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space-mango-company · 3 months

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Stranger | Chapter 2

Chapter Links: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

TW: Descriptions of Violence, Mentions of Cannibalism

Tags: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Atreides!Reader, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Smut (still not in this chapter lmao), No use of y/n, Original Characters, Canon what canon

Word Count: 2k

A/N: So... this was posted prematurely a couple hours ago. This is the actual finished longer version. If you don't know what I'm talking about, thank god. Sorry this took so long, lmao

Just letting you guys know that my knowledge of the lore is purely based off of the movies and the Dune wiki rabbit hole I fell into right after watching part two. I also took a few liberties with the canon here.

I'm super open to constructive criticism, or any criticism at all (feel free to absolutely roast me). Like I mentioned, I've never written fanfic before so I'd love to hear your thoughts!

The evening of your first day in Giedi Prime was celebrated with a banquet where you were introduced to the most important people on the planet. You've heard many stories of the ruthlessness and brutality of the Harkonnens, hence surprised by the courtly welcome during the dinner. Although you did your best to politely ignore the Baron who floated at the head of the table being fed by servants.

You were sat beside his nephew who, despite your mother's education, has evaded your insight. You couldn't quite get a read on him.

Feyd-Rautha whispers to you amid the buzzing conversations of the banquet hall, "are you enjoying the food, little hawk?"

You shoot him a questioning look.

"I like your hairpin," he sneers.

You resist from reaching to touch the Atreides symbol affixed in your hair.

"We don't see such ornaments often here." He quietly laughs in his devilish way, only too amused with himself.

Ah, you realize. He means to torment you.

"Seems early for pet names," you say, picking at your plate, "we've only just met."

"Oh, and yet we are to be wed in less than a week's time," his raspy voice rings in your ear, "I should like to be familiar with my future wife, Lady Atreides."

The marriage pact had been signed when you were only a little girl. Inheriting your father's inclinations, you swore you would uphold your duty, undeterred by the gruesome and abhorrent stories about the Harkonnens—because you knew that centuries of conflict could end within a generation with this union. You were a willing bride.

And yet.

You give him a smile that, to those not privy to your conversation, would seem genuine, "You know nothing of me, na-Baron."

"I should like to learn," you doubt his sincerity but care not enough to discern it. He takes a smug bite of a forkful of meat, "perhaps tomorrow, you shall learn something of me."

The following morning Iassa helps you into another black gown, this time with a veil in anticipation of the black sun.

"Is it not dangerous for Feyd-Rautha to wager his life for a show?" you question.

"The na-Baron is a skilled fighter, my lady. He will emerge victorious," Iassa is straight-faced as she drapes the veil over you.

"Yes, I do not doubt it, but given he is the Baron's heir. Does it not seem a touch irresponsible to even risk it at all."

Not that you actually cared for his life, you just expected that the Harkonnens would be concerned with the preservation of their house regardless of their brutality. You recall your grandfather who got himself killed fighting bulls for sport.

"The na-Baron will be fighting war prisoners. They will be drugged beforehand. It is perfectly safe, my lady."

"Oh." You couldn't decide if you were disappointed or not, "I see."

Iassa seemed intent on dropping the subject, so you do.

You stand before a mirror and take a look at yourself. It is impossible not to be reminded of your mother. She was never one for vanity, but you like to think there was a part of her that always enjoyed the elegant dresses she and you 'had' to wear. You allow yourself a somber smile behind your veil.

"You look beautiful, my lady," Iassa curtsies.

"Thank you," you look at her bowed figure, gray robes made more dull by the stark black choker on her neck. You were sure she was at least 2 standard years younger than you are and it had only been a few months since you came of age. You wondered if she liked pretty dresses too.

Before you can ask her, there is a knock at your door.

The house steward, Jaromir, clears his throat when Iassa opens it for you, "The na-Baron requests your presence before he enters the arena."

Heavy doors open for you in one of the chambers beneath the arena. You are greeted by the sight of a half-dressed Feyd-Rautha being helped into his armor by a servant.

"Lady Atreides," he looks you up and down, "I hope you slept well."

You bow your head in acknowledgment.

"Your knives, master," a large man whom you assume to be the bladesmith presents Feyd-Rautha with two daggers.

The young Harkonnen takes one and caresses the blade with his fingers.

"I've come to wish the brave na-Baron well before his fight in the arena," you say in false earnestness.

He smiles at your inflation of his ego.

"Though I must say, I am relieved it is all for show. I would not like to see my groom wounded before we are wed."

"For show?" Feyd-Rautha tilts his head and you see his arrogant facade show the slightest crack.

"Yes, I've heard your opponents will be drugged will they not?" your voice dripping with innocence, "to ensure your safety, of course."

His grip on the dagger tightens, "and where did you hear this exactly?"

You sense the awkwardness and tension in the servants. The one who had helped don Feyd-Rautha's armor has quietly retreated to the far side of the chamber. There is a subtle tremble in the hands of one holding a plate of towels. You finally notice the three women piled upon a raised platform glaring at you.

"Just voices around the fortress," you shrug.

A deep breath recovers Feyd-Rautha's smug expression. "Call for the warden," he orders one of the guards by the door, "tell him to prepare new prisoners. Sober ones."

"My lord, you need not endanger yourself," you feign worry.

"Nonsense." The na-Baron walks closer to tower over you, "My lady bride deserves to see my true prowess."

He sees through your challenge, but you don't care. Seeing his self-satisfied smirk wiped from his face for even just a second was worth it.

"Besides," he turns away from you to inspect the second knife, "my darlings enjoy meat that's fought for its life."

The three women sneer at this and you see their sharp teeth as they hiss amongst themselves.

You've heard of Feyd-Rautha's concubines long before you arrived on Giedi Prime. Tales of their taste for human flesh were one of the things that tested your resolve in fulfilling the marriage pact. You didn't mind that the na-Baron would keep other women. It would result in less of his attentions on yourself, you figured. It was their perverse appetite that nauseated you.

A look of revulsion hides behind your veil which you sense they would be all too happy to rip to shreds.

"I will see you in the stands, little hawk," Feyd-Rautha whispers to you as he waves for a guard to escort you out.

You do your best to drown out the noise of what seemed to be a countless audience that came to see the na-Baron fight. You could understand now why they uphold such brutal traditions. The people are so excited for it.

On the other side of the arena, you sense Vladimir Harkonnen watching you from the Baron's Box that towered over the whole arena. The blazing sun only helps you avoid looking in his direction. You were sat at a viewing box, still for nobility and separated from the masses, but much lower and closer to the sands of the arena. Jaromir had told you that you were to 'give the na-Baron your favor'.

Before long, the master of ceremonies announces Feyd-Rautha's entrance in Giedi Prime Speech. They are celebrating his betrothal to you and the union of Harkonnen and Atreides, you translate in your head. You wonder if the people care for the politics of the Great Houses. They seemed no less excited to cheer at your name despite the centuries-old blood feud.

Massive doors open as the na-Baron walks into the arena. His arms outstretched holding his knives like an extension of his limbs. He riles up the crowd as he walks towards the Baron's Box and kneels to his uncle. He then rises and walks toward you, smirking under the stark light of the black sun.

You may not fear earning the Harkonnens' contempt, but you were the Duke of Caladan's daughter and you knew that the favor of the people was invaluable.

You stand and walk to the edge of the viewing box. The glowing smile you reveal as you lift your veil draws cheers from the crowd that rival what Feyd-Rautha received. You produce a pure white handkerchief from your dress pocket and make a show of kissing it and waving the cloth at the buzzing crowd. You throw it off the edge and it floats toward the na-Baron who had moved both daggers to one hand to catch it. He looks up at you with what you think could be the seeds of respect and tucks the cloth into the tight armband around his right bicep.

He turns back to the audience and raises his knives in a war cry. The crowd explodes in guttural cheers and applause. Feyd-Rautha takes his position in the middle of the arena as his first opponent is released into the white sands.

You've heard of the Harkonnen heir's aptitude in single combat. It's time to see if the stories were true or if it was just another part of their menacing facade.

You were handed a pair of spyglasses to observe with. The two fighters approach each other, the prisoner wielding a knife of his own. Feyd-Rautha holds a taunting stance. The prisoner was sober, you were sure, but even without the spyglasses, you could see he was weak. You surmised the Harkonnen cells weren't very hospitable. He attempts a swipe but the na-Baron parries with ease. Another and the na-Baron dodges. Zooming in, you could see Feyd-Rautha's twisted amusement. He was toying with the poor man—and the people loved it.

The crowds cheered at the clashing of metal, thundering when the na-Baron drew first blood by slashig his opponent's arm. It wasn't long before Feyd-Rautha's dagger had impaled the prisoner's heart. There was no pause before a second prisoner was brought out to meet a similar fate.

Feyd-Rautha stood unwounded, seething with exhilaration. He enjoyed this; the thrill of killing. He basked in the roar of the crowd. You had never ended a life before, but some deep part of you could almost understand how he felt in that moment.

A third prisoner enters the arena. He looked older than the first two, bearded and taller. He reminded you of Gurney Halleck, the Atreides Warmaster. This man certainly wasn't at his prime but you could tell he would not go down as easily as the first two.

The warrior holds his blade out in a firm fighting stance, refusing to make the first move. You notice picadors in black suits have entered the arena, circling the na-Baron and his opponent. Feyd-Rautha lunges at the prisoner and a quick series of parries from both sides occur. You see the finesse in the na-Baron's movement. He recognizes his opponent's skill and he is taking this one seriously. You were not sure what you expected of the Harkonnen's fighting style but Feyd-Rautha was vicious but precise. The crowd gasps when the prisoner disarms one of the na-Baron's knives. The warrior manages to get a grip on Feyd-Rautha's armed hand and aims to pierce the na-Baron's neck with his blade. The na-Baron struggled against his hold and the arid air was thick with anticipation.

You were unsure what outcome you desired as you stared through your spyglass. Perhaps this warrior kills your betrothed. What then? Would you really be able to go back to Caladan's windy cliffs again? Return to the arms of your mother as if it were all a bad dream? You wonder if when Feyd-Rautha becomes baron, and you his baroness, could you convince him to let you see your family.

The warrior's blade was dangerously close to your future husband's throat when one of the picadors lashes at the warrior. The na-Baron growls at the offending picador as the warrior is weakened. Feyd-Rautha pushes him off and allows him a moment to recover, taunting him to try again. Blades clash once more and after a sequence of quick ferocious movements, Feyd-Rautha's blade slashes the warrior's throat. Blood made black by the infrared of the sun splatters onto the na-Baron. He licks the darkness that landed on his lips. Heaving, he takes your bloodied handkerchief off his armband and raises it to you and the roaring crowd.

You did not even realize you were already standing, breathless at the sight.

Chapter Links: [1], [2], [3], [4], [5]

Taglist: @torchbearerkyle @austinswhitewolf @dreamlandcreations @emeraldsgirl @strawberryfieldsforevermore

#feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha #feyd rautha harkonnen #dune #dune part two #baron harkonnen #baron vladimir harkonnen #house harkonnen #house atreides #giedi prime #austin butler #space-mango-company #fic: stranger

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mandoalorian · 1 year

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taste of heaven

Joel Miller x F!Reader [smut]

Summary: You and Joel leave the quarantine zone in search of some medicine, when you come across a variant of the Cordyceps, taking life in the form of a pretty red flower. Whilst exposure to this mutated fungus doesn’t prove fatal, it does have some lasting effects.

Warnings: explicit, no minors. Sex pollen fic, exhibitionism, f!masturbation, fingering, tit play, degradation, jealousy, lots of begging, yearning/pining, implied age gap, mention of drugs/reader being drugged, cursing

Authors note: Please reblog to spread this fic around and it’s not showing up in tags! My requests & commissions are officially OPEN again! If you have any questions drop me a private message.

Masterlist / Want to support me further?

'Nature vs. nurture' has been a discussion which had dominated centuries of wonder, and even in the year 2023, when the world had been wiped clean from humanity and only the hardened walked the streets, it was something that still preyed on your mind. The theory could be applied in many aspects; but one that you couldn’t quite navigate no matter how hard you tried, was how you had lasted this long living in a war-torn world. You often reflected on how you had kept yourself so clean and away from infected and bad people. You figured that for the first few years you had just gotten lucky. Your state was notified of the Cordyceps Infection before it hit and so you were given the opportunity to escape your city early. They were already building Quarantine Zone’s and conscripting Fedra military in August.

