#its so naked an unadorned

[beandump]

Has anyone had anything to say about izzy's little glove? I've seen the entire show analyzed back to front but i haven't seen anything about the glove. Is there ever a scene where he's not wearing it? Is it his sword hand so that's why he's always wearing it? Does it have anything to do with his name? What's under there???????

HES ALWAYS WEARING IT!!! and tbh I'm sure there is meta out there regarding the in text possibilities for it but we have so little info on it we can only speculate. Even in the almost-nakey scene in e10 his right hand was on his other side out of frame!!

In the most practical of explanations it could just be a glove for fencing

In the most fanfiction of explanations it could be covering gnarly scars

Could be he has a ratatouille situation under there

(Could be full of Vaseline to keep it soft for Blackbeard a la that guy from of mice and men lol)

Or maybe that's the hand he writes "Mr. Israel Teach" on over and over again! If he can write, I'm sure he does that somewhere.

Maybe the costuming director looked at the name "Izzy hands" and was like oh I have the funniest idea

WE JUST DONT KNOW - on a symbolic level tho...

as "Izzy" as he is, he's also just like. So fully buttoned and covered all the time (a fully tied actual tie! on a pirate!) - he is a fussy little man for one and I'm loving the recent metas showing how he and stede parallel in that regard. Costuming is SO DELIBERATE on this show I can't believe anything is coincidence. Ed and Stede dress down, unbutton their collars, and wear the red dressing gown as they become more vulnerable with each other. At the end of the season Ed trades in his fingerless gloves for full ones - closing himself back up. But Izzy is covered from neck to fingertip for 99% of the show - an indicator of a character who can show ZERO vulnerability. He is Blackbeards RIGHT HAND MAN (and is honored to be so) and this is how he shows it; never backing down from the role he plays, never showing fear or uncertainty, never SHOWING HIS HAND. Wearing full gloves is very in line with this type of character design.

So maybe the outlier we should be focusing on is actually his uncovered LEFT hand??? Why would that be his one vulnerable spot? In the western world, the left hand is one taken in marriage. if Blackbeard owns his right, who has his left? Is it the only part of him that's HIS, or is it someone else's? Or is he waiting, showing a peek of vulnerable skin adorned with an x (a signature, a treasure marker, a mirror of the one on his cheek) for the taking, for Blackbeard to claim it too?

#ofmd #ofmd meta #izzy hands #Izzy's glove #beardhands #izzybeard #kinda #this went places i didnt expect wow #i almost ended up back at my jokey izzy is jackies first husband post lmao but i swerved #my posts #izzy flashing his left ring finger like oh no blackbeard what ever will i do with this #its so naked an unadorned #better grab it before someone else does

[lunatic-fandom-space]

Hello! When I made my first Metropolis (1927) post I mentioned the 2001 german radiodrama adaptation and a few people in my notes were like '👀 ?' and since I like it so much and I want more people to know about it and i think translating stuff is pretty fun anyway, Ive decided to write up this english transcript. I would still recommend properly listening to it if you can, its a little over an hour long, because I think the sound design and overall direction is absolutely amazing. Especially towards the beginning, it creates this very surreal atmosphere where youre really put in Freders head and experience this intense disconnect that he has with the world around him, its so fascinating. Unfortunately I think it does lose that as it goes on and it becomes a bit more conventional, but I mean its still pretty good overall. Honestly, out of all the pieces of Metropolis Media ive seen its probably my favorite (I havent read the book yet but given what the author apparently said about its themes Im not expecting to like it that much tbh)

You can find it on the internet archive and on the ARD audiodrama database. Since the version on the internet archive was pulled from someones personal casette it does have a small 'imperfection' where it skips a word, but its just one word you'll barely notice it and its in perfect condition otherwise, I thought it was some stylistic choice at first lol

Anyway, thats all for now, lets get into the transcript

Metropolis.

By Thea von Harbou and Fritz Lang.

Adaptation: Michael Farin.

***

MARIA: Heart. [echoing] Somewhere.

JOH FREDERSEN: Brain. [echoing] Nowhere.

MARIA: Heart.

ROTWANG: Hands. [echoing] Nowhere.

JOH FREDERSEN: Brain.

ROTWANG: Hands. [echoing] Nowhere.

JOH FREDERSEN: Brain.

MARIA: Heart.

FREDER: Heart, brain... [echoing] Somewhere.

JOH FREDERSEN: Brain.

ROTWANG: Hands. [echoing] Nowhere.

MARIA: Heart, brain, hands.

FREDER: Brain, heart, hands.

ROTWANG: Brain, heart, hands. [echoing] Somewhere.

JOH FREDERSEN: Nowhere.

NARRATOR: He was a treasure that needed to be guarded.

FREDER: I want to be alone. Completely alone.

NARRATOR: A crown jewel.

NARRATOR: He feels the closeness of the servants. Silent waiting ones.

NARRATOR: Awaiting his orders to be allowed to come alive.

NARRATOR: He feels it. Too much.

FREDER: You don't put a blood hound... No.

NARRATOR: Freder could see that the eyes of The Thin Man were grazing at him. He knew this silent man, appointed by his father to protect him, was his guardian as well.

THE THIN MAN: I don't have to create reports.

FREDER: My. Guardian.

NARRATOR: Just don't give yourself away.

NARRATOR: The scales of his bloodbeat.

FREDER: I want to be alone. Completely alone.

NARRATOR: They disappeared silently. The servants. Silently, The Thin Man.

NARRATOR: A treasure that needs to be guarded.

NARRATOR: The son of the great father.

NARRATOR: The only son.

NARRATOR: The Club of Sons.

NARRATOR: The Club of Sons owned the most beautiful house in Metropolis.

NARRATOR: It's a district, not a house.

NARRATOR: Fathers, for whom every turn of a machine cog meant money, gave it to their sons.

NARRATOR: Encompasses theatres and movie palaces.

NARRATOR: Spacious flats for the sons.

NARRATOR: Racing tracks.

NARRATOR: Flats for the servants.

NARRATOR: A stadium, auditoriums.

NARRATOR: And flats for the beautiful, well-behaved maidservants. Like cultivated orchids.

NARRATOR: And the eternal gardens.

NARRATOR: They have to look pleasant, at all hours.

NARRATOR: Have to be cheerful, attituidelessly cheerful.

NARRATOR: Gentle dolls, scented like flowers, designed by an artist's hand.

NARRATOR: Not for sale, but pretty gifts.

FREDER: On that day too.

NARRATOR: The small, gentle women served him.

FREDER: [emphasised] On that day too.

NARRATOR: The pale bodies delicately rose from their hips, their mouths unadorned. Showing slim, naked legs.

FREDER: But suddenly...

NARRATOR: There was laughter everywhere.

FREDER: Suddenly...

NARRATOR: None of the friends moved.

