHARP" than I did for the 2004 film. Yet, the latter is more faithful than the former. One of my problems with "BECKY SHARP" is that I thought the producers, director Rouben Mamoulian and screenwriter Francis Edward Faragoh did a piss poor job of adapting Thackery's novel to the screen. I just learned that the 1935 movie is actually an adaptation of Langdon Elwyn Mitchell's 1899 play, which was an adaptation of the 1847-48 novel. I hate to say this, but the movie's running time of eighty-four (84) minutes did not serve the story. There is so much in "BECKY SHARP" that was left out. Most of the narrative that focused upon Amelia was deleted, especially her fractious relationship with her father-in-law, Mr. Osborne. In fact, George's father never made an appearance in this film. I suspect the same could be said about Mitchell's play. The only time the movie focused upon Amelia's character arc was when Becky was personally involved . . . namely George's infatuation with Becky before the Waterloo battle and Becky forcing Amelia to face the truth about George in the movie's last fifteen to twenty minutes. It is not surprising that the movie's title was based upon the main character's name. Not only was much of Amelia's personal story deleted, the movie also rushed through Becky's stay with the Sedley and Crawley families. It seemed as if Mamoulian and Faragoh could not wait to focus on the impact of Waterloo and the marriage between Becky and Rawdon. Between the handling of Amelia's character arc and the rushed narrative in the movie's first half, it is no wonder that I found "BECKY SHARP" particularly unsatisfying. I found other aspects of "BECKY SHARP" unsatisfying. The sound and visual quality of the movie's DVD version low in quality. The photography and color struck me as faded. And the sound is scratchy. For once, I am not blaming the movie's filmmakers. Whoever had possession of "BECKY SHARP" after Pioneer Pictures had failed to maintain its original quality. But I can blame the filmmakers on other aspects of the movie. In it, the Jos Sedley character returned to Europe with a little Indian boy in tow as his personal servant. Only the "Indian servant" was portrayed by a young African-American actor named Jimmy Robinson. To this day, I am still trying to figure out how the producers and director Rouben Mamoulian saw nothing wrong in an African-American kid portraying an Indian kid. Hollywood's casting for non-white characters seemed really skewed in this film. And then . . . there was the acting. I am surprised that "BECKY SHARP" led to a Best Actress Oscar nomination for actress Miriam Hopkins. Granted, she handled the character's questionable morality, desperation and charm very well. Yet, Hopkins engaged in so much hammy acting that I found myself wondering why of all her performances, she ended up earning a nomination for this particular one. I wish I could say that the rest of the cast gave better performances . . . but I cannot. Other cast members gave equally hammy performances. Nigel Bruce, Alan Mowbray, Alison Skipworth, G.P. Huntley and many others were equally hammy. I could not accuse Colin Tapley of hamminess on the same scale. But I found his portrayal of William Dobbin rather dramatic. And I am not being complimentary. The only cast members who actually impressed me were Frances Dee and Cedric Hardwicke. Dee gave a surprisingly subtle and convincing performance as the sweet and passive Amelia Sedley. Thanks to Dee's performances, audiences saw both the positive and negative aspects of Amelia's passiveness. Hardwicke was equally subtle as Becky's aristocratic "benefactor", the Marquis of Steyne. Even though Steyne is an unlikable character, Hardwicke was no mustache-twirling villain. The only reason I would recommend "BECKY SHARP" to anyone is for historical purposes. Because this is the first feature-length motion picture in color, I would recommend this movie to any film buff. Otherwise, I would stay clear of "BECKY SHARP" and consider other adaptations of William Makepeace Thackery's novel.

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cakesandfail · 6 years ago

Note

Ok so THREE ships for the shipping post, pick and chose @ your discretion on grounds of this is a bit extra. •Vimes/Vetinari/Sybil •Moist von Lipwig/Adora Bell Dearheart •William/Otto/Sacharissa

buckle up friendo if we’re gonna be Extra then I’m answering every goddamn question, obviously some of these are 21st century Earth things so... just pretend they all live in London instead of Ankh-Morpork for those, I guess