Until Christmas 2003, you stuck by your family. They were with you, alive, for the first three months of the outbreak. By this point, the Cordyceps infection wasn’t exactly seen as a ‘permanent’ thing and the government had yet to give up on finding a cure. One by one you lost your parents, grandparents and siblings, but not before you found solitude in a Quarantine Zone northwest of Rhode Island.

Those fragments of peace and liberty lasted a whole three years before Fedra wiped the town clean, and you had no choice but to evacuate. You headed towards Massachusetts, stopping by different QZ's, meeting new folk along your way.

But nothing was permanent. Ten years ago you found a home in Boston Quarantine Zone.

It wasn't a nice place, full of selfish people doing what they needed to do to get by. Rats on every corner, literal and personified, and so you did your best to stay out of trouble.

You’d take on little jobs and run errands to earn ration cards, and you would follow Fedra's orders to a tee. If there was such thing as a 'golden girl' in this world... well, that would be you.

And then you met Joel.

Joel wasn't a good guy, and he made sure you knew that when you first laid eyes on him. He was ruthless; a killer, and the type of person you should’ve stayed away from. You’d survived this long by keeping away from guys like him and yet, you found yourself drawn to him. There was something about his rugged handsomeness and dedication to survival that appealed to you. When you first met him, you noted that he was a man of a few words. He rarely offered you even a glance and if he did give care to give you his time of day, it would be nothing less than to mumble a warning to you.

It took Joel a while to warm up to you. The man seemed more than satisfied with his partner, Tess, than to even want to give you even just a bit of the minimal attention that you craved. You were unsure of Tess. She was very beautiful, with shoulder-length wavy hair and bright green eyes. You wondered if she and Joel were anything serious, or if they were merely just friends, or perhaps something in between. The pair were inseparable and often participated in smuggling runs together, or were hired as bounty hunters.

It was a smokey grey morning when Joel entered the makeshift QZ pharmacy where Fedra had you working. His dark eyes appeared sunken in and tired, a deep frown crossed his lips.

“I need fentanyl, morphine, oxycodone... something to take away pain.”

He was avoidant of eye contact, looking uncomfortable to even have to ask you of this.

Your jaw slackened slightly and you furrowed your eyebrows together at the man's request. “Are you- are you okay?”

Joel scoffed and rolled his tongue over his lower lip. “It’s not for me.” He snapped back, already becoming irritated that you were questioning his request. It had nothing to do with you.

Unamused by his attitude, you decided on shutting him down immediately. “I don't. We don't sell opioids here.” you glanced away from the man, feeling your cheeks become hot under his stern gaze. Now he was making eye contact and he knew exactly how to intimidate you. If Joel was anything, he was determined and if Joel wanted something he made sure he’d get it, no matter the means or consequences.

“Fedra don't permit anything as... strong as that to be traded in the QZ.”

Joel grunted and slammed his fists on the cashier desk. “Don't play coy with me, girl,” he sneered, hissing through his teeth. “can’t have been the first person to come in and ask for this. You have to know where I can get it from.”

You swallowed, looking around the empty pharmacy for answers. “I know someone,” you said timidly. “Well, know of someone.”

“Take me to them.” Joel demanded, without missing a beat. His desperation was becoming clear.

Seeing your hesitation, Joel brought his fingers down to the pistol that he'd stuffed in the back of his jeans, having been used to being able to make a sufficient threat. But then, before making any rash judgement, he stopped himself and placed a hand on the desk in front of you. He couldn't hold you at gunpoint. You were sweet, kind, and soft. In the many years of knowing him, you had been nothing but nice to Joel. It would be wrong to scare you like that.

Adjusting his composure, Joel took a deep breath and let his body relax. He could ease up around you. You wouldn't even hurt a fly; let alone pull any stunts on someone like him.

“Please." he said quietly, his brown eyes now appearing to be more pleasing than harsh. He could read you like an open book and he knew exactly how to wrap himself around you. You huffed out a sigh and contemplated giving him the information that he so desired.

“There's a guy I've heard Simone talk about. He's housed up on the outskirts of Boston, about a three-hour hike from here. He's her dealer. He'll have what you're looking for, but Joel…" you reluctantly placed your hand down on top of the desk, next to his. “It's in Fairmount. But I don't feel comfortable leaving the QZ. I could get in trouble. And if this is for you— or your own personal dealing, then—”

And for the first time in weeks, Joel's lips curled into a small smile. He moved his hand over yours and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“You'll be okay,” he promised, and from the longing look in his eyes, you believed him.

“Can I ask, who is the medicine for?” you interrogated shyly after a few moments of silence. Joel's rough hands were still atop yours.

Joel broke eye contact with you. If he wanted you to be fully on board, then he had to start being honest. “Tess.”

“Is she okay?” you became alarmed, moving your hand away from Joel and already beginning to grab your supplies for the journey.

“She got into a fight with Robert and his men, she's badly beaten up. She just needs something strong to help her fight through it. She'll be okay. She's tough.” Joel wanted to curse himself for offering you so much information, knowing that Tess would've been mortified if she'd learned that he was telling you all of this. But he really needed your help.

“We best get going then,” you said, grabbing your rucksack from behind the countertop.

For a brief second, Joel admired your dedication to helping Tess. It bewildered him a little, knowing that Tess didn't exactly care enough about you to help you the same. Tess often muttered snide words about your inability to shoot a gun or your law-abiding attitude. She hated the way you would sink under authority, but Joel understood it. He understood that everyone had their different ways of surviving, and as long as it was working, then he wasn't one to judge. But right now, that didn't matter. Joel was just thankful that you'd agreed to go with him.

��——

Somewhere along the journey, you noticed a shrub peppered with four-petaled flours, painted red with golden pollen in the centre. You’d never seen anything like them before, and you had studied horticulture a few years back in Rhode Island QZ. You found yourself magnetised by their beauty, and with Joel a few yards back from you, you decided to take some time to analyse the plant. Picking one from the bush, you rubbed the soft petals between your fingers and let the grains of pollen sink into your skin. When Joel got nearer, you stuffed the flower in your jacket pocket and continued walking alongside him.

You were about an hour away from Fairmount when you started to get dizzy. You weren’t hallucinating but your perception of your surroundings had certainly changed. The road ahead seemed short and thick and upon the horizon was a glowing pink line.

“Do you see that?” You asked Joel, squinting your eyes as you extended your hand to point to the horizon.

Joel tried following your moving index finger but shook his head. “You’re pointing at everything and nothing. C’mon let's keep going.”

It started out with a burning sensation, your loins ignited and blazed inside of you. You tried to regulate your breathing and found yourself slowly losing concentration on whatever Joel was saying. You wanted to pay attention, you really did. You loved his voice, it was like honey and velvet and there was something about that damned Texan accent of his… you didn’t notice it before, but you were certainly noticing it now. Your nipples felt tender as they hardened and poked out from underneath your shirt and you silently prayed that they weren’t visible through your denim jacket. The air around you was suddenly humid and thick and moist. Moist… you let out a small whimper and stopped dead in your tracks.

Joel stopped too. “Are you okay?” he asked, observing your sudden reaction to the forbidden flower.

“I just need a second to catch my breath.” You exhaled, closing your eyes and desperately trying to cling onto oxygen. Joel glanced back at the trail you’d both been walking along. There had hardly been an incline.

Joel gave you a few moments and when you finally opened your eyes, you offered him a queasy yet confident smile.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled. “Let’s keep going. Nearly there now. What were you saying about the—ah, fuck.” You stopped again, feeling a sudden wetness in your panties. Bolts of electricity were shooting up and down your body and within just a matter of seconds, you felt the primal need for something to fill you.

You looked at Joel and then looked away.

Joel said your name softly, drawled it out slowly like he was trying not to spook you. You refused to make eye contact with him, looking down at your feet.

“Don’t lie to me,” Joel said. He placed a hand on your arm and you flinched away from him. “What’s going on?”

You bit your lip, pressing your thighs together hoping for some kind of relief to the ache between your legs. You’re looked around your surroundings, finding a large rock just a few acres away. Ignoring Joel, you sat down and he followed you on your tail.

This was embarrassing. This was so embarrassing.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” you admitted, dabbing at the beads of sweat that laced your hairline. “I feel hot and heavy and it’s hard to breathe, I feel like my clothes are constraining me and I’m… I feel…”

Joel crooked his head to one side.

“Joel,” you whispered. “Fuck Joel, fuck…” you hissed through your teeth. “Joel, Joel…” you panted his name like it was a sacred prayer. Joel would’ve been lying if he said hearing you chant his name like that didn’t turn him on.

Extending your arms, you reached out towards the man. He obliged, coming closer and kneeling down in front of you. He placed both of his hands on your thighs to illustrate comfort and gazed into your eyes.

“What is it?” he quizzed further.

You nervously swallowed and reached into the pocket of your denim jacket before bringing out the now crumpled-up flower you’d picked earlier. The pale yellow pollen slipped between your fingers and you dropped the flower on the floor. Upon seeing it, Joel’s dark eyes widened and he leaned away from you.

“No, no, no,” you begged him, opening your legs and pulling him back into you, this time holding him as close as could be. “Fuck Joel, I— I don’t know— I don’t know what’s happening,” you squeaked, tears filling your eyes.

“Oh, sweet girl,” he shushed, but there was no denying the slight air of worry sprawled across his face. “What have you done?”

“I think it’s the flower… I just picked it up earlier because I thought it was pretty and, figured I could make a hair clip out of it or—“

“I’ve heard stories about those flowers,” Joel shook his head. “They’re a mutated form of Cordyceps… a variant that’s been growing like ordinary fungus, in environments, masking themselves as plants. I’ve never seen them before but… that’s what I’ve heard they look like.”

“Holy shit,” you whispered. “Am I infected?”

“No! No, no girl. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine. These plants… they’re known to have a primal effect on their host. They want their host to reproduce so they release endorphins and, I… don’t know the science behind it but,”

“Joel,” you whispered. “Joel…” your voice trailed off, bringing your hands up to his cheeks as you cradled his face. Your thumbs brushed over his stubble which adorned his jaw and you admired the little missing patch of hair there that you’d never noticed before. “I’m fucking horny.” you breathed into admittance.

If you weren’t so worked up right now, you would’ve barked out a laugh at how ridiculous those words sounded leaving your lips. Joel swallowed, his adam’s apple bopping up and down in his throat. You licked your lips and waited for him to say something— anything. But he stayed quiet, only the slightest movement in his hand as he brought it to the inside of your thigh.

You tossed your head back at the gesture and Joel felt his cock throb in his pants at the sight of you coming undone over him. He noted the vein in your neck and the way your perfect lips parted in an O shape as he trailed his other hand up your waist and along your torso to the hem of your jacket.

“We don’t have to do anything, we don’t have to… I’ll be okay if you just give me some privacy and I can… I can… you know,”

“You need me and you know it,” Joel said gruffly, peeling back your jacket and letting it pool into a discarded pile on the floor. You already felt an air of relief wash over you as you lost an item of clothing. You hummed and leaned in closer to him, pressing your breasts which were now tight against your shirt into his face. “Say it.”

“I need you Joel,” you obliged. “Fuck, I need you so bad.”

“Tell me what exactly you need, baby girl,” Joel requested, bringing his hand to your breasts and massaging them through the material of your shirt. He pinched his finger over your protruding nipples and circled around them. He imagined nibbling it and sucking on them, and his mouth began to water.

“I need you, need your cock to fill me up. I want to wrap myself around you, tight, oh God, please,” you begged, grinding on the rock beneath you. The friction between the rock and jeans have you something, but it wasn’t enough. Joel discarded his jacket and unbuttoned his flannel shirt, throwing them to one side on the floor.

“You want me that bad huh?” Joel chuckled, reaching down to his belt and unbuckling it. With a clink, that was on the floor too.

“Need,” you corrected him. “This— this is fucking— fuck— I should be embarrassed.”

“But you’re not, because behind that sweet, good girl persona, you’re just a dirty, unfulfilled whore.” Joel seethed. If you didn’t know any better, you might’ve thought that was an insult, but his degradation only spurred you on more and you let out a moan.

“Your whore,” you told him with a smile. You stood up and pulled down your jeans so you were now sat on the rock wearing nothing but your t-shirt and panties. Your legs still open, you dropped your hand to your crotch and started to rub yourself through the material of your panties.