NARRATOR: A procession of children. In tunics and rags.

NARRATOR: The sons froze.

NARRATOR: Colourless eyes.

NARRATOR: A girl between them.

MARIA: Look, these are your brothers.

NARRATOR: Inviolability.

MARIA: [emphasised] Look, these are your brothers!

NARRATOR: And her gaze rested on Freder, unwavering.

FREDER: Who was the girl?

NARRATOR: He looked at the friends who never grew tired, except from playing. Who never broke a sweat, except from playing. Who never got out of breath, except...

FREDER: And no one can say who the girl is?

NARRATOR: The eternal gardens glowed.

FREDER: An utterly glorious and enthralling noise, more tremendous than any noise in the world; the voice of the ocean, when it's angry, rushing currents.

NARRATOR: He had already heard it a hundred and thousand times. A hundred and thousand times. And not grasped it.

NARRATOR: It pierces without being shrill, every wall and every thing.

FREDER: Is beautiful and horrible.

NARRATOR: Omnipresent.

FREDER: And irresistibly compelling.

NARRATOR: It comes from the heights above, and the depths below.

NARRATOR: The machines of Metropolis roared.

FREDER: High above the city.

NARRATOR: They wanted to be fed.

NARRATOR: This sound is the voice of the city.

NARRATOR: As big as Metropolis was, it was equally powerful and tremendous in every corner of the machine-city.

FREDER: Feed. [emphasised] Feed. [more emphasised] Feed.

NARRATOR: The city needs living humans as feed.

NARRATOR: There it pushed its way along, the living feed. On its own road, which crossed no other, it rolled in. An endless stream of identical faces.

NARRATOR: In the same step. In the same garb.

NARRATOR: They placed their feet, but they did not walk. Pushed themselves along.

NARRATOR: And coming towards them, past them: the spent shift.

NARRATOR: In the same step, in the same garb.

NARRATOR: They placed their feet,... but they did not walk.

FREDER: They place their feet.

NARRATOR: Pushed themselves along.

FREDER: They don't walk, push themselves along.

NARRATOR: The living feed had disappeared behind the gates. The roaring voice was silent. The throbbing hum of the great Metropolis became audible again.

NARRATOR: Freder looked across the city towards the building that was known in the world as 'the New Tower of Babel'.

NARRATOR: The man who got called 'the Brain of Metropolis' lives in the brain shell of the tower.

NARRATOR: In ten hours, he would let the machine-beast roar anew. And again in another ten hours. And again.

FREDER: The sun is sinking. Houses become mountains. Flying machines swarm over the cathedral — useless in my father's eyes; a traffic obstruction in the city of fifty million. To be borne away, in the silent whining of the neon signs, between chains of light-breathing monsters. Metropolis doesn't know what sunday is.

NARRATOR: A spear of light shot into his eyes, so that he closed them angrily.

NARRATOR: The enormous face of the clock on the New Tower of Babel is bathing in the garish crossfire of the spotlights.

FREDER: Breathing flashes. Breathing light.

NARRATOR: Behind the raging second-flashes was a wide, bare room with switch panels everywhere. A table in the middle. On the plain chair in front of it: the master over Metropolis.

NARRATOR: The brain shell of the new tower is populated by numbers.

NARRATOR: They dripped from an invisible source through the cooled air of the large room. Became tangible under the lead springs of his secretaries — eight young people who resembled each other like brothers. No one lifted their head when Freder entered, his father included.

NARRATOR: The lamp under the third speaker glows white-red.

NARRATOR: New York spoke.

JOH FREDERSEN: False! Inquire further.

NARRATOR: The first secretary writes together. A quick pencil line runs through a name.

NARRATOR: Numbers drip through the room. The first secretary removes himself. The first secretary walks towards Freder,... past him.

NARRATOR: Whenever he entered this room, he was a boy of ten years old again.

FREDER: Cascades of light froth against the windows.

NARRATOR: London speaks.

NARRATOR: The son of the great master of Metropolis understood: as long as the numbers dripped out of the invisible, that's how long he would look at his father's dark skull.

NARRATOR: The white-red light went out. A voice went silent.

JOH FREDERSEN: What do you want, my boy?

NARRATOR: The seven secretaries left the room.

JOH FREDERSEN: Thank you, until tomorrow.

FREDER: How did you know I was there?

JOH FREDERSEN: The door opened, no one was announced — No one comes to me unannounced. Except for... my son.

NARRATOR: A light under glass. A question. Fredersen replied the affirmative. The first secretary came in.

JOH FREDERSEN: G-Bank has been instructed to pay out your salary. Good evening.

NARRATOR: In the young person's chalky face, two empty eyes burned. One of Fredersen's shoulders stirred sluggishly. The young person left.

FREDER: Why did you let him go, Father?

JOH FREDERSEN: I didn't need him.

FREDER: Why not?

JOH FREDERSEN: Beware, Freder, of thinking people are innocent just because they are suffering.

FREDER: And if this person— If you found out tomorrow that he was dead,... wouldn't that affect you at all?

JOH FREDERSEN: Do you think I need the lead springs of my secretaries? The writing charts in Rotwangs oversight devices are a hundred times more reliable than a clerk's brain and hands. But... I can measure the precision of humans against the precision of the machine. The lungs of humans racing against it, against the breath of the machine.

FREDER: And the man that you just let go... that you sentenced...

JOH FREDERSEN: He was my first secretary. He received eight times the salary of the last one, he must contribute eight times as much — perceive work as pleasure. But enough of that. Why did you take the path to me through the machine halls? It's neither the shortest one, nor the most comfortable.

NARRATOR: His eyes wandered from his son to the twitching flashes of the seconds on the clock.

FREDER: I wanted to look the people in the face. The people whose children are my brothers. Help them, Father.

JOH FREDERSEN: I cannot help them.

FREDER: Help the people standing at your machines.

JOH FREDERSEN: No one can help them. They are what they must be.

FREDER: They have ears. But they are deaf, except for one thing: the whirring of the machines. They are blind, except for one thing: the scales of the pressure gauges.

JOH FREDERSEN: Humans are products of coincidence, Freder. The fact that people are so quickly exhausted by the machines is evidence of the inadequacy of human material

FREDER: Are you not afraid, Father, that one day there won't be any more feed left for the man-eating god-machines—?!

JOH FREDERSEN: That is conceivable.

FREDER: And you aren't terrified of it?

JOH FREDERSEN: The time of terror, Freder, lies behind me.

NARRATOR: Then Freder turned around, and left. Behind his back, The Thin Man pressed towards Joh Fredersen. Joh Fredersen let his eyes wander over the great Metropolis.

JOH FREDERSEN: From now on, I wish to be informed about all the ways of my son.

NARRATOR: The man who had been Joh Fredersen's first secretary did not move from the spot.