here we fucking go

1. Vimes/Vetinari/Sybil

who hogs the duvet Sam does. Dude is a big fan of pillows, I can’t imagine he’d be any different re: duvetswho texts/rings to check how their day is going Sybil. Sam is v bad at technology and Havelock just sends memes while watching committees happenwho’s the most creative when it comes to gifts Havelock, if by ‘creative’ you mean ‘devious and prone to trolling’who gets up first in the morning Havelock, though let’s be honest, none of them has anything remotely approaching a normal sleep patternwho suggests new things in bed this is definitely Sybil and there’s nothing that will ever convince me otherwisewho cries at movies S A Mwho gives unprompted massages that is an extremely bad idea when two out of three people in the relationship are (justifiably) paranoidwho fusses over the other when they’re sick Sam is the absolute worst for this, as we all found out in Feet of Claywho gets jealous easiest Sam. His self-esteem is terrible and he can hardly believe that one smart, cute, fancy rich person would want him, let alone two. Things can be dificult. He does his best.who has the most embarrassing taste in music I mean I’m pretty sure Havelock wins this one by reading sheet music, the weirdowho collects something unusual ...how unusual are farty dragons? (it’s Sybil regardless, even if the dragons aren’t unusual for Ankh-Morpork she does also have a house full of random tat)who takes the longest to get ready if they’re going out it’s Sybil because she’s got Undergarments(tm) and makeup and a wig to sort out, but if it’s a normal day it’s Havelock because let’s be honest, anyone with a beard like that is definitely a little bit vain and fussy about itwho is the most tidy and organised Mr shiny-circular-saw-brain himself, Havelock Vetinariwho gets most excited about the holidays 100% Sybil (and Sam a bit too, secretly, now he’s in a position to enjoy them)who is the big spoon/little spoon Sam is always the littlest spoon and he loves itwho gets most competitive when playing games and/or sports lmaoooo this is Havelock for sure, he’s clearly one of those people who won’t do anything in public unless he knows he won’t fuck it upwho starts the most arguments this is Sam’s favourite hobbywho suggests that they buy a pet Sybil and Havelock just kind of acquire them tbh, and Sam gave up doing anything about it years agowhat couple traditions they have 25th May is special- it’s Young Sam’s birthday and of course the anniversary of the revolution, so Uncle Havelock comes round for tea and then goes to Small Gods with old Sam, and then stays the night, conveniently disappearing early enough in the morning that nobody else knows he was therewhat tv shows they watch together listen. listen. if they were in modern London they’d be watching the Supervet and getting emotional about it. fite me. also Sybil and Havelock watch nerdy gameshows like Only Connect and University Challenge, but Sam is not here for that at allwhat other couple they hang out with bold of you to assume any of these nerds have any other friendshow they spend time together as a couple does almost getting murdered count because that does happen a lot. Otherwise: naps at bizarre times of the day, fighting over the newspaper, carriage journeys home from parties where they bitch about everyone they hate (ie everyone else who was there)who made the first move Sybil, for every single context where making the first move was necessarywho brings flowers home Havelock does because he’s a ‘show affection through gifts’ sort of person and also a huge nerd who probably knows all about floriographywho is the best cook fucking nobody lol they’re all useless

2. Moist/Adora

who hogs the duvet Adora. And there’s nothing Moist can do about it.who texts/rings to check how their day is going Moist, because he’s a nice cheerful sort of boy (and also likes to be annoying)who’s the most creative when it comes to gifts ...probably Moist? He’s pretty imaginative, I think- that’s not to say that Adora wouldn’t find him good gifts, but his would be more ‘out there’ without being wrongwho gets up first in the morning Adora, unless she’s on nights or Moist has been summoned by his surrogate dad Vetinariwho suggests new things in bed hahahaha ADORAwho cries at movies both of them. Adora will never admit this to anybody.who gives unprompted massages Moist, but only once they’ve been married long enough that he knows when he definitely won’t get stomped onwho fusses over the other when they’re sick I honestly think they’re both the kind of people who are like ‘get the fuck away from me’ when they’re ill so probably nobodywho gets jealous easiest Adora. She’s not worried about Moist, but he’s a very charming dude and other people need to Watch It.who has the most embarrassing taste in music Moist is a big Spandau Ballet fan and you know itwho collects something unusual look, Moist doesn’t actively collect weird shit, weird shit just happens to come into his possessionwho takes the longest to get ready Moist. Just fucking look at him. He wears a gold suit.who is the most tidy and organised Adora, but this does not extend to her private space at all, and their bedroom is a disaster areawho gets most excited about the holidays M o i s twho is the big spoon/little spoon I... think it’s probably Moist. Yeah. Moist.who gets most competitive when playing games and/or sports Adora is the kind of person who’d even try to fight Vetinari if she had to, so.who starts the most arguments see above lmaowho suggests that they buy a pet Moist does, because for all that he complained, he got quite attached to Mr Fusspotwhat couple traditions they have uhhhhh idk if it’s a tradition so much as a regular date night but they definitely go dancing together when they have timewhat tv shows they watch together they hate-watch The Apprentice, and Undercover Boss, and Dragons Den- basically anything where they can judge other people’s ability to run a businesswhat other couple they hang out with work people, mostly. Sometimes they have to socialise with Sam and Sybil, which is a bit unfortunate for Moist and Sam, but Adora and Sybil find their respective idiots very cute when they’re all cross so it tends to work out okayhow they spend time together as a couple the aforementioned hate-watching marathons and dancing. I think they’re probably one of the few canon couples that actually has date nights.who made the first move Moist. It’s canon. He’s a dipshit, but it did sort of work.who brings flowers home Moist does, because he thinks it’s a good idea to do it regularly so Adora won’t assume he’s fucked up every timewho is the best cook Moist- he once spent three months as a cook in a pub while laying low after a scam. It’s not amazing gourmet food, but it’s alright.