“Ah-ah,” Joel chastised, taking your hand away from your aching pussy and interlocking his fingers with yours. “Look how wet you are. From now on, only I’m allowed to touch you, okay?”

“Mm, sounds like you want me just as much as I want you,” you teased him, even surprising yourself at that little comment which escaped your lips.

“I do,” Joel answered, bringing your hand down to his own crotch, allowing you to feel his bulge that was straining through his jeans. As if that wasn’t proof enough.

“What about Tess?” you couldn’t help but ask. Even while you were in heat, you found yourself thinking about what Joel and Tess got up to. What exactly their ‘partnership’ amounted to.

Joel smirked and pressed a kiss into the crook of your neck. “You jealous?” he mumbled against your skin. The low octave of his voice sent vibrations through your body. He licked a stripe down to your collar bone.

“Nuh-uh,” you shook your head.

Every touch of his left a stain of fire.

“I think you are,” Joel teased. “You get jealous thinking about me fucking Tess— bending her over and taking her from behind.”

You groaned. “Fuck you,” you whined, running your fingers through his greying brown hair.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” Joel chuckled.

Then, something caught your attention. You were drugged— ‘under the influence’— if you wanted a nicer way to put it. You wanted Joel but you had that damn mutated flower to blame, and yet Joel… this was raw. This was all him. He had nothing to blame other than himself because the truth is, he’s wanted you from the moment he laid eyes on you.

“I fuck Tess,” he announced and you felt your face sour at his declaration. “But I wish it was you every damn time.”

You huffed as you let him take off your t-shirt. His eyes widened when he saw you weren’t even wearing a bra.

“Somehow I doubt that,” you muttered with a roll of your eyes.

“Let me prove it to you.” Joel replied, this time his words holding the utmost meaning.

Joel unzipped his jeans and pulled them down to his knees, alongside his boxer shorts, revealing his long, thick cock. It was perfect, the dark pink head already leaking with milky white trails of precum.

“You’re huge.” you couldn’t help but gasp out, making Joel laugh. You immediately eased at the sound of his chuckle. It wasn’t teasing or fake, but it was genuine and authentic. Dare you say, cute.

But the little butterflies that fluttered in the pit of your stomach were short-lived. Your loins ached even more just at the mere sight of him and you eagerly ditched your panties within seconds. Leaning back, you made yourself as comfortable as you could be atop of the rock and spread your legs for him. What a sight to behold, you were.

Joel admired your glistening folds as he eye-fucked your entire naked body. You brought your hands to your tits and began to play with them as you let him observe you.

“Please Joel,” you begged. “Let me feel you.”

Joel hovered over you and pressed his cock between your folds, rubbing the tip up and down, separating you. Obscene and lewd wet noises filled the quiet atmosphere as Joel gathered your juices on his manhood.

“Such a pretty pussy,” Joel sighed, before bringing a thumb to your clit. He began to draw circles over the bundle of nerves, causing your body to jolt with the overbearing rush of pleasure. You knew you wouldn’t last long and you could feel your orgasm begin to creep upon you. But you needed more.

“Fuck me Joel, I need you inside of me.”

“Like this?” Joel asked and with one smooth motion, Joel thrusted his cock inside of you, your wet walls squeezing around him. “Oh shit.” he croaked out, taking a moment to adjust himself to the ethereal feeling of you wrapped around him.

“Yes, just like that,” you praised. “Move now, please.”

For the first time, Joel followed your instruction without any tormenting or teasing. He’d wanted this just as bad as you did. Joel rocked his hips into you, building up a rhythm that you just couldn’t resist. His movements began to set out a pace but in time he quickened himself, focusing on getting closer to his high as he felt your own body quiver and shake underneath him. You knew he was close when his thrusts became sloppy and he chanted your name under his breath.

Joel delved his face into your neck and you screamed as your climax came crushing down. Joel felt it too— the effect of your orgasm and what it had done to your body. Without any warning, Joel shot ropes of his cum into your pussy before slowly pulling out of you. The warmth of his seed painting your walls was enough to help you come down from your high.

Joel rolled off you and laid next to you, atop of the rock.

The sky was growing dark now and nightfall was approaching.

“Thank you.” you whispered when you regained your breath. You let yourself have a few moments to try and come to terms with what had just happened. By far, the best experience of your life.

Joel leaned over onto his side and looked at you, feeling completely enamoured with your beauty. You were still flushed and sweating but the effects of the flower had worn off now, and you were doing much better.

“Before, when I said I thought of you when I was with Tess… I wasn’t lying,” Joel admitted. “I don’t want you to think…”

You smiled, tangling your fingers into his hair and pushing his face down to meet yours. You offered him a soft, tranquil kiss and Joel moaned at the affection. Your lips were so soft, exactly how he’d imagined. If he could, he’d kiss them forever.

“Is she your girlfriend?” you asked after pulling away.

“It’s not like that at all,” Joel replied. “We just… we’re there when we need each other, y’know?”

You nodded your head silently.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing,” Joel announced, feeling a rush of nerves and anxiety race through his body. “I mean, not the Cordyceps flower. And not just the sex. But I want to see you again, after today. And I understand if you don’t feel the same way— I know, we’re so different and I ain’t a good guy. Maybe a girl like you would be better on your own, but damn it, I like you and—“

“I like you too,” you cut him off. “Maybe when we get back to Boston, you can take me out on a date?”

Joel grinned, a dimple appearing in his right cheek. There was those butterflies again.

“Alrighty then.” Joel beamed and you pressed another kiss to his lips. “It’s a date.”

-------

taglist: @januarycolor @anapnovo-blog @pardebellesnuits @mi0o@supervengerslock@alitaar@bigpepperpicker@pedrostories@pedroprinces@

#pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal x you #smut #tlou

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ghouljams · 3 months

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jumping off of that other anon about love and war: discussion on pieces of art (like the Brunswicker) or poetry (Lord Byron) who combine that sense of devoted love and helplessness. love recites Byron to simon and it turns him on, not because it's Byron, but because it's her (and he loves the way her mouth moves)

I watched thee when the fever glazed thine eyes

Yielding my couch, and stretched me on the ground

When overworn with watching, ne'er to rise

From thence, if thou an early grave hadst found.

Ghost is absolutely entranced by every part of this woman, but her mouth? The way she smiles at him makes his heart stop. The way she talks to him is like music, he can't help but want to listen to her for hours. He's down astronomical. Love is awful for his sanity and yet he can't turn her away like he does everyone else.

It's just- She's smart. She's smart enough to know better than to like him, than to go after a guy like him, and yet here she is. She perches on his desk to read Vonnegut just so she can turn to him and point out her favorite section, or ask his thoughts on whatever philosophy the book is lecturing. Love is the sort of pretty he'd never go after at a bar, the sort that has too much life to be bogged down by the type of love he has to offer. Absolute, rabid, devotion. And yet! And yet she knocks on his door, and leaves little notes in his books, and takes an interest in him in a way that no one else has. He almost touches her on purpose once, just to check that he hasn't imagined her. He thinks better of it.

Love jokes with him, to him about him. She's so... lovely. She's a fountain of knowledge, always inviting him to drink, and where he thought once that he was drowning in a sea of people he finds himself parched. He's alone when he's not with her. He finds his eyes on the lecture hall doors, watching for her. He tracks his time for office hours closer, waiting an extra few minutes for her. That's how he finds himself in her lectures, drawn to her when he can't stand being away any longer. He hovers in the back, unsure why he's even there, though he always comes with an excuse, and wonders why he enjoys her flirting so much.

She's discussing the anthropological importance of "heroes" the way that humanity craves the safety of them. The shift in ideals, the Byronic hero. Ghost wonders if this might not serve a literature class better, he glances at a nearby student's notes and sees the class is cross listed: "Human evolution through story telling." He got his times wrong, this isn't the philosophy one.

"Speaking of heroes," Love grins, and Ghost knows that's for him, "Simon, my favorite Byronic gentleman, here to recite some poetry for us?" God the way she says his name, he might need a pace maker to keep his heart beating the way it's supposed to. He holds up a paperback, and she shakes her head. "Knew I forgot something."

Love holds her hand out, and despite his better judgement Ghost walks down the lecture hall steps to hand the book to her. She flips through the pages, and almost seems disappointed. He's reminded of the little notes she leaves him in the books she returns. That's different though, those are in scholarly texts, this is a copy of Kafka's "Metamorphosis." She already heard his thoughts on it. Maybe not all of them, she'd started leaning too far over and he'd had to kick her out before she noticed him staring down her shirt, but enough.

"Not a poetry guy," Ghost tells her, she always seems to perk up when he talks. Now is no different, the light comes back to her smile as she glances up at him.

"I can start it off." She offers. Ghost hesitates, glancing back at the silent lecture hall, and gives a short nod.

"I watched thee when the foe was at our side,/ Ready to strike at him—or thee and me,/ Were safety hopeless—rather than divide/ Aught with one loved save love and liberty." He watches that pretty mouth shape the words, his head tipping with a gentle shake. One loved, together intertwined even in hopelessness. Love and Death, it's funny... he actually knows this one.

"I watched thee on the breakers, when the rock/ Received our prow, and all was storm and fear," Ghost swallows, frowning against Love's eager stare, something woefully soft in her eyes feels as sharp as a knife when he meets them. He looks away, finds more eyes, looks back. He lowers his voice, feels the rasp of it in his throat, the sticky promises he wants to make, hidden behind a stranger's words, "And bade thee cling to me through every shock;/ This arm would be thy bark, or breast thy bier." She's so dangerously close to him, stupidly close with those sweet lips curved like sin into a smile. "Love dwells not in our will." Ghost breathes.

"You're skipping ahead," Love leans in to whisper. Ghost can't help the way he leans as well, the tip of his head and aborted raise of his hand. Ghost stiffens, straightens and turns to go. He can't be around this woman any more. She's going to be the death of him. "Bye Simon," She calls after him.

"Dr. Riley," He grumbles. One student sitting on the aisle notes in the group chat later that they aren't sure if he was correcting her, or extending a similar goodbye, with a teeny-weeny Freudian slip.

#x oc #simon ghost riley #cod x oc #ghost x oc #ghost mw2 #ghost call of duty #oc: love #professor au #professor!ghost #f!oc #simon riley x oc #simon ghost riley x oc #Love and Ghost talking about Cat's Cradle #Ghost has never been more in love with someone in his life

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drconstellation · 3 months

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The Cupperty Ceremony

Every bit of food and drink in both seasons has a metaphorical significance, even if you don't realize it.

Tea is no exception. Its one of the few times an eastern philosophy creeps into Good Omens, but it still meets with a western ideal. It's also intrinsically linked to Aziraphale and his affected British style.

Coffee gets more of a focus in S2, and has a specific meaning around freedom and liberty, whereas tea appears more in S1. But the metaphorical meanings around them are fairly consistent across both seasons, with stereotypes for the British drinking tea and the Americans only drinking coffee put aside.

Lets start with Muriel on the doorstep of the bookshop, at the beginning of S2E3, asking to come in, because its noisy outside.

Aziraphale, after a moment to take in who they are, is the epitome of politeness as he welcomes them inside.

You might think "well, isn't this just Aziraphale being typically Aziraphale?" in this moment, but soon we shall see its a relevant part of a ritual going on here.

The bookshop is noticeably quieter on the inside. There is just the two of them. Aziraphale offers Muriel tea in a fine china cup, with a blue pattern, and gold trim.

Muriel is not sure what to do with it so they just hold it. Aziraphale makes a point of demonstrating what should be done: He tells Muriel the tea is "to drink," then looks at it, sips, and makes both an appreciative expression and sound.

Muriel seems repelled by this, and declares they are just going to look at theirs. Aziraphale patiently, still polite, lets them do so.

Up to this point, there are actually two levels of meta happening at the same time. The first one is a tea ceremony (which I had a go at once before, and got the wrong one!) and the other is about trying to get Muriel to take the first step in "going native."

A tea ceremony always starts with a courteous invitation. The tea is prepared, then served and offered to others. It should be taken in a tranquil, peaceful setting, perhaps in a harmonious natural environment (such as a Garden) and with only a few people at a time (two people is considered a "superior" experience.) The tea ware is important, as it should allow the fragrance of the tea to be appreciated (we have some fine china, Heavenly-coded.) Appreciation of the tea's qualities is undertaken, first with the eyes, then by smell, then tasting. It is considered an art, a process of spiritual enjoyment, a means of cultivating the moral character - and then Crowley bursts into the bookshop with his flirty comment about going by train and breaks the fragile connection Aziraphale had been trying to establish with Muriel.