FREDER: What's your name?

JOSAPHAT: Josaphat.

FREDER: What... are you going to do now?

JOSAPHAT: M-Me?

FREDER: Where do you live, Josaphat?

JOSAPHAT: In the ninety-ninth block, house seven, on the seventh floor.

FREDER: Then go home. I don't know what will happen in the next hours, but... I know that I need you.

JOSAPHAT: I... I can't.

FREDER: Go home! Wait. I will come, Or— a messenger. Trust me.

NARRATOR: While The Thin Man entered Freder's flat and asked the servants about their master, the son of Joh Fredersen followed glowing arrows.

FREDER: Into the depths to the brothers...

NARRATOR: That pointed towards the undercity.

FREDER: To the brothers in the depths...

FREDER: The smell of the oil, whistling with heat, heat-breathing walls, swimming shadows.

NARRATOR: Freder pushed the door open.

FREDER: An unrelenting trembling trickled through the walls and floor. If there are really people living beyond this door, then they must...

NARRATOR: Their eyes stood open as though they never closed. The eyes of the man that Freder came across first too.

FREDER: [shouting] What's your name? [pause] Tell me your name! I want to know what your mother called you! [pause] Georgi? Listen, Georgi; will you be able to remember what I'm telling you now? You have to remember! [pause] We are going to switch our life now! In my clothes, you will go up, into the upper city! You will find more than enough money in my pockets! Go to the ninety-ninth block, into the seventh house, onto the seventh floor! Tell Josaphat I sent you!

NARRATOR: And a while later the son of Joh Fredersen was standing at the machine. He wore the garb of the workers of Metropolis: the blue linen, the black cap. Georgi though was going through a city that he had never seen before. He felt white silk on his body. He did not wear the blue linen, no black cap. Did not go to work. Work was done. A man had come. He had said, 'We are going to switch our life now, Georgi. You take mine, I take yours.'

NARRATOR: The worker number 11811, the man who lives in the undercity in a dingy house beneath the underground railway of Metropolis, who knows no other way than from his sleeping hole to the machine–from the machine back to his sleeping hole, this man sees, for the first time, the miracle of Metropolis, the city at night, illuminated by millions and more millions of lights.

NARRATOR: He was trembling from his head to his feet. And at the same time, his body was shot through with the firework display of spark-spraying wheels, ten-coloured lettering, snow-white fountains, overloaded lamps, rockets hissing high, ice-cold blazing towers of flame.

FREDER: [shouting] You will find more than enough money in my pockets!

NARRATOR: There was music in the air. The music was sassy, of the hottest rhythm, of lashing merriment.

NARRATOR: There was a house in the great Metropolis that was older than the city. It was said that a sorcerer from the Orient had built it, but he disappeared. Then one day came a man from afar.

ROTWANG: I want to have it.

NARRATOR: That man was called Rotwang. Few knew him. Only Joh Fredersen knew him well.

ROTWANG: Who's there?

JOH FREDERSEN: It's me.

NARRATOR: The door opened. The door closed. Fredersen stood in the dark. Joh Fredersen knew the house well, though. Staggering a little, yet unerringly, he walked towards the heavy black curtain. Pulled it apart. Then he opened his eyes, and stood completely still. On a pedestal the witdth of a wall, the stone head of a woman rested.

ROTWANG: Hel. Born for my joy, for everyone's blessing. Lost to Joh Fredersen. Died when she gave life to his son Freder.

NARRATOR: In that hour, Joh Fredersen had laid on the ground and screamed. Like a wild animal whose limbs were being broken alive.

ROTWANG: Lost to you.

NARRATOR: Rotwang's hair, though, had turned snow-white in that hour.

ROTWANG: Lost to you, Joh Fredersen! You have taken her from me!

NARRATOR: Hatred has been simmering the eyes beneath his forehead ever since.

JOH FREDERSEN: She is dead.

ROTWANG: For me, she lives.

ROTWANG: You have to wait a little while.

JOH FREDERSEN: Listen, Rotwang, you know that I only come to you when I want something from you.

NARRATOR: In this great love, in this great hatred, the dead Hel had remained alive for both men.

JOH FREDERSEN: And, that I don't like to waste time.

ROTWANG: I told you, you're supposed to wait!

JOH FREDERSEN: I won't wait, I will leave!

NARRATOR: He wanted to do it, he wanted to leave. A trickle ran down his back. A quiet, faraway voice laughed.

JOH FREDERSEN: You should have your skull bashed in. If only it didn't contain such a precious brain.

ROTWANG: You can't do more to me than what you have already done to me.

JOH FREDERSEN: A brain like yours should be able to forget.

ROTWANG: Forget? Forget, what cost me my heart? I will forget nothing.

NARRATOR: The faraway voice was silent. Joh Fredersen spun around. A being stood before him. A woman, undoubtedly. But though it was woman, it was not human. The body as though it was made of crystal. Cold emenated from the glass skin.

ROTWANG: Be polite, my beautiful parody. [mocking] Greet Joh Fredersen, the master over Metropolis.

FUTURA: Good —— E—Ve—Ning, —— Joh —— Fre—Der—Sen. (plain text: Good evening, Joh Fredersen.)

NARRATOR: The being had no face; the neck bore only a clump of loosely formed mass. Eyes, as though painted onto closed lids, stared unseeing.

ROTWANG: Well done, my crown jewels.

NARRATOR: But in the same moment, the being lost its balance. It fell against Fredersen. He pushed it away from himself.

JOH FREDERSEN: W-What is that?!

ROTWANG: Tell him, Futura, Parody. Tell him who you are.

FUTURA: I —— Am —— A —— Wo—Man. —— An —— Il—Lu—Sion. —— Am — Flaw—Less. —— May—Be —— A —— Lit—Tle —— Cold. —— You —— Can —— Test —— It. —— Am —— Flaw—Less. —— A —— Lit—Tle —— Cold. (plain text: I am a woman. An Illusion. Am flawless. Maybe a little cold. You can test it. Am flawless. A little cold.)

JOH FREDERSEN: I ordered machine-humans from you, Rotwang, not playthings — not a woman!

ROTWANG: Not a plaything; I know, Joh Fredersen. I know. You and I, we... haven't 'played' for a long time. Not for anything anymore. Once... yes, once we have done it. Not a plaything, Joh Fredersen — a tool. Shall I show you, how obedient my creation is?

FUTURA: Flaw—Less—Ly —— O—Be—Di—Ent. (plain text: Flawlessly obedient.)

ROTWANG: Shall Futura dance in front of you? Shall she be chaste, or sassy? She can read too, our beauty. The mechanism of her brain is more infallible than yours.

JOH FREDERSEN: If that is so, then she may decipher this piece of paper for me. That's why I'm here.

ROTWANG: My beautiful parody, did you hear? You're supposed to decipher.