3. William/Otto/Sacharissa

who hogs the duvet Sacharissa, because she’s the smallest and the first to get coldwho texts/rings to check how their day is going All of them- they’re journalists, they’re always in contact all the time. In a Roundworld AU they’d have a whatsapp groupwho’s the most creative when it comes to gifts Williamwho gets up first in the morning I think this probably depends on what they’re doing, but it’s definitely not Otto hahawho suggests new things in bed Otto isn’t necessarily going to suggest them outright, but he’s definitely dropped hints about things he used to get up to back in the daywho cries at movies William. He thinks the others don’t know. They do.who gives unprompted massages I’m not sure? This seems like a William thing but he’s also extremely awkward. I think it would be him once they were established as a trio.who fusses over the other when they’re sick Otto- he worries about the other two because they’re mortal and because he’s just generally an anxious kind of dudewho gets jealous easiest William. He’s a bit insecure about his place in the world and, well, Sacharissa is so pretty and Otto is a vampire which makes him automatically 500% sexier to everyone everywhere, clearly anyone hanging around them wants to take his place. (Spoiler: they don’t.)who has the most embarrassing taste in music Sacharissa strikes me as a big 90s pop fan idekwho collects something unusual Otto is definitely a nerd about old cameras/iconographswho takes the longest to get ready I think possibly Sacharissa just because girl clothes take longer- otherwise I don’t think there’s much in it. They’re all pretty sensible people.who is the most tidy and organised William has a stick up his butt about everything ever, so definitely himwho gets most excited about the holidays Otto does, because he finally has someone to celebrate with who isn’t going to get eaten (behave.)who is the big spoon/little spoon this varies a lot, I think? I just kind of assumed they usually end up in a big old cuddlepilewho gets most competitive when playing games and/or sports William. He went to boarding school and even though he hated it, it’s bound to have had some effect on himwho starts the most arguments ...also William lmaowho suggests that they buy a pet Sacharissa. She thinks both Wuffles and Mr Fusspot are very cute.what couple traditions they have They get a takeaway whenever they’ve stayed late at work together to finish a big story. Otto can’t eat it, obviously, but he likes to just sit with the others and hang out. It’s nice.what tv shows they watch together absolutely no news programmes at all, ever. Lots of low-energy stuff like How It’s Made so they don’t have to use any brainpower.what other couple they hang out with sometimes Gunilla and Boddony join in with the takeaway nightshow they spend time together as a couple running about like loons after the next story, mostlywho made the first move William with Sacharissa, Sacharissa with Ottowho brings flowers home Sacharissa does- mostly just because she likes having them aroundwho is the best cook Otto made a point of learning to cook so he could do something nice for his favourite people. He had lessons and everything. He has to wear gloves to handle the garlic, but it’s worth it.

#ask meme #sybil and the boys #mr slightly damp #news nerds #winterbirb

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maliniakmethod · 3 years ago

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LOGICAL ARGUMENTS FOR A CREATOR GOD…EVEN MORE EVIDENCE

For those of you struggling with the concept of the existence of a CREATOR GOD and who do not want it rammed down your throat with the BLIND FAITH or rhetoric of religious fanatics, perhaps this logical line of reasoning will help you make a more informed decision…one not based solely on blind faith alone but based also on the FACTS and the evidence that we do SEE.

Speaking as a TRIAL LAWYER of thirty years and accustomed to always relying upon the BEST EVIDENCE, and speaking as an experienced ALT medicine researcher, I have studied the evidence for and against the existence of a CREATOR GOD for many years and from the perspective of various scientific disciplines. There will still be some element of BLIND FAITH involved but this opinion is based on the INCONTROVERTIBLE, UNDENIABLE and IRREFUTABLE FACTS.

HERE IS WHAT I MEAN

I have examined the EVIDENCE of the complexity of our magnificent DESIGN OF LIFE, and I see a machine with unlimited capacity for self repair and maintenance and with numerous back-up and FAIL SAFE systems. Our design of life has a HARD DRIVE, a set of incredibly detailed programs encoded in our DNA and a built-in factory which can manufacture materials that we need from scratch.

The “ evolutionists “ want me to believe that this just developed by itself? Are they kidding? Instead, based on my observations, and borrowing an expression from my thirty years as a trial lawyer, I came to the conclusion that;

From the PREPONDERANCE OF PROOF and on the BALANCE OF PROBABILITIES, it is much more LOGICAL to conclude that our DESIGN OF LIFE is the work of a CREATOR GOD or an INTELLIGENT DESIGNER and the product of an INTENTIONAL design rather than just the result of RANDOM chance and the mere passage of time.