*sigh* Timing, Crowley! Can't you see I'm in the middle of trying to subvert a fellow angel here?

I was recently reminded that tea and coffee have a connection in GO, in that that they are both linked to the American War of Independence. While the speech that gives us "Give me liberty, or give me death!" conjures the stormy winds of war sounding trouble approaching, the Boston Tea Party was the initial spark of the brewing conflict.

I realize there is a LOT of stuff written about this particular bit of history, and it can get quite political even in these modern times, so let me frame it in a Good Omens frame of reference if you aren't familiar with it - the colonists in the New World were upset at how they were being ruled from afar by the British and staged a small protest about some new laws imposed on them by dumping ship-loads of valuable tea leaves (a daily consumable pleasure people had become hooked on) into Boston Harbor on the night of 16th December 1773. To disguise themselves they dressed themselves as indigenous people, or "native Americans" as one might have said. This was just the beginning of further rebellion that led to war a few years later.

So here is another reason Aziraphale offers tea to Muriel, and not cocoa; he can see how fascinated they are with with everything Earthly around them, and he hopes to ignite a spark of rebellion in them, too, by introducing them to the more civilized pleasures (*ahem*) that he knows and enjoys so well.

While there is little tea to be seen in S2, there is plenty to be seen in S1. Perhaps the most prominent one for this discussion occurs right near the beginning, when Gabriel surprises Aziraphale in the sushi restaurant in S1E1.

Aziraphale offers to tea to Gabriel, and Gabriel shuns it. He, like most of the angels we meet, have no real interest in Earth. It's "gross." Ah, well. He gets to change his mind in S2.

So where else do we see tea in S1?

The Four Horsepeople: War orders four teas, one black, and a cheese sandwich in the diner where they all meet up together for the first time on Earth. We don't know who the sandwich is for, but I'm going to guess its for Famine. Reasons below, with Shadwell. (Cheese and tea make a nice savoury pair for a snack, if you haven't tried it. I'm partial to tea with cheese and crackers on the side from time to time.)

The Tibetan Tunnelers were on tea break from digging tunnels all over the Earth when we meet them, where they mention they were transported into the tunnels when they themselves stopped for tea back in their real lives on the surface.

Shadwell's infamously sweet tea, with either nine sugars or condensed milk, needs a mention as well, as it appears several times. Shadwell is an Aziraphale parallel-character, living on the fringes of society and starving for attention, even though he makes feeble swipes at Madam Tracey's attempts to care for him. The sugar represents the amount of care or "sweetening up" he needs.

When he first meets Newt he gets the young man to buy him a tea and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Remember the cheese sandwich War ordered for Famine? A packet of cheese flavoured crisps is a parallel here. Newt has turned up and finally given someone Shadwell someone to sink his teeth into.

Finally, we need to return to Crowley - its coffee, as black as his soul for him, please, and extra strong (six shots is for the number of Hell.)

Because he's already "gone native," just like Aziraphale, and he wants to maintain his freedom. He's left the Garden, and Heaven, behind him, and he'll do anything to keep it that way, thank you.

I'd like to thank my mutual and other food meta writer @vidavalor for discussing some of this off-list some time ago. We mostly see things the same way, I believe, but one must tread one's own path sometimes. They have some different ideas around some of this, but I'll let them say it in their own words.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #aziraphale #muriel #gabriel #four horsepeople of the apocalypse #shadwell #the tibetan tunnelers #and a cheese sandwich #six shots of espresso #gone native #gross matter #it's what humans do #tea ceremony #cup of tea #cupperty

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demaparbat-hp · 4 months

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In almost all of your artwork you transform Katara into a different person. You take away her hair loopies, give her short hair (knowing how much hair is important to her culture), take away all her heritage, and now you have her join Fire Nation military because of your AU, which can be misinterpreted if your art is reposted without context. You’re really talented but as a woc, why do you like removing all of Katara’s culture in your AUs?

Hi! I had never given this much thought because I honestly didn't think it would ever be a problem, but I guess I can see where you're coming from.

Culture is something precious, and it's very, very important to me, as a creator, to get these character's cultures right. I've studied about cultural inspiration and lore in ATLA, especially their visual characteristics. They're so diverse, and I love exploring them. Especially through clothing and the characters' distinct features. Katara in particular is probably my favorite character to draw, and I always do my best to make it clear she's Water Tribe through visual representation.

That being said, I took the liberty of checking out the artworks I've posted to see things from your pov. And I guess you're right, to an extent. I can understand that, without context, it may seem as if I'm erasing Katara's culture.

Except that's not true. At all.

Even, as I already said, without context.

These are the only artworks I could find that fit your description. But I don't know if you've noticed, anon, the things they all have in common: each one of them is an AU, in which Katara is put in a position where she needs to hide her identity (the Hunters AU, as well as Lee and Kya) or has a different background all together (in the middle, the HalfBlood AU, where he's born in the Earth Kingdom as a water half-child); but even under these circumstances, I don't forget about her culture, and neither does she.

Instead of her hair loopies, she wears a Warrior's braids and beads, a waterskin, and a blue sash embroidered with silver waves; all of this while she's part of a Fire Nation crew that's trying to end the war from within.

The other AUs are like that, too. Katara finds ways to remember her culture, who she is, even if it's in the little details. A blue and silver sash in seas of green clothing, a betrothal necklace once belonging to her mother and grandmother. Her features.

I refuse to forget about Katara's culture and how it has shaped her, even if the AU demands it so. She is who she is, no matter what.

#dema answers #atla #zutara #avatar the last airbender #katara #katara of the southern water tribe

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ronsenthal · 5 months

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Ron Speirs x Reader

Summary: Nobody really stands alone at Currahee even if you try. Sometimes we try to run away from our thoughts and demons but sometimes they catch us on the race for the better or worse.

A/N: This fic was written on the sole purpose of filling the big void in my heart caused by the showrunners who refused to gives us Ron in Toccoa, it was based on this post ignited by this military AU prompt. Also slightly based on the fact that Speirs used to be a runner for the athletics back when he was a student.

Since he was a kid he loved to run, he ran all the way from school to his home trying to get there as fast as he could because it meant more time to play with his toys and his friends. When he got a bit older he loved to run because it was a relief for his troubled mind, but also because he was so good at it, he was always a competitor and the winning feeling gave him joy and praise it was his runaway.

Life was going fast and there was no way to stop him, in his mind there was a clear path, study, get a job, get a house and so far everything was going in the right direction, but that was until the news about a war came and he had to put a hold on everything he thought was in his path.

It’s been some weeks since he arrived at Camp Toccoa for his basic training, so far the physical requirements were the last of his problems, he even enjoyed the preparations and of course his favourite part was the endless running exercises. He has always been smart, but the endless morning classes studying maps, sand tables, aerial photos were a torture, not because he couldn’t understand it, no! In fact he understood it better than the old officer trying to teach them, and that was the problem, they were too slow and he was a natural born tactician.

One afternoon after a torture session was over he had some spare time on his hands, so he quickly changed into his PT gear and headed towards the mountain he was getting so acquainted. When they said that Currahee means “Stands Alone” he could understand why the natives gave this name to the 1.700 foot tall giant. It was the chance for his mind to go blank for some time.

You wanted to get better, you HAD to do better for you and for all the women who couldn’t yet join the army, this was always on the back of your mind, you embraced every chance to get some extra training. Each company had 5 women to the personnel as part of the government development plans (and propaganda), of course being ever so lucky you got into Easy Company, the same company that had the worst CO in the entire battalion.

Herbert Sobel enjoyed every chance he got to torture and make the whole company miserable, at first you thought it was some personal hatred towards you and the other girls, but turns out he seemed to hate everyone. He pointed out the most ridiculous reasons to make everyone run the goddamn mountain, once he didn’t like the way you tied your hair during a friday night run. After the incident you decided to cut your hair short to prevent any other problems, poor Bull was furious when he saw you that it took Martin, Luz and Christenson to hold him back from trying to strangle Sobel.

One afternoon you decided to try to improve your time running Currahee so you got your mussete bag filled with some fruits you charmed Winters to give to you back in the kitchen and your water canteen. You were finally alone this time which gave you more liberty without feeling watched every step.

After some minutes you saw that there was someone else behind you but didn’t paid any attention as you looked at the watch on your wrist and so far your time was good, so you decided to maintain your focus and keep your good rhythm. The landscape was slowly changing as you was getting closer to the summit of the mountain, suddenly you looked at your left and someone was passing you like a lightning bolt, “oh great another show-off fucker trying to prove that he is better than me” you thought to yourself and muttered a “dickhead” after he was gaining advantage so you pushed yourself harder and harder, but he was so quick you couldn’t catch him.

Some more 15 endless minutes later you arrived to the highest point of Currahee, you once again looked at your watch, a new record!!! You got so proud that instead of running down the other 3 miles you decided to stay and enjoy the landscape down bellow. You chose a nice spot to sit down under some plants that were covering at least a tiny little bit of the sun and decided to take a fruit, but then you saw him.

Being in the army surrounded by some handsome men gave you at least the useful ability to pretend not to stare down a shirtless man, but this one was a completely different story. The dickhead you saw earlier was laying down on the sun just a couple of feets away from you, using his PT shirt under his back as some kind of towel to protect him from the rocks and the gravel underneath.

As the sun was kissing his sweaty pale skin and his dark hair you watched how his toned chest was going up and down in some uneven rhythm, your mind was racing, your heart beating faster and your breath was matching his so you tried to shrug it off telling yourself it was the adrenaline from your effort, wrong again. You watched as his long eyelashes rested so peacefully as his eyes were closed, then once again you tried to change your thoughts and peel the orange on your hand.

You took your knife to split the fruit and when you finally opened it the citric smell filled the air, the man near you slowly opened up his eyes as he was taken from some trance and scanned your face, he took a look at his watch and smiled to himself as he closed his eyes again to which you rolled your eyes. As if reading your mind you heard a hard voice suddenly speaking.

"I'm not judging you, on the contrary, I'm quite surprised you were so quick, I had to push harder to get past you" he said opening just one of his eyes to glance at you.

That took you by surprise, you could feel your cheeks burning after the compliment and you only mumbled some weird thanks.

After an awkward silence he started to get up to sit down, now his dirty shirt was thrown over his left shoulder, you followed his movement as he was so close you could see the freckles in his back. Trying once again to change your focus you reached your canteen to get some water, he glanced at you and gave a soft smile to witch you could only understand as a quiet plead for some water.

"You want some?" you said reaching it for him to take.

"Don't your admirable CO forbid you guys to drink water while running up and down here or something like that?" he asked raising one of his eyebrows in a playful way.

"Sometimes yes but thankfully he is not here" you said trying to hold your laugh.

"He got quite a reputation for himself, poor bastard, couldn't imagine being in his skin" he said giving back your canteen and nodding his head with a silent thank you, his eyes carefully watching you.

"Wait how do you know I'm from Easy Company?" you said suddenly curious after realising that you had not yet introduced yourself.

"Well, you got quite a reputation too, a better one, the toughest girl on the whole battalion" he said with a grin on his face "that and the fact that I saw you running up here with Winters, a girl and a redhead is quite a sight here, you know"

"I'm Y/L/N" you said with a polite little smile.

"Speirs" he said in return as you shook hands .

"Well Speirs, nice to meet you but now I need to return now or I'll be in big trouble" you said shoving your stuff into your bag again and cleaning your hands in your shorts.

"Want to race?" he said suddenly getting up and wearing his shirt, you could swear.

"Winner buys a drink?" you said laughing.

"Smartass" he replied and started to run down the mountain

You tried to keep up with him for the biggest part of the trail and tried your best but before he was fast, he reached the finishing line and then he watched as you finished too.

You both were trying to catch some air and exchanged some looks while sharing friendly smiles.

That night at the bar as you waited while he went to get a couple of beers for you both you couldn't help but smile as you realised that nobody stands alone at Currahee.

When you saw someone running through the streets of Foy and through the enemy lines you heart almost stopped, you knew it was him, you knew nobody could be this fearless and run so fast like Ronald Fucking Speirs.