JOH FREDERSEN: Don't blather, Rotwang, speak! Do you know what it means? Then tell me.

ROTWANG: Nothing easier than that. [pause] A map. It's... a map. How did that end up in your hands. Of... the tomb city. Deep beneath the mole tunnels of your underground railway lies the thousand-year-old metropolis, of the thousand-year-old dead; the... necropolis.

JOH FREDERSEN: And what does this plan mean?

ROTWANG: That is what we need to find out. Come back again, tonight. [pause] But... in the garb of your workers. And now, beautiful parody, open the door for the master of Metropolis.

FREDER: Thank you... Father...

NARRATOR: People pushed their way towards him out of the red mist. He let go of the lever and collapsed. Arms snatched him up and led him away.

FREDER: Who is calling me? Who?

NARRATOR: 'She has called', he thought, half-asleep.

FREDER: She has called.

NARRATOR: 'Where are we?', he thought. 'Does the sun live in the navel of the earth?'

FREDER: I feel cold stones under my knees. I'm not sleeping then, I'm just dreaming.

NARRATOR: Then a voice rose out of a jumble of human heads.

FREDER: You're speaking...

NARRATOR: The voice spoke!

FREDER: You...

NARRATOR: But Freder did not hear the words.

FREDER: What are you saying?

MARIA: My brothers! Do you want to know how the building of the Tower of Babel began, and how it ended? I see a person from the dawn of the world. 'Come! Let us build a tower, friends!', he said. They recruited new friends, and the work grew! And they sent out messengers, to all four winds! And hands came, that worked for wages. But none of those who built southwards knew any of those who dug in the north. And the brain that had dreamed up the building was unknown to those that built it. Brain and hands were strangers to each other! A mediator is what the brain and hands need. A mediator! That mediator is the heart. Be patient; he will come! Soon. There are many among you who scream 'Fight! Destroy!', but believe me; one will come who will speak for you.

NARRATOR: When it had become quiet around her, Maria sighed and opened her eyes. That's when she saw a person who wore blue linen, the black cap. She bent down towards him. He lifted his head. They looked at each other. And then she recognized him.

MARIA: If you've come to us to betray us,—

FREDER: You...

MARIA: —son of Fredersen...

FREDER: What should I call you? I-I don't know your name. I have only ever called you 'You'. So please, tell me your name at last.

MARIA: Maria.

FREDER: It wasn't easy to find you.

MARIA: You were searching for me?

FREDER: I needed to come to you.

MARIA: The blue linen garb... You're wearing it for fun. Those who are condemned to wear it live deep beneath the city.

FREDER: Don't you want to understand me? Until yesterday, I knew nothing of hell. And nothing of longing. Everything was mine. But then, you came. Showed me my brothers. From that day on I have been searching for you.

NARRATOR: The girl stepped towards him. He no longer felt the stones under his feet, a surge carried him. Him and the girl.

FREDER: Maria... You have called me. Here I am.

NARRATOR: And the surge was fire.

NARRATOR: In a death chamber, shaped like a pointed ear, a man detached himself from the wall.

JOH FREDERSEN: You know what you have to do. You wanted me to give you the face of Futura. There you have your model.

ROTWANG: Is that an assignment?

JOH FREDERSEN: Yes. Give your phantom the face of that woman, for I want to sow discord.

ROTWANG: You want to become guilty of two people, Friend?

JOH FREDERSEN: What does it matter to you?

ROTWANG: It doesn't. Or... it does a little. Well, Freder is the son of Hel, after all.

JOH FREDERSEN: And my son. I do not want to lose him. I want those in the depths to put themselves at fault by committing acts of violence. I want the right use violence against them.

ROTWANG: [chuckles] Well then, my friend. Let it be done according to your will.

ROTWANG: You fool. You have lost Hel. Now you shall lose the last thing as well: your son.

NARRATOR: Was she mistaken, or was there someone walking behind her, through the darkness of the cemetery? Sneaking shoes on rough stones.

MARIA: [fearful] Freder? Freder, is that you?

NARRATOR: She tripped. The lamp dropped from her hands. She started running. Fear crept up inside of her. She ran, chased by feathery feet. She screamed, she ran. There! Stairs. And immediately behind her, a man. It was as though she was being extinguished.

FREDER: Ge-or-gi. I want to know where Georgi is.

JOSAPHAT: Georgi? I dont know any Georgi.

FREDER: I sent him to you.

JOSAPHAT: No one came to me, Mr. Freder. [pause] How did you get the clothes, if you don't mind...

NARRATOR: Josaphat's eyes were fixed on Freder's garb.

FREDER: Georgi wore them. I gave him mine.

JOSAPHAT: Was there any money in them, if you don't mind me asking?

FREDER: Yes.

JOSAPHAT: Then you shouldn't be surprised.

FREDER: You mean that—

JOSAPHAT: Yes, certainly. The Thin Man should already be on his way; I bet a thousand to one.

FREDER: He cannot find me!

JOSAPHAT: I have to tell you something, Mr. Freder: Joh Fredersen may let go whoever he wants, but his son, he won't let go. The Thin Man understands his trade.

FREDER: Still, I am determined to dare taking this path! And... I will walk down it, even though I don't know it yet.

JOSAPHAT: You already know, Mr. Freder, that everything I am and everything I have belongs to you.

FREDER: Oh... I wanted to help you. And now I can't, for in this hour, I am poorer than you.

JOSAPHAT: And if you were to confide in a friend?

FREDER: I don't have a friend. I had playmates, fun-mates, not friends. [pause] Josaphat, will you betray me?

JOSAPHAT: [shocked] God shall smite me.

FREDER: [sighs] I want to visit the mother of my father.

NARRATOR: A little while later, someone knocked on the door. The knocking repeated itself.

JOSAPHAT: Who's there?

NARRATOR: Josaphat didn't expect an answer. The Thin Man stood in the doorway. His clawing eyes scanned the room. There was a cap lying there. The sweat-soaked lining bore the number 11811.

THE THIN MAN: Where is Freder, Josaphat?

JOSAPHAT: I don't know. And even if I did know...

NARRATOR: The Thin Man smiled sleepily.

THE THIN MAN: If you'll allow?

NARRATOR: He walked up to an armchair.

THE THIN MAN: You... have a lovely home here. I can understand that you would have trouble giving up this flat.

JOSAPHAT: I have no such intention.

THE THIN MAN: No? Well, maybe not yet, but you will soon.

JOSAPHAT: What is that supposed to mean?

THE THIN MAN: I want you to tell me the price for you giving up this flat, Josaphat. The flat is lovely.

NARRATOR: The Thin Man reached into his pocket. Pulled out a bundle of bank notes.

THE THIN MAN: Is that enough?

JOSAPHAT: No. And now leave, before I throw you out.