For example, when you examine our INNATE IMMUNE SYSTEM, one of TWO such systems that we have, the other being the ADAPTIVE immune system, you learn that it takes on average twenty (20) separate and distinct chronological chemical steps, executed in perfect SEQUENCE, to illicit even one immune response. If a major system, like the LYMPH system fails to eliminate lymph fluid in its normal way, it is backed up by a hidden fail-safe system which we are not even aware of and which will kick in and allows LYMPH to excrete through the skin.

Recently we discovered another program hidden in our DNA which we were unaware of whereby the body cleanses itself of pathogens and even cancer cells when we go through an extended FAST which has been dubbed AUTOPHAGY and has won a NOBEL prize for its discoverer. It raises the prospect that there are other such wonderful programs hidden in our machine which GOD has installed into our hard drive and software which only come into play in emergency and special circumstances and which we have yet to discover. This to me confirms the GOD given origins of this prescription in the BIBLE because there is no way our primitive ancestors would have known about this FASTING " program".

Even more recently the researchers at Cardiff University in Whales discovered the existence of what could be a UNIVERSAL marker they called MR-1 which can identify any and all cancer cells in the body no matter which kind they are and an existing killer T-cell which recognizes and reacts to it, killing the marked cell… something I have intuitively known had to be part of GOD'S great and complex design and which it was only a matter of time till we discovered it. This system must be working perfectly well most of the time otherwise everyone would develop cancer all the time since our environment is so poisoned. We just have to now figure out why in some cases its normal efficiency is interfered with.

Just look at an anatomy chart of the structure of our MUSCULAR system. You have multiple overlapping layers of muscles criss-crossing at different levels and at different angles, each pulling in different directions and having a specific action and a role in movement. I want some evolution theorists to explain how the SUPRA-SPINATUS muscle developed according to the principles of conventional “ evolution theory” and its improvement by inherited MUTATION explanation…it is sheer and utter NONSENSE.

It makes no sense that such a complex DESIGN OF LIFE is merely the result of RANDOM Chance and the mere passage of time. If you said this about any other manifestly magnificent design structure like an automobile… you would be called BRAIN DEAD.

The evolutionists THEORY, which is still an UNPROVEN theory, is as ridiculous as the argument that if you put a bunch of monkeys in a room with typewriters long enough, then eventually over a long enough period of time they would produce the complete works of SHAKESPEARE !

What do the “evolution” theorists want us to believe? That a bolt of lightning hit a pile of doo-doo four billion years ago…and BINGO…here we are? This is patent NONSENSE and violates plain COMMON SENSE. The MAIN arguments in the theory of EVOLUTION are so fragile that they can be dismissed with numerous arguments, but this following simple argument is more than enough;

If EVOLUTION alone explains our existence then how come APES are still swinging in the trees? There is no valid or convincing answer for this FLAGRANT CONTRADICTION within that “ theory ”. Saying that we “ split “ off from a common ancestor would still not explain why the other ape line did not build skyscrapers before we did. As President Johnson once said;

“ You cannot SUCK and BLOW at the same time”.

Either we "evolved" from the more primitive APES or we did not. The fact that APES still exist or that they did not build skyscrapers before we did…cannot be explained by this theory. There are MANY, many more caveats and exceptions pitched by this unfounded theory of evolution but this is enough by itself to discredit it.

Finally, we are no longer primitive camel drivers or sheep herders and we can accept the possibility and probability that the CREATOR GOD is an actual, real and physical being in whose “ image we were made “, as it says, and not just some imaginary, intangible or mystical entity.

GOD’S GREAT DESIGN OF LIFE SHOULD NOT BE INTERFERED WITH

One of the main consequences of this perspective about the origins of our design of life being the work of a CREATOR GOD or INTELLIGENT DESIGNER is that mankind should reconsider the way the mainstream medical community deals with catastrophic illnesses and cancer and the constantly newly emerging pathogens like the COVID-19 virus which has baffled the medical community and paralysed the entire planet. Their obsession with toxic drugs, burning radiation and slashing surgery is a flagrant and INEFFECTIVE failure. We should consider looking for a new and paradigm shift in the way we deal with these diseases and try to explore new ALTERNATIVE sciences which do not interfere with some of the very elements of this perfect and complex design of life that GOD gave us to protect us and eventually just provide it with a little help it needs to work at its optimal potential.

Cynics who argue that this design is not perfect because there is so much illness FAIL to accept that this is due to the numerous ways we have poisoned our environment and sabotaged this GOD given design… which still works perfectly in the vast majority of cases despite these attacks.