At this point everybody knew he was at little bit crazy on the head and he got quite a reputation too. The thing is he was almost too crazy for his own good and once again you were the one holding your breath and silently praying for no harm.

When everybody thought he was crazy enough here comes the lunatic running again after passing some info to I Company. You could see the happiness and relief on the faces of your friends, Lipton even got a dumb smile in his face. They were all happy that Easy finally got a good leader again.

As soon as he got his helmet off and sit down to rest you came furious stomping you way towards him.

"You crazy son of a bitch are you out of your goddamn mind?? Fucking stupid dickhead" you said slapping him on the arms and even giving little punches to his chest

Everyone else was sharing a confused look while watching this scene, Ron had no reaction and was somehow also confused looking at you. He let you curse and hit him, he knew why you got to that point.

"Woow woow woow, Y/N, calm down it's okay, look thanks to Lieutenant everything went fine" Lipton said holding you by your shoulders and carefully taking you away from Speirs.

"No you don't understand" you shouted as tears started to roll down your cheeks.

"Yes I do, okay, I might seem dumb but it's not that hard to figure where you were running away to every night since Aldbourne" he said giving you a comforting look you two often shared "Besides, it was so fucking awesome what he did there you must admit" Lipton said giving you a little wink.

You rolled your eyes at your best friend while trying to wipe away the tears. You felt a hand on your back and you turned around to see him but before you could curse him once again you felt his lips gently pressing yours.

For a moment you could swear that even the world stopped spinning around, the only sound you could hear was your own heart pounding on your chest, for a moment you were back at running Currahee, you could even smell some citric scent on the air. His lip were soft, his hands warm just gently squeezing your hips.

After the two of you went for the drink as part of the bet made on the summit of Currahee a friendship began. At first he was just a good friend but then you started to feel things you've never experienced before, it was love. Your first kiss was before making the jump on D-Day, on France you almost lost your head but he was there to help you, at Holland you almost lost him and thought you would never see those eyes again, on Bastogne you survived the freezing temperatures and used every opportunity to use his scarf to cover your face with the excuse of hiding from the cold when you were sick. He was always there, for you.

When he parted the kiss the smell of metal, gunpowder and dirty came all back like a punch, you looked at him once again and all your anger was gone, he was okay and so were you.

"Dickhead" was everything you said before he gently kissed your forehead, adjusted the M-1 on his shoulder and started to run between the line barking orders to the men.

Taglist: @mads-weasley, @footprintsinthesxnd, @sweetxvanixlla, @xxluckystrike, @malarkgirlypop, @lostloveletters, @next-autopsy, @ewipandora, @executethyself35, @easycompany123, @whollyjoly and @basilone

#ronald speirs #ron speirs #band of brothers #band of brothers x reader #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers fic #ronald speirs x reader #mw*#mf*

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stargirlrchive · 1 year

Text

wasteland, baby: chapter one ✩ tsu’tey

masterlist ୨୧ wasteland, baby masterlist

cw: olo’eyktan!tsu’tey x afab!reader, no use of y/n, arranged marriage/marriage of convienience (lets pretend to be shocked, this trope has me in a chokehold), mentions of war, death, night terror/nightmares, anxiety, bullet wounds, guns, battle talk etc.+ wc: 2,370

comments: idk why but i’m so nervous to post lmaooo but new series 😝 hope you all like it ! index is attached to the masterlist if u need it <3

next ✩

Tsu’tey felt the blood rush to his ears as he made quick steps to the Tsahik’s tent, the sun was only just now rising, far too early to be called upon if it was anything good. With clumsy fingers he readjusted his loincloth though there was nothing to fix, only a nervous habit as he made haste.

He faltered for a few seconds when he reached Mo’at’s tent, nerves bubbling in his stomach as he tried to prepare for whatever business the Tsahik had with him. It was not uncommon for Tsu’tey to speak with Mo’at over issues of the clan, the Olo’eyktan and Tsahik often did so. But the rushed morning call that disturbed his slumber, and the low murmuring voice’s of Mo’at and Neytiri behind the tent had his stomach twisting with something akin to fear.

His fingers clenched into a tight fist before he released the tension, pushing apart the flap of the tent before dipping into the privacy of the Tsahik’s quarters.

His tail tensed as Mo’at and Neytiri stilled their conversation, looking at Tsu’tey with trepidation as if they had been caught doing something they shouldn’t.

There was a beat of silence before Tsu’tey regained his senses, “Oel Ngati Kamie.”

Neytiri sent him a warm smile before greeting him, Mo’at however, she had her usual look of aloofness, as if not wanting to give anything away. Tsu’tey was sure that was a skill she had to master during her years as Tsahik. Many people came to her with their questions and burdens, she had to learn to school her expressions.

“Sit, ‘itan.”

He nodded, sitting down across from Mo’at, his eyes jumping between the two women as he refrained from asking what was wrong. What was so important that they needed to speak with him so early? It all felt so secretive and he felt uneasy.

“Neytiri is with child.”

Tsu’tey’s head snapped towards the other warrior in the room, his ears flicking in curiosity before a smile cracked its way onto his face. “Aylrrtok ngaru, Neytiri! I am sure you and Jake Sully will be blessed with a strong child.”

Neytiri’s face lit up, she cared for Tsu’tey deeply and his excitement for her meant more than he knew, “Thank you, Tsu’tey.”

Neytiri’s gaze shifted towards Mo’at, and Tsu’tey followed her gaze, a small frown making its way onto his face at the small flash of guilt that flashed through the older woman's gaze. He felt nauseous at the lapse of control from the Tsahik, but her eyes glazed over to one of calmness before she turned to look at Tsu’tey.

“I have been thinking that it is time you find a mate, Tsu’tey.”

His mouth went dry, his forehead creasing in confusion as his heart thrummed harder. Mo’at took the Olo’eyktan’s silence as liberty to keep speaking. “The clan needs to know that it is time to move forward. The people need to know we are prospering after a time of sorrow.”

Neytiri was watching Tsu’tey closely but he gave nothing away, only nodding softly as he listened to Mo’at, “We called upon you this early for discretion. If people begin to find out you are looking for a mate, they will swarm on you like viperwolves stalking their prey.”

Tsu’tey’s tail swished nervously at the thought, trying to wrap his mind around the idea of sharing his life with someone.

Neytiri cleared her throat, “But Tsahik and I were thinking it would be beneficial to the people if you mate with someone from a different clan.”

Tsu’tey blinked at her for a few seconds before he cleared his throat, “Someone who is not Omatikaya? That is unheard of.”

If Tsu’tey was nervous about mating with a woman from the clan, this made his heart feel like it was going to rip out of his chest now. “The Kekunan clan showed great bravery during the war. They were the first clan to arrive when Jake called upon them.”

It was clear to Tsu’tey that both women had made up their mind, they encouraged the idea and it was only confirmed when Mo’at reached out to pat Tsu’tey’s arm to try and comfort him. “The Olo’eyktan and Tsahik have a daughter, she is their third born and has been Tsakarem for many years. From what I have heard she is quite gifted at it too, she is also a warrior, she would be a great Tsahik for the Omatikaya ”

Neytiri nodded in agreement with her mother, “She fought alongside us during the war, she protected me and she's shown great strength. The union will also give us protection if we were ever to need it again.”

Tsu’tey was used to his people looking to him for guidance, but Mo’at and Neytiri looking at him with hope struck a chord he couldn't place. These were two of the women he most looked up to, silently begging him to agree with their eyes.

He sighed quietly, nodding gently before his ears pinned to his head, “If she agrees, I will do it.”

Mo’at let out a quiet breath, it was as if she was holding it in while she waited for his answer. Neytiri did not contain her excitement, her tail thrashing harshly behind her, “Mother and I will arrange everything, we will fly out and pitch our case.”

Tsu’tey only nodded, unable to find his words as his mind raced wildly. It was not until Neytiri placed her hand on his arm that he was pulled from his turmoil, “She is very kind, you will grow to love her.”

Tsu’tey’s gaze flicked to where Mo’at was sitting, but it was now empty. He felt confident enough to speak his feelings to his closest friend, “I don’t know if I can Neytiri.”

She frowned, her mouth opening to speak but Tsu’tey suddenly felt overwhelmed. His chest tightening as he stood up quickly, not even bidding her goodbye before he walked out.

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

Your heart was pounding roughly in your chest as visions continued to appear in your mind, it felt like you were being swallowed and spit out during different memories that deeply scarred you. Fading away like mist before you were able to do anything about it. Your body was not your own, going through the motions that seared your brain with fear.

You were gliding forward while your Ikran dove head first towards the forest grounds, and your mind was completely blank but you knew what was happening. Before your eyes adjusted to your eldest brother falling freely as bullets tainted his body, leaving wounds in their wake, you felt fear consume you. It consumed you each night as you were forced to relive these nightmares each time your eyes closed and it never got easier. Your vision cleared and you were met with his Ikran screeching in pain before their Tsaheylu broke and your brother tumbled down.

You were so close, his body within a few inches of Evu’s claws to break his impact on the floor, just as you were going to catch him you were being ripped away. Appearing in a memory from the same horrible day, just hours later.

A scream threatened to rip from your throat but got stuck before Neytiri’s piercing cry hit your ears.Your head was hot and heavy, a thick liquid pouring from your skull as you stumbled towards her voice. She was cradling someone, along with the Toruk Makto but their face was shielded from your view. Your vision was spotty before your body hit the floor.

Your eyes flutter open as you take a deep breath of air, gasping as your ears ring so loudly it feels painful. Your heart was racing so fast it felt as though it was going to be ripped from your chest.

It takes minutes for you to register that you are in the safety of your cot, away from the war. Your eyes well with hot tears before they stain your face and down to your ears. You cursed yourself quietly as you wept, you were the Tsakarem, you were a warrior, you were not meant to be weak. These terrors were not meant to plague you still, but a broken sob fell from your mouth as you recalled all the lost members of the Kekunan, your people ripped away from their family by metal machines and greedy humans, your eldest brother included.

It had been months, but the horrors of war plagued your mind, lurking behind every wall and shadow, threatening to consume you whole. The sun barely rising peaked through the flaps of your cot, blinding you for a few seconds as you laid there trying to regain your emotions.

You wipe your eyes as you push yourself to sit up, head pounding roughly before you stand.

Numbness coated your insides as you prepared to start your day. There was a lot of nothing going around the clan of Kekunan, families still learning to adjust to life without their loved ones and now that everyone was healed by your hands, and the hands of your mother, and the many healers in your clan, there was not much to do.

Once you made it outside of your cot you felt warmness bloom in your stomach, nudging you in the direction of your Ikran. Evu was a deep forest green, the tips of her wings were a soft shade of blue, and her wingspan larger than most. She was gentle, sweet and protective whenever you were around her and you felt her call to you.

The memory of not catching your brother on time had forced you to neglect time with Evu, feeling guilty anytime you looked at her, anytime you felt the welcoming breeze through your hair and on your skin, but you missed her.

With quick steps you made it to her, her head cocked to the side in silent question before she started happily chirping. In almost clumsy steps she made her way to you, nuzzling her face into yours as she continued to clack loudly. The ache that had settled into your chest seemed to melt away as you patted her softly, grabbing your kuru before connecting it with her.

You felt her excitement as you mounted her, your hearts thrumming as one as the two of you took off. This was the first time in weeks that you felt the wind kiss your skin and flow through your hair, your eyes watering slightly as you finally felt at ease. Your mind only focused on flying, the feeling of freedom consuming you.

It was clear that Evu was feeling just as cheerful as she soared freely, performing beautifully as she twirled in the air, showing off her skill. It dawned on you that she was trying to prove herself to you, to prove to you that she was worthy of riding and it caused your heart to soar. She thought she had done something wrong. Your hands gently soothed her as you patted her neck, praising her softly as the two of you flew above the jungle of Pandora.

You spent hours flying, only returning when the ache of your legs became too difficult to ignore. Your legs wobbled when your feet touched the ground, showering Evu with last bits of affection before walking to your parents' cot.

There was excitement consuming your people, it was palpable as they whispered to each other, pointing and smiling towards your parents cot. Before you could think too much about it, one of the village children ran up to you, calling out your name happily.

You smiled down at her, “Mawey, It’ey.”

She smiled shyly as she tried to catch her breath, but the twitch of her ears showed her excitement, “The Tsahik of the Omatikaya is here! She is asking for you!”