NARRATOR: The Thin Man placed the third packet of banknotes on the table. Josaphat's reddened eyes bore into his.

THE THIN MAN: I have a cheque book here that has Joh Fredersen's blank signature on several pages.

NARRATOR: Freder went into the cathedral. He was searching for Maria, who wanted to wait for him at the stairs to the bell tower. He did not find her.

FREDER: Why are you leaving me alone?

NARRATOR: He went out of the cathedral like a man walking in sleep.

FREDER: Forehead to forehead... Mouth to mouth...

NARRATOR: He came past the sorcerer's house. He stopped there. Was he mad? There, Maria was standing behind the cloudy window panes. Those were her hands, stretched out towards him.

FREDER: Please open the door!

NARRATOR: He knocked, but the house remained silent.

FUTURA: [muffled] Freder! Freder!

FREDER: It's her voice...

FUTURA: [muffled] Freder!

NARRATOR: It was her voice. He forced his way into the house. Door after door.

FUTURA: [muffled] Come on! Here I am! Here!

NARRATOR: Nothing in the world could be sweeter than the sound of that beckoning, filled to overflowing with dark perfidy.

FREDER: Who are you?

FUTURA: [playful] Don't you know me?

FREDER: [emphasised] Who are you?!

FUTURA: Maria!

FREDER: You're not Maria!

FUTURA: Freder! [mocking] Please help me!

FREDER: Where are you?! Why don't you come to me?

FUTURA: I can't come! Beloved!

FREDER: Where are you?!

FUTURA: [playful] Search for me!

MARIA: Freder! Help me! For God's sake, please come! I don't know what's happening to me, my eyes are—!

FUTURA: Search for me, my love!

NARRATOR: Freder started running.

FUTURA: I'm here!

MARIA: [fearful] Freder!

FUTURA: Here I am!

NARRATOR: Rotwang had seen him fall. Freder lay surprisingly still. He resembled a dead man.

NARRATOR: Rotwang found her like he always found her. Nothing about her alive. Except for her eyes, but they saw past him.

ROTWANG: Don't you want to smile just once? Don't you want to cry just once? I need both. Otherwise you'll make me a bungler at my work.

NARRATOR: He had spoken into deaf air.

ROTWANG: You poor children... Taking up the fight against Joh Fredersen... What will you do, Maria, when he tells you, 'Give me my son back'?

NARRATOR: The girl sat there like a stone statue. Unmoving.

ROTWANG: He will pay you any price.

NARRATOR: Like a stone statue.

ROTWANG: Have you forgotten the Club of Sons, Maria? There are hundreds of women there. And they're all his. They can all tell you about his love. On the day of his wedding, the son of Joh Fredersen will have forgotten you.

NARRATOR: He threw the door shut, looked at the being made of glass and metal, which, almost complete, bore the head of Maria.

ROTWANG: Can I give you the smile that makes the angels fall into hell, full of lust?

NARRATOR: When Freder regained consciousness, there was a dull brightness around him. He stared at the ceiling, which was black. He stared against walls, grey-cold. There was a window. In front of it was a road. Maria was walking down there! She didn't hear him. He hurled a stool against the door, pushed, tore, broke, until it splintered.

FREDER: That's not me who's running there... As though I was running next to myself...

NARRATOR: But he ran. Ran to his father.

FREDER: Where is he?! Where is my father?

NARRATOR: Stairs, and always stairs.

FREDER: Where?!

NARRATOR: They pointed to a door, behind it a second one. He heard voices. He listened. Pushed it open. There was a man standing there. He held a woman in his arms. Maria! Leaning far back in his arms, she offered him her mouth. He looked the man in the eye. It was his father. He saw the hands gripping his father's neck. They were his hands. The hands of the son. The hands released. He stammered.

JOH FREDERSEN: What... is the matter with you, my son? What's wrong?

FREDER: Where is she, Father?!

JOH FREDERSEN: Who? Who are you looking for?

FREDER: She! Who was here!

JOH FREDER: No one was here, Freder! No one!

FREDER: What are you saying?

JOH FREDERSEN: There was no one here. Except for you and me.

FREDER: Did I not see you holding Maria in your arms?

JOH FREDERSEN: [sighs] You're ill, Freder.

NARRATOR: He doubled over, threw himself into an armchair, screamed.

NARRATOR: No matter how often Josaphat tried to break through the wall that had been built around Freder over the next few days, there was always a strange person standing there, telling him with an expressionless face, 'Mr. Freder cannot receive anyone, Mr. Freder is ill.'

NARRATOR: Freder was not ill however.

NARRATOR: Lying on the roof of the house, opposite of Freder's flat, Josaphat watched the person he had betrayed. He had visitors from time to time. His father had come once too. He spoke to him. For a long time. He did not receive an answer.

FREDER: Nine-ty-nine... se-ven, se-ven...

NARRATOR: Freder stood on the balcony, his hands resting on the balustrade. Unconsciously, his eyes caught numbers. They glowed. They faded. A voice in his head made itself heard.

FREDER: Ninety-ninth block... House seven, seventh floor.

NARRATOR: A man stood in the pale light. Over there, on the roof of the house.

NARRATOR: It wasn't easy, but he managed.

JOSAPHAT: I have betrayed you, Freder. The Thin Man came to me. Joh Fredersen's name was written on the cheques.

FREDER: Calm down.

NARRATOR: And they told each other everything.

FREDER: I must've gone insane, Josaphat! I tried to strangle my father. But he forgave me. He came to my bed. I had my eyes closed. I laid completely still. Only the weeping of my soul could be heard. I felt my father's hand stroke over my pillow. He forgave me.

NARRATOR: Joh Fredersens mother had only one son. She had loved him with all her heart. But she had had to watch his machine-titans crush humans as though they were dry wood. She had screamed to God, but He did not hear her. She fell to the ground and never stood up again. Only the head and hands had remained alive on the crippled body. Head and hands.

JOH FREDERSEN: How are you, Mother?

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: What do you want, Joh?

JOH FREDERSEN: I need your advice.

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: What advice should I give you? You have gone down a path that I cannot follow you on. Would you listen to me if I told you, 'Turn back'?

JOH FREDERSEN: It's about Freder.

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: What's the matter with him?

JOH FREDERSEN: Freder comes to see you often, doesn't he? He's seeking help from you. Against me.

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: Does he need it?

JOH FREDERSEN: I have lost Hel. Freder must not be lost to me as well.

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: Do you need to fear losing him? When he was with me recently, he was healthy. Like a blooming tree.

JOH FREDERSEN: I don't know how this girl came into his life, how she was able to gain so much power over him.

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: If you came to me for the sake of this matter, you could have saved yourself the trip. You know that best.

JOH FREDERSEN: You can't make that comparison, Mother. Freder is still a boy.