It is mankind’s divine duty and privilege to try to find better ways to deal with these illnesses and cancers and pathogens like these new viruses, and stop what I call the WANTON SLAUGHTER of so many of GOD’s children of all ages where millions of people die every year because of the current primitive state of knowledge about this design and the mainstream medical community's methods which interfere with some of the very components of this design of life which GOD gave us to protect us…this should be an embarrassment to our medical community.

One such non-intrusive and non-toxic ALT science is that of DR. RAYMOND ROYAL RIFE who back in the 1930’s cured many diseases and killed numerous pathogens and viruses using only RADIO FREQUENCY to destroy them. His methods were proven so obviously effective in a controlled clinical trial at USC in 1934 where he cured 16 out of 16 terminally ill patients, 14 with Cancer and 2 with Tuberculosis, that the A.M.A tried to buy shares in his company. When RIFE refused, the A.M.A. banned his method, and prosecuted doctors using it. Unlike other wild and unproven "conspiracy" theories about suppressed secret CURES, these groups ended up in a COURT battle where all of the evidence of how effective this was is a matter of public record...which is why it appealed to me as a lawyer.

Efforts to revive the science of RIFE have failed to date only because they have not EXACTLY duplicated his ORIGINAL work and have not used his original killer frequencies nor the other elements of his treatment protocol.

WE NEED A PARADIGM SHIFT IN HOW TO TREAT DISEASE

This is the type of alternative non toxic and non intrusive method which we should be exploring and COMBINING it with other alternative sciences such as the various forms of OXYGEN therapy which have already been proven very effective by the work of such brilliant doctors as DR. ROBERT ROWAN, DR. TULIO SIMONCINI and DR. DAVID WILLIAMS.

My own GOD given inspiration has been to ultimately combine such non toxic alternative sciences, use the existing programs GOD has given us and not interfere with them and finally create an elixir where we just provide this machine with the basic ingredients that it needs to work at its optimal efficiency and which I have labelled "PERFORMACAL". The PER stands for both the PERFORIN which the immune system produces to blow up diseased cells and pathogens and also for PEROXIDE as a source of OXYGEN which is our main agent of life and which also kills cancers and pathogens. The MAG represents MAGNESIUM and the CAL represents CALCIUM both of which along with water are the main effectors of our immune system.

I personally am on a relentless mission to have these ALT sciences properly tested which the mainstream medical community seems to be reluctant to do because there is no MONEY in it for them since these ALT sciences are virtually free.

CONCLUSION

I hope that these arguments and observations help some of you struggling with this issue to finally resolve the confusion and get you to accept the LOGICAL conclusion of the existence of a CREATOR GOD…and if so, then welcome to the team !

#belief in a Creator God #evolution theory debunked

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austennerdita2533 · 7 years ago

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A/N: My contribution for Day 22 of A Gilmore Christmas is a Literati oneshot. Sending a big ‘ol HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the lovely Emma, @alspancakeworld. Thanks for organizing this event and for allowing me to participate! xx (Check out all the other cool stuff in the link above.)

(A03) (FFnet)

Summary: It’s late, close to Christmas, and Rory and Jess find themselves alone strolling through a decor-decked Stars Hollow to share a moment where past and present feelings collide. (Post-AYITL but no pregnancy) (Holiday Angst and Feels)

Word count: 3.1k

It’s my first attempt at Literati fic. Happy reading! :)

xx Ashlee Bree

When All Sense Breaks Loose

This one will wreck him. Oh, yeah. This one promises calamity.

Jess hears it in the cracking first. He feels it in the thawing of his bones the moment he reaches out to catch the edge of a snowflake with his thumb and swipes it off her cheek, his thoughts splitting into chaos because ‘over…long over’ is what they’re supposed to be. And they were. They are.

But then she steps close enough to shoulder-bump him, her head tilted, her eyes shining up at him with a mixture of alcohol, gaiety, and anticipation as they head back to the house so they can drink coffee and gorge on some of Sookie’s gourmet sugar cookies; and soon, all of those unspoken words he swore he’d deleted years ago when they were still a couple of twenty-something kids up to their waists in missed chances, spill out into the margins of his mind in ink too permanent to miss. The words fall out all tangled together like carefully embedded prose to expose dusty questions that had apparently never settled like he’d intended.

(Or more like he’d damn-well hoped.)

He smells it in the crispness of the air second.

Clumsy as ever, Rory folds her fingers into the crook of his elbow in a clinging effort to keep herself steady after her foot slides backward on a slippery patch of sidewalk near Miss Patty’s dance studio. Her hands curl into the lapels of his jacket. They fly around his neck within seconds next, desperate for somewhere soft and sturdy to land, and his lungs betray him with one measly hitch of breath. Backstabbing bastard lungs, they are, too. Freezing at her touch like it’s the first time. Sending fresh trembles along his shoulders, then down the columns of his spine.