You felt like the blood drained from your face, nerves bubbling up your throat as you tried to think of what business the Tsahik could have with you. “Are you sure, It’ey?”

The young girl nodded, not catching onto the way your hands began to tremble slightly.

“Yes! She brought her daughter as well.”

You sent her a soft smile, patting her hair gently, “Thank you.”

It took a few seconds before you were able to continue on your track to your parents home. Memories rushed to the forefront of your mind as you recalled the last time they were here, and the outcome.

You did not regret the decision to fight with them, but it left you with so many internal scars that you have not been able to heal, you feared what they needed you for.

When you pushed the flap open you were met with 6 pairs of eyes glowing at you. You directed your gaze towards the guest first, “Mo’at, Neytiri, oel ngatie kameie.”

The older woman sent you a soft smile and just as you were about to turn to your parents, Neytiri caught your wrist and stilled your movements.

“It’s great to see you again, I wish I would have had more time to speak with you after everything happened, after the battle but-you look to be doing well. I hope you can find time for us to speak, show me around the Kekunan jungle.”

Your body tensed at the mention of the war, and if she noticed she did not comment on it. You only sent her a tight lipped smile before pulling away from her, greeting your parents and your two brothers. The air was tense in the cot, everyone staring at you with mixed emotions and you felt your throat tighten. “I was told by one of the children that I was being looked for.”

“Ah yes, come here ‘ite.”

You did as told, sitting down besides your mother, she began to soothe your hair, something she always did to try and comfort you and your siblings before giving you big news.

“The Tsahik and her daughter have traveled all the way over here for you.”

Your ears twitched softly, dread consuming you and you turned to look at the two women, “They have come to ask for your hand, for the Olo’eyktan.”

#tsu’tey #tsu’tey x reader #tsu’tey angst #jake sully #jake sully x reader #avatar #avatar the way of water #neytiri #jake sully angst #tsutey #tsutey x reader #tsutey avatar #tsu’tey avatar #avatar tsu'tey

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thedarlingdearestdead · 8 months

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The Jedi Way P2:

Yeah I got bored...

Summary: Anakin questions the war and his place in it, you interrupt him and try to calm him down, it does not work, he just gets wound up... And now we get to see the results. P1 here.

Warnings: SMUT. R18. Very sorry. M/F. Oral - female receiving. Semi-public.

Word count: 1,350

The anxiety and fear which had been bubbling up in you over the conversation fell in favour of a hot rush of passion, unfamiliar and uncontrolled. Your hands moved up to his face, thumbs grazing his cheekbones as he continued to press into you.

He was moving awfully fast. His hands going down from your hips and grabbing at you thighs like he wanted to pick you up right there, have you straddle him against the window.

You would almost let him.

This is where you should tell him no, this is where you should try to bring it to a stop, but you can’t find the words. Nor can you find the will.

Instead, you let him slide his hands into you tunic. Shivering slightly as the metal reaches across your bare back. You wanted to let him have you, you wanted to be his solace in his brooding, you wanted to give him anything he wanted.

If you were certain this wouldn't destroy everything.

If you could convince yourself that this was nothing more than a random event of passion—

If you hadn't already lost control...

You closed your eyes, and let him move his mouth and hands as he pleased, his teeth were playing at your neck, making you arch against him. This is what you've waited for all these years. Everything in your body urging you to take him, to give in. You could feel your entire being fill with want. With need. With Anakin.

All at once he pulled away and held you firmly in place. You gasped, confused and scared. For a second he just looked at you, and then he grinned. He turned back to the room for a moment, it was a calculated look, searching, analytical, desperate. But the two of you were truly alone. This reassurance was as much liberty as he needed to begin his work.

He licked his lips and began to move slowly, exploring you, pressing your back against the glass. Your body tingled in anticipation, your heart beating loudly against your ribcage.

He undid the buttons of your top one by one, gently sliding the thin fabric down. As it parted, revealing your cleavage and its curve, the rest of your tunic seemed to hang loosely around your shoulders. With every button undone, you felt exposed, vulnerable, but eager to be touched.

He drew a path along your skin, pausing to trace each muscle that made up your body. You let your head fall forward, your argument and his anger long forgotten. His eyes were shining with want and hunger, his hands still on the last button.

Unbeknownst to you Anakin had wanted this for a long time, since you were children. He had been waiting for so long to have you in this way, alone and under him. And here it was.

He pressed his lips against your ear and whispered softly, "Trust me.”

The last button opened.

You inhaled sharply, your mind swimming with all kinds of thoughts and feelings. It's hard to describe, and harder still to comprehend. The way he kissed you, the way his fingers trailed along your skin, the way his breath hitched when he saw the smoothness of your torso. It's not a feeling you can put into words, not a feeling that you could ever describe, but it felt good.

You bit down on your lower lip, trying to contain the sound of pleasure escaping from your lips.

Anakin leaned back and took a deep breath, looking at the sight before him. "Beautiful..."

"What?" You asked, blinking and looking at him with a confused look on your face.

"You are beautiful. I've been wanting to tell you that for such a long time."

You blushed deeply and averted your gaze. "You shouldn't be having thoughts like that. We shouldn't be doing this." Your protest was weak however.

"I'm sorry." He apologized, bringing a hand up and cupping your face, turning it towards him. "I thought I told you to trust me?"

"Yes.."

"So trust me now." He leaned in and captured your lips, kissing you hungrily.

Your mind went blank, your heart beating faster. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

Anakin removed the rest of your shirt and you started to undo the clasps of his belt. You gasped as his hand continued to move lower, stroking your stomach and tracing the outline of your hips. He moved downwards, caressing the inner side of your thighs. Your breathing became heavier, his lips brushing against your skin sending shivers throughout your body.

You moaned softly, biting down on your bottom lip.

"Such pretty noises" He said against your mouth before stepping back placing himself on one knee.

"Anakin." You breathed out.

"Shhh.." He whispered, kissing the skin below your belly button.

His touch felt incredible. It was different, exciting. He worked your trousers down slowly, eyes not moving from their target.

Your breathing grew erratic, and you arched your back. You closed your eyes, enjoying the sensation. You could feel his fingers digging into your hips, his nails biting into your flesh.

It felt good. It felt right.

The tension in the room increased with each passing moment. The window behind you was fogged up and you grew impossibly hot watching him. HIs dirty blonde hair was curled and tangled, bgging you to run your fingers through it. His eyes were half-lidded, staring at you, his expression hungry. He watched you, felt you build.

And just as you were, just as you were about to reach your high he stood, placing his mouth back on yours in a desperate starving manner. He was covered in your intoxicating taste. He was impatient now. You were too wound up to control your shaking fingers, he pushed them away to work at his belt himself.

"I've dreamt of you." He told you between kisses. "Of this." He groaned against your mouth, his hand working himself. "Of you."

And in that moment, you would give him anything. You would do anything for him. You would kill, you would die, you would burn the world. You would leave the order, destroy the council, forsake your vows, if he asked. You would do anything he asked.

He took the opportunity of your compliance, your surrender to push into you, bringing your legs up and finally getting his way against the window. You couldn't help but scream his name. Your head hitting the glass behind you as he filled you, stretching and burning.

"Tell me." He breathed into the crook of your neck.

"Please." You pleaded.

He didn't stop, his movements slow and deliberate. You felt him everywhere, his hands on your hips, his tongue on your neck, his chest against yours, his hair tickling your shoulder, his fingers entwined in yours, his teeth nipping at your collarbone. He was everywhere and it was almost too much.

You could feel the tension building, your body was on fire, your muscles tense, your skin tingling. You were close, so close.

You were moaning and groaning, arching your back and trying to meet his thrusts with what little purchase you could get.

"Tell me." He growled in your ear, his voice rough.

"I love you." You sobbed.

He pulled back, his eyes dark and his breathing ragged.

"Say it again."

"I love you."

Anakin's mouth crashed down onto yours.

"Again." He demanded, his grip tightening.

"I love you."

He slammed his cock into you.

You could feel it, feel it building.

"One more time."

"I love you. Please."

He thrust hard and deep.

You cried out his name.

"Come for me."

The tension broke, The room erupted, You screamed. Your body shuddered and his hands tightened around yours, head resting on your shoulder as he shook along with you.

You both fell soon after. You laid there in a tangle of limbs, gasping and panting, the sweat cooling on your skin. When he caught his breath, he smiled at you, brushing a lock of hair out of your face. “Are you ready to listen now?”

#anakin smut #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars smut #anakin skywalker #star wars anakin #anakin skywalker smut

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indigovigilance · 8 months

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Anthony, Anthony, Anthony

What does your Anthony mean, exactly?

I feel like your Anthony and my Anthony are different Anthonies…

In 1941 we learn that Crowley has named himself Anthony J. Crowley (Aziraphale doesn’t pronounce the H but closed captions write it and Neil Gaiman hashtags #Anthony and also it’s Anthony the script book so I guess Michael Sheen is just doing a thing idk). I haven’t seen extensive discussion of this topic but I’m going to jump in with both feet.

I propose that Anthony actually has a double meaning; that is, Crowley chose this name for one reason, but Aziraphale believes he chose it for another.

(I cite as indirect inspo a wonderful Tumblr meta about how the ineffable blockheads have completely different interpretations of Jane Austen and how this informs their S2 decision-making).