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: Do you remember what you said to me back then, when I tried to hinder you on your way to Hel, the wife of your friend? Do you remember it? 'If I were blinded, I would see her still. If I were crippled, I would find my way to her.' [sighs] Freder is your son. What do you think he would say to you if you told him, 'Leave the girl you love'?

JOH FREDERSEN: I need to have my son back.

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: What man sows...

JOH FREDERSEN: Who are you crying for, Mother?

FREDERSEN'S MOTHER: For you. For you both.

ROTWANG: I'm not holding you captive for myself. [pause] You're staying silent. Now, however, I will tell you something that will break your defiance: do you think Joh Fredersen knows no other way to get you out of his son's eye? Oh, no, Maria, oh, no! We have stolen your soul. I have eavesdropped on you like the air eavesdropped on you. I have stolen your self from you completely and utterly. We have sent this stolen self to your brothers. It called them. And they came. They all came. The difference to the past, however, is that Joh Fredersen does not want peace, he is seeking a judgement. Your stolen self is not allowed to speak for peace anymore. [pause] Give me your hands. Just your hands. [pause] If you give them to me, just once, then I'll go to the city of the dead with you. So that the one that loves you can find you again... And doesn't have to go insane because of you.

NARRATOR: But at that moment, the hands of Joh Fredersen gripped Rotwang's neck.

NARRATOR: Yes, that was her voice. Freder stood at the back of the chamber. His eyes hung on her blood-red mouth as if it were the centre of the world.

FUTURA: My brothers!

NARRATOR: It's her voice, no doubt about it.

FUTURA: Which is more delicious? Water or wine? Who is drinking the water? Us. Who is drinking the wine? The masters! Which is more delicious to wear? Blue linen or white silk? Who is wearing blue linen? Us. Who is wearing white silk? The sons of the masters! Where do you live more deliciously? On or beneath the earth? Who is living beneath the earth? Us! Who is living on the earth? The masters of the machines! What do your women do? They starve. What do the women of the masters do? They revel! Turn the world around! Turn it on its head! You have waited long enough!

NARRATOR: The girl's blood-red mouth blazed.

FUTURA: Come! Come! I want to lead you! I want to dance the dance of death before you!

FREDER: You're not Maria!

NARRATOR: Who shouted that?

FREDER: You're not Maria! No, Maria speaks for peace, not for murder!

NARRATOR: The blood-red mouth blazed.

FUTURA: Well, well, look at that. The son of Joh Fredersen. [louder] The son of Jih Fredersen is among you!

NARRATOR: The crowd screamed.

FUTURA: Dog in white-silk fur! We have passed judgement upon the machines! [pause] Death to the machines! Death! To! The! Machines!

NARRATOR: The girl danced on the shoulders of the crowd. And sang.

NARRATOR: The room that enclosed Maria seemed to fill with a dull throbbing. It deafened the ears. It was her own heartbeat.

MARIA: Dear God, I'm begging you, stay with me. Just stay with me!

NARRATOR: There was something lying there, something dark, still: a person — Rotwang. At the edge of the trapdoor. She pushed the body aside, ran into the city of the dead. It was boiling down there. The crowd sang.

FUTURA: [chanting] We have passed judge-ment up-on the ma-chines! Death to the ma-chines! Death to the ma-chines!

NARRATOR: 'Destroy! Destroy!', the crowd roared.

FUTURA: Death to the ma-chines! Death to the machines!

NARRATOR: The heart of the machine-city Metropolis lived inside of a white dome. This is where the crowd headed. This machine was a universum onto itself. There wasn't a machine in the whole of Metropolis that didn't receive its power from this heart.

FUTURA: Death to the ma-chines! Death to the ma-chines!

NARRATOR: This heart was guarded by one single man. His name was Grot, and he loved this machine. His machine.

JOH FREDERSEN: [muffled] Grot! It's me! Joh Fredersen! Open the gates! Give it up! Give the machine up!

NARRATOR: Grot didn't want to believe it at first. He demanded the password. He needed to hear it. They tore at the bolts, the gates opened. 'Death to the machine!', the crowd roared. 'Death to the machine!'

FREDER: Father!

JOH FREDERSEN: Yes?

FREDER: Where are you?

JOH FREDERSEN: I am here. What do you want?

FREDER: The machine's lever, it's set to twelve! Where are you?!

JOH FREDERSEN: Here.

FREDER: But I can't see you! Your city is sinking, do you understand?! The machines have come alive! They're tearing Metropolis to shreds! Explosions upon explosion, just why?! Why are you letting this happen?

JOH FREDERSEN: Because death is upon the city according to my will.

FREDER: According to your will?

JOH FREDERSEN: Metropolis is meant to die.

FREDER: But, why?

JOH FREDERSEN: Don't you understand? The city is meant to sink so that you can build it up again.

FREDER: Me?

JOH FREDERSEN: It is happening according to my will.

FREDER: And what about those, Father, who die? With your dying city?

JOH FREDERSEN: Take care of the living, Freder. The living.

FREDER: Death is upon the city...

MARIA: Death is upon the city.

NARRATOR: Death is upon the city.

FUTURA: We want to watch the world go to the devil.

FREDER: [overlapping] Death... is upon the city...

MARIA: [overlapping] Death is upon the city.

FREDER: [overlapping] Death is upon the city.

NARRATOR: [overlapping] Death is upon the city.

FREDER: [overlapping] Death is upon the city.

MARIA: [overlapping] Death is upon the city.

NARRATOR: [overlapping] Death is upon the city.

FREDER: [overlapping] Death is upon the city.

FUTURA: [overlapping] We want to watch the world go to the devil.

FUTURA: [overlapping] We want to watch the world go to the devil.

MARIA: [overlapping] Death is upon the city.

FUTURA: [overlapping] We want to watch the world go to the devil.

FUTURA: [overlapping] We want to watch the world go to the devil.

FREDER: Death is upon the city.

NARRATOR: Death was upon the city. The red day streamed* down onto the street then, wailing was in the air, the glow of flames, screams of fear and of horror. And the surge was fire. The blood sang.

MARIA: Much has happened since then, Freder. I felt as though I heard a spring rushing. Heavy with tears and red with blood.

FREDER: I've heard it rushing too.

MARIA: It's still rushing. Do you hear? It's rushing.

FREDER: Give me your hands. [pause] [emphasised] Give me your hands.

***

Metropolis.

From Thea von Harbou and Fritz Lang.

Adaptation: Michael Farin.

Narrator: Peter Fricke.

Freder: Jan Neumann.

Maria: Jule Ronstedt.

Joh Fredersen: Joachim Höppner.

Fredersen's Mother: Helga Roloff.

Rotwang: Werner Haindl.

The Thin Man: Jens Harzer.

Josaphat: Heiko Raulin.

Music: Laar, zeitblom.

Sound and Engineering: Willfred Hauer and Susanne Herzig.