“This feels like a scene straight out of While You Were Sleeping,” she laughs.

Her tone’s full of self-mockery and ridicule, but she doesn’t seem bothered by her impromptu ice skating or her near-toppling into his arms at all, which Jess finds curious.

“But as long as you don’t rip your pants up the ass,” she continues, “we should be okay the rest of the way. At least—well, would you say you’re more Blades of Glory or Wayne Gretzky?”

“Charlie Conway, probably.” When she stares at him blankly, he flicks her side with his index finger and says, “From the Mighty Ducks?”

“Oooh, lucky me! I mean, had you said Gordon Bombay, I’m afraid I’d have to contend with your weak and wobbling hockey knees,” Rory says in a way that denotes both her relief and her amusement.

“In that case, we’d both be screwed.”

“Right, so no ripped jeans or ice-kissed butts for you. Got it, mister.” Just to be safe, however, she links her arm through his anyway. She leans against him for warmth or for support (or for who the hell knows what else), as they recommence their stroll through Stars Hollow.

They somehow manage to take the long and slow route home. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, so why should he? And even though Jess knows he shouldn’t, he breathes in the lavender soap of her skin and allows himself to remember how well she’s always fit against his side. How right she’s always felt. Like the home he’d never had with Liz…or with any other woman he’s dated since Rory.

He thinks of sleigh rides, of a stolen teenage kiss or two behind Gypsy’s Auto Repair; he thinks of quiet nights in, of cuddling and movie bingeing, of Indian chicken curry which stunk up the whole of his uncle’s apartment, of talking Faulkner, Hemingway, and Bukowski with little to no regard for time. He remembers how certain of her, and of them, he’d once been.

I know you. I know you better than anyone.

The reflection hurts. It chafes him worse than frostbite to know he’ll probably always be the one who understands her best.

But what does it matter? What good does it do to reflect on those chapped patches of his past? How does it help to contemplate his screwed-up life? Why wonder and wish? Why—why in hell should he waste any more time on unfulfilling idioms like ‘if?’

(Except he does.)

Jess sees it in the pine trees third, their boughs bent and threatening to break because they carry too much weight. They hold too many frozen dreams that’ll hit the ground soon but won’t melt. They’ll try, sure, but they’ll never seem to fade away despite the passing of countless springs. They can’t—it’d be too dry without their existence afterwards, too unburdening.

Because you didn’t say goodbye.

I deserve better than this.

You, me…you know we’re supposed to be together.

I knew, I knew it the first time I saw you.

How many years has it been, huh? Ten? Fifteen? Fifteen years he’s spent trying to thaw these thoughts inside of him, acting like she hasn’t creeped through his mind when his world grew too hollow or too full; and that's either too many to count on fingers, or too much time for him to try and pretend otherwise. It’s asinine to deceive himself. A waste of good lies.

I knew, I knew, I knew…

The ringing in his mind won’t stop.

It plays in the background like static because he still discerns that dangerous load of thoughts in his periphery—all of those old moments of theirs which promised continuity and evolution and ‘I love you’s’ which didn’t need saying; that hand of hers which never felt too heavy in his and would never be anything but a pleasure to hold—to thread his fingers through for no reason—to raise to his mouth so he could learn the paths of her palms, her wrists, her knuckles, all of her sweet, soft skin, with his lips over and over again—and he doesn’t want to let the perilousness of hope to overwhelm him. He doesn’t want to blink. He doesn’t want to close his eyes. Don’t think, don’t think! He doesn’t want to find himself blinded or paralyzed by dreams he’s no longer supposed to be dreaming.

But they can’t be stopped. They unravel and unwind. They…they keep on coming regardless of the iron walls he raises and reinforces inside his own head to ward against the intrusion.

It’s draining, this looped thinking.

He can’t win. He can’t break free. So why, he wonders, why the hell does he try? It’s exhausting and pointless and awful and unbearable. His head is the cruelest place to be.

Yeah, it’s crueler than anything.

It’s a few hours past midnight now, and despite having closed out the only bar in town with scotch, candlelight, and conversation a good half hour ago, they still loiter beneath the snowcapped Christmas lights in front of Luke’s with nothing but snow and old memories for company. Rory’s resplendent in her double-breasted peacoat, her mouth clicking off new words and subjects as fast as fingers on a keyboard. There’s a bounce in her knees at the moment which he swears she reserves only for donut sightings, new book releases, Lorelai and coffee, so he’s at a loss when she drags him under the awning below where it says Williams Hardware and presses her face into the window like she’s investigating something. Or like she’s looking for someone’s dropped holiday crumbs.

The diner’s black inside, however; the sign flipped to show it’s closed. And it probably has been for some hours now. Undeterred, however, she turns around to flash him a knowing grin—a hint of intrigue dimpling the edges around her cracked lips, “Of all the java joints, in all the towns, it hangs from mine! Can you believe it?” she says with an exhilarated ‘eeee.’