Read or bookmark for later on Ao3 because this got away from me and now it's a 2,888 word meta on people named Anthony what am I doing with my life

~~~

First and foremost, let it be stated that there is no canon for when Crowley anti-christened himself Anthony. Neil Gaiman himself won’t know until he writes it.

Secondly, let it be known that I am not an historian nor a literary scholar of any kind. So people who actually know these stories may find themselves cringing at my surface-level summaries and inaccurate interpretations: I’m just piecing together what I could find easily. I invite someone else to revise and republish if they can delve deeper on these topics.

Part 1: Mark Antony

There is a bust of Marc Antony in Mr. Fell’s bookshop as of S1E1 modern day (2019) which is still there at the end of S2E6, where it features prominently in the center of a shot. In 2019, the bust is adorned with yellow ribbons; in 2023, it is naked. The flashback to 1941 doesn’t give a good view of the part of the shop where the bust would normally be located so I have no idea when the bust actually got added to Aziraphale’s collection. I’m going to assume, for argument’s sake, that Aziraphale acquired this bust after the Blitz. I’m going to further propose that he acquired this bust because he believes that Crowley named himself Anthony after Mark Antony.

Why would Aziraphale think that? Two reasons.

1) Mark Antony was the loser of a civil war for liberty

Mark Antony was a good and loyal Roman citizen, serving Caesar with distinction, even attaining the title of Master of the Horse (Caesar’s second-in-command). See additional metas on horse symbolism seen throughout S2. After the death of Caesar, however, Octavian and members of the senate turned on Antony, starting a civil war. You know, much like a certain someone we know that was involved in Dubious Battle on the Plains of Heaven.

Mark Antony was loyal to Caesar’s political mission, which was to establish a Roman republic, where the voices of the citizens would be heard through their representatives [a suggestion box, if you will]. But Antony’s defeat marked the end of the republic, ushering in an age of autocracy. Octavian, following his victory over Antony, crowned himself the first Emperor of Rome.

2) Mark Antony was a libertine, but also the loyal, ardent lover of Cleopatra

Mark Antony was an infamous, lascivious, debaucherous, womanizing lush. He was also Cleopatra’s lover and closest ally. Though Mark Antony could not often meet with Cleopatra, their affair was allegedly very romantic, and from afar Antony did everything in his power to support Cleopatra politically, expanding her territorial holdings even while they were apart for years.

So legendary was Antony's wanton hedonism that when he went to Athens, he was deified as the New Dionysus, mystic god of wine, happiness, and immortality. Religious propaganda declared Cleopatra the New Isis or Aphrodite (mythic goddess of love and beauty) to his New Dionysus. The ineffable emperors, if you will. [source: Encyclopedia Britannica]

Parallels arising after 1941:

After Antony had officially divorced Octavian’s sister, Octavian formally broke off the ties of personal friendship with Antony and declared war, not against Antony but against Cleopatra. Much like how Shax, after her S2E1 “you scratch my back I’ll scratch yours” proposal, threatened Crowley that if he did not assist her search for Gabriel, Hell would declare war not on him but on Aziraphale.

The legacy of Mark Antony, therefore, is one of hedonism, romance, fighting for a cause that you believe in, and losing that fight. It’s easy to see how Aziraphale drew the conclusion that Anthony J. Crowley took his inspiration from this historical figure.

Part 2: Antony & Cleopatra

How is this a part 2? Weren’t we just talking about Mark Antony and his relationship with Cleopatra? Hear me out.

Crowley has never expressed much interest in politics. Every time something of political import happens, he declares that the humans made it up themselves while also taking credit for it with Hell. This includes 1793 Paris and the Spanish Inquisition. If I forgot any, drop them in the comments.

But Crowley has a deep and pervasive interest in stories, especially romance stories. If he can keep the Bentley from turning it into Queen, he listens to the Velvet Underground. He watches Richard Curtis films (to the degree that he identifies them by director rather than by title). Though book canon is not show canon, it’s worth mentioning that his favorite serial is Golden Girls; while not a romance, it is certainly heartfelt storytelling at its finest and a homosexual staple.

We know, too, that Shakspeare stole a line from him, with an adjustment for pronouns:

"Age Does Not Wither, Nor Custom Stale His Infinite Variety”

Let’s first talk about Crowley’s context for the quote.

Picture it: the Globe Theater, 1601, the house is empty because it’s one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones and an irritated young Burbage, in the role of Hamlet, is droning out his lines like he would rather be anywhere else.

Burbage: To be or not to be. That is the question.

Aziraphale: To be! I mean, not to be! Come on, Hamlet! Buck up!

Aziraphale looks at Crowley, grinning with delight. Crowley stares back at him, shaking his head slightly, but a smile tugs at the corner of his lip. He wants to be embarrassed, but cannot help being charmed.

Aziraphale: He’s very good, isn’t he?

Crowley: Age does not wither nor custom stale his infinite variety.

Crowley is looking up at the stage, and speaks immediately after Aziraphale has made a comment about Burbage. But is Crowley talking about Burbage? Does it stand to reason that age would not have withered, or custom not staled, this twenty year old (yet somehow jaded) stage actor?

I propose that this is a poetic inversion of the S2E1 cold open, wherein the Starmaker, looking out upon creation, says: “Look at you, you’re gorgeous!” and Aziraphale erroneously thinks the statement was directed at him. Here, even though Crowley isn’t looking at Aziraphale, I believe that Crowley is actually talking about Aziraphale when he delivers that iconic line. Unlike Burbage, Aziraphale is old, very, very old, and we know that he has a penchant for custom, wearing the same clothes and listening to the same music for century upon century. Yet here is this precious angel being a cheerful little peanut gallery of one, continuing to surprise the demon after all this time. Neither age nor custom has staled Aziraphale’s infinite variety.

When Shakespeare commits the line to a play written 1606-1607, a few years after this event, Crowley will recognize his own sentiment about Aziraphale issuing from Antony’s mouth about Cleopatra. The actual historical events will not have left much of an impression, but the immortalization of his own admiration of the angel in human romantic fiction will have.

It must be mentioned that Antony & Cleopatra is a tragedy, where the star-crossed lovers are kept apart by warring factions that demand loyalty to the state at the preclusion of each other.

There are also some (as far as I can tell) nearly copy-paste plot points from Romeo & Juliet about a misunderstood faked suicide followed by actual suicide and the lovers dying in each others’ arms. It does not have a happy ending. Anthony Crowley deliberately choosing his “Christian name” from this play embodies not only his deep love but his hopelessness that he can ever get the happily ever after he desires.

In Summary

Crowley was an admirer, in one respect or another, of Mark Anthony, though he relied more heavily on Shakespeare’s portrayal and reimagining of the character than Aziraphale gives due credit. Nevertheless, the difference…

Wait a minute…

What’s that?

Is that…

A piece of canon evidence that completely undermines my argument??

This screenshot will only be visible to Tumblr users (sorry Ao3), but at some point we get a good look at the Mona Lisa sketch that Crowley has hanging in his apartment. It is signed (translated from Italian) “To my friend Anthony from your friend Leo da V.”

The problem with this is, the Mona Lisa was painted 100 years before Shakespeare penned Antony & Cleopatra.

However, Neil Gaiman reblogged this transcription and translation, posing the hypothetical, “I wonder if Crowley knows what the A in A.Z. Fell stands for.”

Could it be that the Notorious NRG is jerking us around and sending us on wild goose chases? Absolutely a possibility. But. Let’s give a little grace for a moment, and assume that this comment was made in good faith. A bold assumption, I know. But humor me.

We know that Crowley and Aziraphale both knew Jane Austen, but from completely different perspectives. It stands to reason that Crowley knew da Vinci the scientist, but that Antonio Fell knew Leo da V., an artist with a heart that yearned for an unavailable lover. I’m just making wild conjecture that Lisa Gherardini (aka Mona Lisa), the wife of Florentine cloth merchant Francesco del Giocondo, was a love interest of da Vinci, but it could be true in the GO universe and would make for a great story.

Aziraphale also collects signed items from famous people; the inscribed books of Professor Hoffman to a wonderful student, and the S.W. Erdnase book, signed with his real name, come to mind. The Mona Lisa draft fits in much better with that collection of souvenirs than with anything in Crowley’s apartment. So it stands to reason that it could actually be addressed to Aziraphale.

There remains the question of how or why Crowley has it, but I won’t subject that to speculation here. All to say. Neil Gaiman’s implication-by-redirect is… possible. So let’s assume that it is the case, just for a moment.

If the Mona Lisa sketch is signed to “Antonio” Fell, then this allows the above theory regarding Crowley’s self-naming to remain intact. But it brings up a few questions regarding Aziraphale, not the least of which is: why did he name himself Antonio/Anthony?

Part 3: Saint Anthony of Padua

Anthony was the chosen name of a Portuguese monk, taken upon joining the Fransican order. Anthony rose to prominence in the 13th century as a celebrated orator, delivering impassioned and eloquent sermons. He is also associated with some fish symbolism, since he preached at the shore and fish gathered to listen. He was, incidentally, a lover of books:

Anthony had a book of psalms that contained notes and comments to help when teaching students and, in a time when a printing press was not yet invented, he greatly valued it.

When a novice decided to leave the hermitage, he stole Anthony's valuable book. When Anthony discovered it was missing, he prayed it would be found or returned to him. The thief did return the book and in an extra step returned to the Order as well.

The book is said to be preserved in the Franciscan friary in Bologna today. [source: https://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=24]

This miraculous incident, wherein the thief not only returns a valuable book but also has a change of heart and returns to the bosom of organized religion, smacks of angelic intervention. But that is neither here nor there.

Saint Anthony is the Patron Saint of the Lost, and is prayed to by those seeking to recover lost things. What is “lost” in this context is usually an item, rather than a person or an intangible concept, however he is also “credited with many miracles involving lost people, lost things and even lost spiritual goods,” such as faith. [Edit: @tsilvy helpfully contributes that "Here in Italy Sant'Antonio is commonly not just the saint patron of lost things, but, maybe primarily, the saint patron of lost *causes*."] He died at the age of 35, and in artwork is typically depicted with a book and the Infant Child Jesus.

It’s a defensible position that the thing that gives Aziraphale the most consternation across the millennia is Crowley’s loss of his angelic status, and it could even be framed such that Aziraphale does not consider Crowley actually fallen, but rather simply lost. It is a fact that he finds difficult to reconcile and, depending on your reading of the Final Fifteen, the offer to restore Crowley’s angelic status is one that is so pivotal to resolving his internal conflict that he cannot refuse. If this conflict is so central for Aziraphale, perhaps he did name himself after a booklover and the patron saint of lost things, hoping that the name would carry with it some of the power of the blessing, and return Crowley to the light, and in turn, to him.

But wait.

Because I googled “St Anthony” to look for some images and….

St. Anthony of the Desert

I shit you not there are multiple St. Antonies and we’re going to talk about another one of them with respect to Aziraphale because this guy is bonkers. The story traces to the Vitae Patrum, yet another fringe biblical text and I cannot even get a quick answer on whether it is canon or apocrypha because it’s so fringe. Anyways. I think the best way to explain St. Anthony of the Desert comes from the wikipedia page on the Desert Fathers:

Sometime around AD 270, Anthony heard a Sunday sermon stating that perfection could be achieved by selling all of one's possessions, giving the proceeds to the poor, and following Jesus. He followed the advice and made the further step of moving deep into the desert to seek complete solitude.

[He] became known as both the father and founder of desert monasticism. By the time Anthony had died in AD 356, thousands of monks and nuns had been drawn to living in the desert following Anthony's example, leading his biographer, Athanasius of Alexandria, to write that "the desert had become a city." The Desert Fathers had a major influence on the development of Christianity.

Let’s all agree that this guy is not Aziraphale; this whole becoming an ascetic and living alone in the middle of a desert thing? Not his cuppertea. But St. Anthony is interesting not just for his decision to go into the desert, but what happened when he got there.

The Torment of St Anthony is a 15th century painting commonly attributed to Michaelangelo. It depicts demons crawling all over and attacking a hermit.

But the first round of demons are scraping the bottom of the barrel, practically the damned. Anthony’s journey continues and he meets another demon. Actually he meets two; a centaur, who is not very helpful, and then a satyr who is. It is much easier to find paintings of St. Anthony and the Centaur than of St. Anthony and the Satyr, so you don’t get an image, but I find the satyr to be a much more interesting character, so you get that story instead:

Anthony found next the satyr, "a manikin with hooked snout, horned forehead, and extremities like goats's feet." This creature was peaceful and offered him fruits, and when Anthony asked who he was, the satyr replied, "I'm a mortal being and one of those inhabitants of the desert whom the Gentiles, deluded by various forms of error, worship under the names of Fauns, Satyrs, and Incubi. I am sent to represent my tribe. We pray you in our behalf to entreat the favor of your Lord and ours, who, we have learnt, came once to save the world, and 'whose sound has gone forth into all the earth.'" Upon hearing this, Anthony was overjoyed and rejoiced over the glory of Christ. He condemned the city of Alexandria for worshiping monsters instead of God while beasts like the satyr spoke about Christ.

St. Anthony, then, is entreated by a demon to ask forgiveness from God upon the demons, and St. Anthony, seemingly, agrees to do it. He’s overjoyed to ask God to forgive demons. In connection to my analysis of the origins of the Metatron, and how Aziraphale and Crowley’s potential beef with him is that, as a human put in the exact same situation, he did the opposite, refusing to take the demon’s petition for mercy to God but instead taking it upon himself to confirm their unforgivability (yes that’s a word now) and damnation.

That seems like it would be pretty important to Aziraphale.

In Summary

I give up. I have no idea what’s going on with this show anymore. Here are two options each for both of our ineffable husbands to have given themselves the same God-blessed/damned name. You guys tell me what you think, I just have a pile of evidence and no spoons to evaluate it.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #crowley #aziraphale #ineffable husbands #anthony j crowley