Assistant Director: Anja Scheifinger.

Direction: Berhard Jugel.

Production: Bavarian Radio Broadcasting, 2001.

*I'm not fully confident I could properly make out what was being said here, so this line may be wrong

#my favorite thing about this adaptation is how much of a mentally ill freak freder is #i wanna study him under a microscope #anyway please tell me what you think about this audiodrama im dying to talk about it #metropolis 1927 #translation tag

[buyofficialpainting]

The Provocative Paradox: Lucian Freud's 'Naked Man with Knife

In the complex world of contemporary art, few works spark as much debate and emotional response as Lucian Freud's 'Naked Man with Knife' (1980-81). Known for his brutally honest and intimately detailed portraits, Freud challenged conventional norms and the spectator's comfort zone. The unsettling depiction of a nude man wielding a knife remains one of Freud's most controversial and enigmatic works.

In this blog post, we delve into the mystery of 'Naked Man with Knife,' exploring its thematic depth, its audacious style, and the larger implications it has on our understanding of the human condition in art.

Raw Exposure: Freud's Unconventional Portrayal

'Naked Man with Knife' is a jarring masterpiece that shocks and provokes. The painting depicts a nude male model, Freud's friend Leigh Bowery, posed on a bed with a knife in his right hand. The startling combination of nudity and the threatening presence of the weapon challenges the viewer's perception and evokes a multitude of emotions.

Freud's work is characterized by his exploration of human vulnerability and our innate, primitive nature. The blatant nudity and the visceral fear associated with the knife serve as Freud's artistic tools to bare the unadorned reality of human existence, unhindered by societal norms or aesthetic conventions.

Unique Artistic Style

Lucian Freud's artistic style is renowned for its intense realism, an unflinching gaze into the reality of human existence. In 'Naked Man with Knife,' he employs a richly textured impasto technique, where paint is laid on the canvas in thick layers. This method enhances the rawness of the depicted flesh, heightening the sense of reality and corporeality. The play of light and shadow further accentuates the physicality and volume of the figure, giving it a tangible presence that's hard to ignore.

Yet, this realism is merged with an absurd, almost surreal situation - a naked man with a knife on a bed, creating a paradox that confounds the viewer. This peculiar mix is what makes Freud's painting an enigma in contemporary art.

Larger Implications on Art and Society

'Naked Man with Knife' goes beyond its immediate shock value and invites viewers to question societal norms and our inherent biases. The confrontational nudity challenges the often sanitized portrayal of the male body in mainstream media and art. Moreover, the placement of the figure in a domestic setting, coupled with the threat of violence implied by the knife, disruptively juxtaposes tranquility and danger.

The painting also comments on vulnerability, power dynamics, and the primal aspects of human nature. Despite the man's nudity (commonly associated with vulnerability), the presence of the knife adds an edge of danger and power to his figure. Freud forces us to confront our fear, fascination, and discomfort towards the naked human form and violence, encouraging a broader dialogue on these taboo topics.

Conclusion

Lucian Freud's 'Naked Man with Knife' remains a poignant example of art's ability to challenge, provoke, and disrupt. It's a testament to Freud's talent for exposing the raw, unsettling aspects of human nature and our society. As we venture into this painting's provocative depths, we are compelled to confront our preconceived notions and biases. And in doing so, we're reminded of art's capacity to broaden our perspectives and question the world around us.

[austin-skies]

Finding Neptune

When photographing a lunar eclipse last year, I discovered that I'd accidentally captured Ceres in a photo I'd taken. This is one of those objects that's on the edge of being visible (about 6.5 magnitude) but not often actually seen because it's one small dot among a lot of other small dots and it takes a star chart to actually find. Charts had also allowed me to find planet Uranus- a bit brighter than Ceres (5.6 magnitude) by virtue of being much bigger, although it's much farther away.

The next challenge then would be to find Neptune- bigger than Uranus, but quite a lot further away. Unlike both Ceres and Uranus it can't be seen with the naked eye at all, and holds the distinction of being the first planet found as a result of mathematics. When Uranus was discovered we knew enough about orbital dynamics to tell that there was another big planet altering its orbit, so we were able to calculate where this big planet should be and sure enough- there Neptune was!

I'm not using a telescope or binoculars, I'm using the my Pixel 7, attached to a tripod but otherwise unadorned. On the astrophotography setting it gathers light for about four minutes. I have taken all of these photos this way (previously with the Pixel 5), in my yard which is in a suburb of a medium-sized city so the skies are not very dark. I can't tell what the camera captured until I download it on to my computer and have a chance to look at the full-size photo on my big monitor. Then I can use star charts from astronomy magazines (Sky and Telescope) or programs (Starry Night) to pick out patterns and locate whatever I happen to be looking for that night.

So! A little after midnight on 19 Oct I took this picture:

Glancing at this, it's pretty much what I see with my eyeballs. A bright thing right in the center (Jupiter, -2.9 magnitude), and a smattering of other things here and there. But if you open up the pic and start zooming in, you can see a lot more. I'm looking in this area:

And this was how I found Neptune. I used Starry Night (version: Starry Night Enthusiast 7) and got this chart:

...and was able to pinpoint the blue planet using my innate pattern-recognition ability to make sense of all the dots. It's one of the faintest things that the camera could capture, and I had to wait until Neptune was at the highest (and thus darkest) point in the sky before I could see it at all. I'd tried a couple of hours earlier and it was not visible. Charts say that right now Neptune is at about 7.8 magnitude, so I think it's reasonable to say that this is the faintest that this camera can capture under ideal conditions.

I'm going to guess that at magnitude 14.5 Pluto is going to be out of reach for the Pixel 7. But magnitude 7 gives me a lot of asteroids, nebula and even galaxies that should be easy to spot! I'm not getting magnification with the camera, though, just improved light collection, though, so no Hubble photos here. But still! I'm betting only a few hundred or maybe thousand people have ever taken a photo of Neptune at all, and I wonder if I'm the first person who has ever done it with a phone camera.

#Neptune #Jupiter

[soracities]

hi, i hope you’re well. would you be able to find some more touching words regarding love and nature? your set on bones was beautifully morose and i cannot stop thinking about it. thank you.

“I died, and was born in the spring; I found you, and loved you, again.”

— Mary Oliver, “Hummingbirds”

“Autumn of your uncoiled hair. Your body moves in my arms On the verge of sleep; And it is as though I held In my arms the bird filled Evening sky of summer.”

— Kenneth Rexroth, “When We With Sappho”

“Do you remember, my beautiful, / how our home bloomed in orchards of olives and figs, / how the spring slept beside it… Do you remember, my beautiful, / how the branches fluttered with butterflies, / and every night was a new beginning on earth?”