“Believe what?”

“Look up.”

Jess inclines his head. He feasts his eyes on the object of interest which dangles above him like the universe’s next big test. (Or trick, depending on how this conversation ends.)

“Huh. That’s new,” he muses.

“It’s not only new, my friend, but legendary,” Rory says as her tongue slides cheekily across her lower teeth. “And I mean that in the sense that this so unbelievable, I’m convinced the Doctor plopped down in his T.A.R.D.I.S. and threw us into some kind of warped alternative reality where Luke spends his free holiday hours stringing popcorn and disappearing down chimneys.”

He acts like he’s not hanging on by her scarf strings.

“So, uh…” he clears his throat, gulping down that familiar flutter he’s been trying to subdue all night, “what now?”

“I’d say we have a conundrum, Watson.”

“We sure do, Sherlock.”

The ghost of their past love, which is not dead yet, follows close behind this remark to rustle the nerves of his heart like a skeleton because she’s all doe-eyed and lively, flirty without trying, and not to mention cute as hell. It makes Jess clench his fists as he struggles to get a fucking grip. Making him feel things he thought he’d taught himself how to forget.

How many times can this happen? How many goddamn ways to Sunday can he be kicked in the gut? It won’t do anymore, alright? Not when he’s taken the trouble to grow this thick, mature leather skin.

(Except he knows it’s too late. He already knows…)

He’s back where he started again.

He’s back at the threshold of seventeen where he first spotted that ellipsis carved into the corners of her mouth on the night they first met, standing in her bedroom doorway like a thief, coveting her literature because he knew with a glance that this girl was sentences and paragraphs. He knew she was pages and chapters and books which were yet to be understood in some overarching theme he wouldn’t be able name. He knew she was a still-developing story he’d need to read through to the conclusion.

I knew. I knew the first time I saw you.

That same ellipsis is back in Rory's features tonight, in this moment. Or maybe it’s always been there? Maybe it’s never disappeared, never gone away?

She wears it like a bookmark: pressed between every curve and contour, written between every beautiful line of her face. It’s the same one asking him to turn over to the next page right now…and follow again.

He senses it in the forgotten silence fourth.

“Luke would be furious if he knew,” Rory says with a flick of her forefinger.

“Maybe he already does? Lorelai has wife sway these days. I’m sure she works that to her advantage,” Jess replies with a snicker.

The December air has reddened her nose and there’s snow stuck to her pant leg, but she seems impervious to the cold of her beloved Stars Hollow.

“Mom would revel in how you’ve bestowed her with all the credit for this, but no,” she shakes her head, obviously amused. “No, Luke’s compliance with town tradition would make Taylor too gleeful.”

Pensive, Jess nods. He rolls up the sleeves of his brown coat.

“Let’s take it down then.”

“What!?” Her eyes widen, horrified.“No! Wait, wait!”

Part diverted, part bemused, he pauses to quirk an eyebrow at her, “What for? Petal will eat it. There’s not a garbage dropping in all of Connecticut that pig hasn’t devoured like it’s creme brulle,” he offers reassuringly.

“Yeah, but…that’s not what I—”

“He’s become the Tiny oinking Tim of this crazy town, anyway. Except with tender hooves instead of crutched feet.”

“And Kirk.”

“Yeah, and Kirk,” Jess concedes wryly.

“Hold on,” Rory interjects in a bolder tone. “Let’s stop think about this for a second. If we do this,” she exhales, her blue-knit mittens raised in supplication and her bottom lip sucked between her teeth, “if we do it, then we forfeit the chance to witness a ranting, raving Luke throwing candy canes all over the floor of the Soda Shoppe tomorrow.”

“Imagine the entertainment potential with me here, Kimmel.” She sweeps her arms out for dramatic effect, zooming in at him with her hands like a camera. “It’d be like Jingle All the Way meets Stars Wars.”

“With Taylor as what? A crowd-flung Booster? Chewbacca?”

Rory nods enthusiastically, “There’d be heavy Wookie wailing and all.”

Jess’ lips twitch as he considers this. Then he shrugs. “Nothing we haven’t seen a million times before.”

“No! But…but…this year he’s selling candy cane light sabers that glow as red as Kylo’s tantrums!” she says in ta-da; as if, somehow, this information will confuse him enough to halt his next maneuver.

“Where’s Han Solo when you need him to smuggle you some good marketing?” Jess cringes. “Geez.”

“Still stabbed through the chest somewhere, unfortunately. Besides,” Rory adds with a wave of her hand, “I doubt the Force is strong enough to fix Taylor’s strange slogans.”

“You said it, Skywalker, not me.”