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onlycosmere · 3 months

Text

REGARDING AUDIBLE

Brandon Sanderson: Hey, all. Brandon here, with what I consider to be some pretty exciting news. Many of you may remember when I wrote last year about my worries regarding audiobook royalties (particularly for independent authors). You can read it HERE, but some of the main bullet points are as follows:

I seriously worried about the opacity of reporting to authors about audio sales. We didn’t know what a sale meant, how much of an Audible credit was given to authors when a book sold via one, and how royalties were being accounted.

I felt that the industry was taking advantage of authors because of their lack of powerful corporate interests to advocate for them. While video game creators and musicians get 70–80% (88%, in fact, on two major platforms) of a sale of their products in a digital platform, Audible was paying as low as 25%–with the high end being instead 40%.

I felt I could have gotten a better deal for myself, but the entire state of this industry was seriously concerning to me. So, I made the difficult decision NOT to release the four Secret Projects on Audible, costing me a large number of sales, to instead try to bolster healthy competition in the space, highlighting some of the smaller Audible competitors.

I hoped this wake-up call would prompt change. I didn’t refuse to put my books on Audible out of retribution or to declare war; I did it because I wanted to shine as powerful a light as I knew how on a system that highly favored the audio distributors over the authors. I was convinced that the people at Audible really did love books and writers, and that with the right stand taken, I could encourage them toward positive change.

I’m happy to say that this stand has borne some fruit. I’ve spent this last year in contact with Audible and other audio distributors, and have pushed carefully–but forcefully–for them to step up. A few weeks ago, three key officers high in Audible’s structure flew to Dragonsteel offices and presented for us a new royalty structure they intend to offer to independent writers and smaller publishers.

This new structure doesn’t give everything I’ve wanted, and there is still work to do, but it is encouraging. They showed me new minimum royalty rates for authors–and they are, as per my suggestions, improved over the previous ones. Moreover, this structure will move to a system like I have requested: a system that pays more predictably on each credit spent, and that is more transparent for authors. Audible will be paying royalties monthly, instead of quarterly, and will provide a spreadsheet that better shows how they split up the money received with their authors.

This part looked really good to me, as I understand their decisions. I tried poking holes in the system, looking for ways it could be exploited, and found each issue I raised had already been considered. This doesn’t mean it’s going to be perfect, and people smarter than me might still find problems that I didn’t. However, I think everyone is going to agree the new system IS better. We will better be able to track, for example, how Audible is dividing money between books purchased with a credit and books listened to as part of their Audible Plus program.

It’s all very technical, but I have to say I’m impressed with the effort they have made. The people there listened to my complaints, and have tried to improve. I’m not at liberty to explain in its entirety their new structure right now, as they’re still tweaking it, but they did say I could announce its existence–and that I could promise new, improved royalties are on the horizon.

Now, before we go too far, I do anticipate a few continuing issues with the final product. I want to manage expectations by talking about those below.

What I’ve seen doesn’t yet bring us to the 70% royalty I think is fair, and which other, similar industries get.

Audible continues to reserve the best royalties for those authors who are exclusive to their platform, which I consider bad for consumers, as it stifles competition. In the new structure, both exclusive and non-exclusive authors will see an increase, but the gap is staying about the same.

Authors continue to have very little (basically no) control over pricing. Whatever the “cover price” of books is largely doesn’t matter–books actually sell for the price of a credit in an Audible subscription. Authors can never raise prices alongside inflation. An Audible credit costs the same as it did almost two decades ago–with no incentive for Audible to raise it, lest it lose customers to other services willing to loss-lead to draw customers over.

These are things I’d love to see change. However, this deal IS a step forward, and IS an attempt to meet me partway. Indeed, even incremental changes can mean a lot. When I was new in this business, my agent spent months arguing for a two-percent change in one of my print royalties–because every little bit helps. These improvements are going to be larger than two-percent increases.

Because of this, I will be bringing the Secret Projects to Audible very soon. I consider Audible to again be a positive force for the industry, and I have decided to shake hands with them. Audible has promised to release their new royalty system for all authors sometime in 2024, though I should be testing it in the next month or so.

And…if you’ll allow me a moment, I’d like to say that this feels good. It isn’t what I wanted, but I’d begun to think that nothing would ever change–that even my voice, loud though it can be, wouldn’t be enough. Yet change IS possible.

I know that there are plenty of people out there who are tired of hearing about me and my works (I’m sorry–I do have quite the group of evangelists, and we can be an enthusiastic lot). However, for better or for worse, I am one of the bestselling authors in the world. Historically, one of the best ways to change things in my industry is for authors like myself to force it to happen.

Feeling this responsibility, when I was first talking to Audible about these issues in 2022, I made it very clear that I wasn’t just seeking some quiet deal that gave me an individual advantage. I wanted to see positive change for all authors. And while I don’t think I can take sole credit, I do feel like my efforts this year have had a significantly positive effect. Soon every independent author who publishes on Audible (and maybe, eventually, traditionally published authors with the huge publishers–depending on what New York decides) will be getting a larger cut of the profit, with more transparency about how that cut is allocated.

So, for those who have been waiting until Audible had the Secret Projects, you’ll get your chance soon. I hope you’ll support them, and support Audible for their decisions. And thank you to all of you who shared the news about my problems with the audio industry last year; I believe that pressure really did help. This is a victory for all of us, because happier authors able to make a better living (particularly those authors who are struggling in the midlist trenches) make for a more vibrant world for everyone.

#Brandon Sanderson #cfsbf #audible #branderson #root #wob #kind of #long post

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jiubilant · 22 days

Text

cw: horror elements

He’d been a scrib of three, sticky-fingered and clinging to his sister’s skirts like an anther-burr, when first he saw a war-wasp of the Dres. In less than seven years they’d be extinct: their cliff-hives burnt, their grubs smeared across singed flagstones or speared wriggling on An-Xileel pikes. But it had been a bright morning—the dust had glittered in the air like motes of kanet, like the specks the goldsmiths blow off their tables—and the messenger from Bal Foy had circled his glorious mount three times above the marketplace, like a victorious chap’thil, before landing her in the middle of the street.

“Give her a pat,” he’d said, laughing, to the children clustering round—and the adults, too, a few merchants and house-servants whose stern faces broke with smiles. “She’s polite, my Khes.”

He ran, that scrib of three—not towards the great wasp grooming her feelers in that circle of hands, as oblivious to her admirers’ attentions as Benitah, but to a basket of comberries abandoned at a fruit-seller’s stall. The first fistful he stuffed in his mouth. The second he stretched above his head, high as he could reach.

“Khes!” he’d called, his voice shrill and garbled with fruit. He remembers the moment even now. Juice dribbling down his wrist. Dust in his throat. His little heart surging upward with that cry, as if on jeweled wings. “Khes!”

The wasp turned her alien head, broad and shining as a bonemold shield. Her feelers whiskered over him. Out flicked her wings once, twice: sheer and strong as wevet, fluted like stained glass into a thousand fiery panes.

“Hold your hand out flat, hla!” the messenger called.

He did. The mouthparts that could crush a Nordling breastplate descended to meet it. Delicately, like a lady reaching into a bowl with finger and thumb, the wasp took a single berry from his palm.

* * *

He wakes in his cold dormitory cell feeling stiff, sore, and improbably cheerful. Mzulft and its horrors, the Synod included, are behind him; it’s up to Mirabelle, now, to decide what to do with what they’ve learned. A magic staff in Hjaalmarch—perhaps the first item of import, he thinks with amusement, to ever come out of Hjaalmarch. And the Thalmor know nothing about it. And he’s rising late from a bed, not a bedroll, with the fading idea that he’d dreamed something pleasant.

“She’s stung me to the heart,” he sings in soft Velothis over his washbasin, scraping off the journey’s stubble with his shaving-knife. The ancient song comes to him in snatches, like the dream. “She’s stung me, jewel of the sky, armored queen of the valleys of the Shir”—someone raps on his door, probably one of the prentices with a question about a translation, and he takes some smiling liberties with the next line—“one moment, per favore, s'il vous plaît—”

“Break it down,” says a curt voice.

The door crashes open. He makes a startled, absurd swipe with his shaving-knife at the first of the intruders—black robes, beaky buttons that glint gold in the firelight—before a burst of magic shivers through him like heat-lightning. He hears a thump. Himself, he realizes with belated surprise, hitting the chilly floor.

“Is he immobilized?” the voice asks pleasantly.

A chorus of subordinate voices, at least three: “Yes, Secretary.”

They’ve never gone this far, thinks the man on the floor, struggling to budge limbs that have gone rigid and heavy as kedge-anchors. Something’s emboldened them at last. A heavy-gloved hand dips into the neck of his nightshirt and fishes out his Company chain.

“Justiciar Ancano was right!” the young Dominion agent attached to the hand exclaims. He dangles the pendant in the light. “East Empire Company. A factor’s clerk. A pleasure, Master”—he squints at the inscription on the copper, above the tarnished ship—“Ramo, to properly make your acquaintance.”

That’s right, the clerk thinks. They’d bungled his name on the thing. Probably in the records, too. A laugh escapes his spell-sealed lips as a stifled huff.

“Kick him,” the pleasant voice suggests. “Oh, cousin. To scribble and scrape for the mayfly enterprises of men!”

Someone does kick him. He finds himself facedown on the hearth, seeing nothing, hearing creaks and thumps and curses as the Thalmor toss his room. One rummages through his sea-chest, takes something out, slams it. His ewer shatters. Floorstones scrape in protest as they’re pried up; the thieves’ Altmeri chatter grows excited, then. They must have found his papers. The clerk scrabbles through his mind for what little Altmeris he knows—

“Closer to the fire,” says the pleasant one in Cyrod, perhaps for his benefit. The clerk’s heart petrifies like his limbs. “He fell. A terrible accident. Put his cane—yes, there. As if he’d been trying to reach it.”

Someone drags him closer to the hearth. Flings his arm into it like a peat-brick. The heat bakes his hand. “I can seal his heart-valves to be sure—”

“Don’t be a fool,” snaps the pleasant one. “That shrieking cat who heads up Restoration would notice. Let us defer, out of respect for our cousin, to Velothi custom—”

The click of the closing door.

The silence.

He can breathe, the clerk thinks, breathing fast. He can blink. Involuntary motions, then, are not suppressed by the spell—only those that he wills. Sitting up. Crying out. Smothering the fire nibbling, with increasing interest, at his sleeve.

It was once said of the war-wasps of the Dres, he recalls with faint amusement, that the venom of their stings worked much the same. One was advised, perhaps as a way to bide one’s time before the end, to battle the enervation in increments: try wriggling a finger. A toe.

Something pops in the fire. The cell begins to smell of smoke and singed hair. He wonders whether the jerk of a limb exposed to flame, to that sharp, betraying sting, is involuntary—no, it seems not. The pain scourges his arm, his ear, the side of his head.

A finger, he thinks, concentrating all his awareness of his body into the palm of his lifeless hand. A toe. A terrible accident, they’ll say when they find him. Don’t think it. Hold your hand out flat, hla—

A strained rap on the door. “Magister?”

Relief crashes through him where the magic holds him fast. His thumb twitches free of the spell. It makes less noise than a crumb of peat shifting in the hearth.

“Magister,” calls the voice, dear and strangely small, “the—the Master Wizard, she wants you in the quadrangle—”

“Brelyna,” a familiar brogue interrupts, “J’zargo does not think he’s in.”

Her voice rises nearly to a wail. “Where is he, then—”

They’re going, the clerk thinks, gripped by a panic more searing than the flames climbing his sleeve. His hand jerks. It hits his cane, which the Thalmor had propped so tellingly on the fireplace-jamb.

The cane wobbles. He holds his breath.

Then, with a magnificent scrape, it clatters to the floor.

A silence.

“Is it unlocked?” asks Brelyna.

The creak of the door. A gasp. The panicked squeak of boots. Then someone throws the contents of the washbasin on him: a shocking blue chill, like a plunge in pack ice. He breathes out. His shaving-knife swirls past his head on a runnel of suds.

“Turn him over.” J’zargo’s voice, sharp as claws. “Is he dead?”

“I don’t think so.” Magic crackles in the air above his head. “I, I think he’s—didn’t Master Neloren show us how to dispel this? Let me try—”

Something heavy and sluggish evaporates from the clerk's bones. He stirs with some difficulty, blinking soap from his eyes, and finds himself in a circle of worried hands: J’zargo lifting his head, Onmund buffeting the last of the fire, Brelyna slapping his ridiculous half-shaved face.

“Hlai,” he rasps, laughing, trying to raise his arms to fend them off. They’ll beat him to death. Ai, a terrible accident. “Hlai, I’m not a rug—”

“You look a rug,” snaps Onmund, terse as ever. The clerk recalls that he’s wearing the nightshirt patterned with fleurs. “What happened? Who spelled you?”

The less they know, the better. The clerk flexes his hands, then his face, breathing with great care around the boot-shaped ache in his side. “Shouldn’t you”—the fire’s ghost gnaws his arm when he bends it, and he winces—“be in class?”

“In class?” Onmund sits him up so roughly that they nearly knock heads. The boy’s hands, the clerk realizes with a start, are shaking. “We were in class. Don’t you know what’s happening outside?”

Brelyna sits back in the mess of hearth-ash and washwater, rubbing her crumpling face with both hands. Her voice wavers like a shrill flute. “I thought you were dead, too.”

“Too?” The clerk, blistered and dripping, stares at his pupils. “Who’s dead?”

A muscle jumps in Onmund’s ashen face. J’zargo flattens his ears and looks away. It’s Brelyna, choking on overwhelmed tears, who answers.

“The Archmage,” she sobs. Outside, muffled by the dormitory walls, a scream pitches above the cries of gulls. “The Archmage.”

#horror elements ≠ the wasp. the wasp is cute #skyrim #college of winterhold #microfic #brelyna maryon #onmund #j'zargo #estormo #oc tag #ravi

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