He reaches up then, still shaking his head, to curl his hand around the decoration’s sparkly red bow. Finding the hook, he threatens to yank it to the ground with a good tug or two despite the punches Rory pounds into his arm in playful protest. Smirking, he lifts it further out of her reach. She narrows her eyes in warning.

“Don’t even think about it, Mariano!” she exclaims as she lunges over his shoulder amid a peal of laughter. Attempting to grab it from him, she jumps up-and-down like a pogo stick. “Oh my God, don’t you dare deprive me of the possibility of Luke going all Vader in the middle of Taylor’s SantaLand tomorrow!”

“Cool your over-caffeinated bouncin’ there, Easter bunny,” Jess laughs. He twines the slack of her scarf around her head to slow her down. “What if I said I plan to leave a festive chalkperson in its stead? Would that be an acceptable substitute, d’you think?”

Lowering his hand, he allows the ball to swing, unencumbered, above them like an ornament. Rory pulls back to unloosen her scarf, her face flushed and her mood jovial. “Only if you draw Santa Claus,” she says.

He wrinkles his nose, “Nah, I was thinking more like Dickens’ Christmas ghosts. This town needs a good haunting.”

“Whatever you say, Scrooge.”

“Excuse me, but the name’s Dodger to you.”

“As if I could forget,” she says with a wistful chuckle, averting her gaze.

Moments like these always feel so easy and natural and inevitable between them. Like laughter, or…breathing.

“Putting the whole Dennis the Menace scheme aside for a second,” Rory looks down and crunches salt and snow beneath her boots, “I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we could—oh, I don’t know…”

When she stops mid-thought to click the heels of her boots together and shift her body to the side, fumbling with her mittens, he prods. “What?”

“We could…we could, um, let it stay there, couldn’t we? It’s not bothering anyone up there, and Luke’s inflammatory reaction whenever he sees it tomorrow will be nothing short of Oscar-worthy and, well,” Rory adds in a languid but rambling tone which is a little reminiscent of her timorous teenage self, “it wouldn’t be illegal if two people found themselves under it or anything.”

“You mean, like…” Jess swallows. His voice comes out husky, like it’s comprised of strangled consonants and vowels, and it makes the words quiver when they breach his lips to meet the air. He hates the sound. “Kind of, uh,” he falters a second time; scratches his chin, “kind of like we are now?”

Shrugging ‘yeah’ in a nonchalant way, but still fidgeting more than normal by bouncing on her toes, Rory angles toward him with warm but wary eyes that size him up as if they’re still trying to decide something, “I mean, don’t you think some traditions can be nice?” she asks timidly.

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t know.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. He rocks side-to-side as if he’s trying to circulate warmth to his limbs, but really, he’s avoiding her eyes. “Maybe,” he amends.

“So, certain ones can be okay then?” Rory asks with a tilt of her head.

“Depends, I guess.”

There’s a slight edge to her expression when she looks at him here: something that’s equal parts adorable, nervous, tenacious, and bashful. It’s a look that reaches out with a hand that shivers whenever she scoots forward to huddle between his feet, her fingers trembling against his shirt, above his heart. She shivers hard.

“Would you be scandalized if I told you I liked this tradition?” she asks.

“No,” Jess breathes. “Not really.”

“After all,” Rory whispers, her blue eyes warm and eager as she wraps her arms around his neck and presses her forehead against his, leaning in with calamity curved into her smile, “what’s the harm in you and me beneath some mistletoe at least once in our lives?”

“I’ll quote the Beach Boys here and say—” Cupping her face in his hand, drawing her against him, he surrenders to that awaiting gift like he would delicious poison, “God only knows.”

Jess tastes it on her parting and pliant lips last. Her tongue slides in and tells him everything he needs to know because this part—the kissing, that zipping and tingling chemistry which adrenalizes every nerve in his body the moment their mouths collide—is the one thing that’s worked flawlessly between them since the start. And it still does.

The connection between them is still there, still flourishing.

It’s more alive in this moment than it was fifteen years ago, and it’s sharpening into something denser and deeper. It’s precarious at best; irrational to the core. It’s becoming a fact as inevitable and as irrevocable and as fucking evident as black letters on a pure white page, and Jess knows there’s not a single damn thing he can do to prevent his mind from writing it down in literal easy-to-read lines. No margins this time. He knows he can’t stop the rush of past, present, and future from merging inside his pounding chest, from rustling those old feelings he’s tried (and failed) to claw from his heart like weeds.

This is it. There’s no subduing or denying. As F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, this is ‘the beginning and ending of everything.’

Calamity hangs above his head with the mistletoe then falls like the December flakes around them as Rory kisses him long and hot and sweet. Wrecking him with the knowledge that he could—yeah, he could fall in love with her again all too easily.

#gilmore girls #agilmorechristmas #literati #literati fanfiction #rory and jess #it all comes out in babbling moron #ashlee bree's writing endeavors

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