— Adonis, “Transformations of the Lover”

— BillieHoliday, “I’ll be seeing you”

“There are plenty of legends about women turning into trees but are there any about trees turning into women? Is it odd to say that your lover reminds you of a tree? Well she does, it’s the way her hair fills with wind and sweeps out around her head. Very often I expect her to rustle. She doesn’t rustle but her flesh has the moonlit shade of a silver birch. Would I had a hedge of such saplings naked and unadorned.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Written On the Body

“In daylight, every tree became you. / And pretending, I kissed my way through / the forest.”

— Marie Howe, “Gretel, from a sudden clearing”

— Adonis, “Beginnings of the Body, Ends of the Sea”

“But he could never tell her all the rest, how many other living things, birds, nights smelling of grass and rain, sunlit moments of simple peace, also gather in what she is to him.”

— Thomas Pynchon, Gravity’s Rainbow

— Hozier, “Shrike”

“We make love. We make love. We make love under the silent beech tree. So quiet, so quiet […] Only the rain drops, fall on our hair, our skin. Rain drops on the cowslip flower by our feet, without disturbing us.”

— Xiaolu Guo, A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers

“My throat / is a beehive pitched in the river [...] / Look how long this love can hold its breath.”

— Sierra DeMoulder, “Your Love Finds Its Way Back”

— Adonis, “Transformations of the Lover”

“I dreamt we slept in a moss in Donegal On turf banks under blankets, with our faces   Exposed all night in a wetting drizzle,   Pallid as the dripping sapling birches.   Lorenzo and Jessica in a cold climate.   Diarmuid and Grainne waiting to be found.   Darkly asperged and censed, we were laid out   Like breathing effigies on a raised ground. And in that dream I dreamt—how like you this?— Our first night years ago in that hotel   When you came with your deliberate kiss   To raise us towards the lovely and painful   Covenants of flesh; our separateness;   The respite in our dewy dreaming faces.”

— Seamus Heaney, “Glanmore Sonnets”

— John Cage, letter to Merce Cunningham

“Your thighs are appletrees [...] / Your knees / are a southern breeze—”

— William Carlos Williams, “Portrait of a Lady”

“We lie here in the bee filled, ruinous Orchard of a decayed New England farm, Summer in our hair, and the smell Of summer in our twined bodies, Summer in our mouths, and summer In the luminous, fragmentary words Of this dead Greek woman. Stop reading. Lean back. Give me your mouth. Your grace is as beautiful as sleep. You move against me like a wave That moves in sleep. Your body spreads across my brain Like a bird filled summer.”

— Kenneth Rexroth, “When We With Sappho”

— Ali Smith, Girl Meets Boy

“I should like to creep Through the long brown grasses   That are your lashes; I should like to poise   On the very brink Of leaf-brown pools   That are your shadowed eyes; I should like to cleave   Without sound, Their gleaming waters,  their unrippled waters, I should like to sink down   And down       And down           And deeply down.”

— Angelina Weld Grimké, “A Mona Lisa”

— A. Poulin Jr., “Cave Dwellers”

“What I mean is—when I see your face / in the dusk I understand the desire of the rain. Each time / you happen to me all over again.”

— Aleda Shirley, “A Dwelling in the Evening Air”

“Between your touch / and my cry / between the sea / and the dream of the sea.”

— Anne Michaels, “Sea of Lanterns”

— Robery Creeley, “The Rain”

“In a forest of stars and boughs, here is your face. In the garden, in the shipwreck, in sacred stones, in figs and roses. Through long nights of walking, what does not sing for us?”

— Anne Michaels, The Winter Vault

“nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands.”

— E.E. Cummings, “somewhere i have never traveled gladly beyond”

“I cannot write about Damascus, without the jasmine climbing on my fingers. / I cannot say Her name, without my mouth getting overcrowded with apricot juice, blackberries and quince.”

— Nizar Qabbani, “A Green Lantern at Damascus’ Door”

— Hozier, “Shrike”

#quotes about x #the topography of love #i slithered here from eden #ask #anonymous #x #all the world's a queue

[whump-cravings]

Enthralled - 4

previous

1,391 words | Original work

Content: partial nudity (non sexual), pain, imprisonment, fear, vomiting (brief), drinking blood (vampire), profanity, worrying about transphobia and fantasy racism

Tseth breathed in. He... hurt. Dry mouth carefully parted, he breathed out. He was blearily aware of sheets, a bed, blankets, beneath and atop his still form. He smelled like venom.

Several minutes passed before he could force his laden eyes open. A white wall greeted him. He closed his eyes, the movement pressing tears free to sting down a cheek and off his nose.

The scent of blood kept him from slipping back into a haze. Slowly, every movement a battle, the dhampire pulled blankets aside. He laid there on his side for a minute more before working up the will to roll onto his other side and confront his situation.

The room was small and unadorned. A small nightstand was next to the bed, with two red plastic cups resting on top. As he pushed himself upright on a trembling arm, he saw soup in one and a few ounces of blood in the other. Getting settled, he picked up the broth and smelled it. Chicken. Probably unadulterated. He took a careful sip.

It was cold and hit unpleasantly, making Tseth's stomach growl angrily and cramp. He shut his eyes, holding down nausea. Once the wave had passed, he set the cup down, rubbing his eyes.

Looking around again, he saw a small adjoining room with no door. A half bathroom laid beyond. It was a good thing he didn't need to use the toilet, because he wasn't sure he could make it there. He glanced up, noticing two cameras watched him from different corners of the room, recessed into the walls.

He shook his head, returning his attention to the cups. Maybe if he could eat something more, he would feel better. He just had to get it down. Bracing himself on the counter, he poured some of the broth into the blood to make a 3:1 ratio. Then, after working up a little bit of strength, he tossed the mixture back.

He set the empty cup down. Only a few seconds later, he stumbled off the bed, knees hitting a wooden floor as his legs buckled. Everything came back up, burning on the way. Ow, fuck. Tears dripped from his nose onto the ground as he heaved a few times before he could crawl away.

He was only able to get a few feet away before his strength gave out and he collapsed. The taste of bile lingered, and he shook as if he was freezing but his entire body was flush with heat and sweat.

Soon, a lock clicked and the door opened. Tseth's eyes snapped open and he tried pushing himself upright.

It was the vampire in the doorway. Fangs, that was the name he'd given Tseth. Ridiculous—as if anybody would ever name their vampire kid "Fangs."

"Don't move," he said, dark eyes impassive.

Not like Tseth was having much success, anyways. He fell back down, warily watching.

Satisfied, Fangs moved inwards. He held a bucket in one hand. Going down on a knee near the mess, he methodically took cleaning supplies out of the bucket before lining it with a plastic bag. He snapped on some gloves.

"You can't just chuck back when you haven't eaten in days," the vampire chastised while mopping up with paper towels.

Tseth bit back a hot retort, instead electing to not respond, tucking his head down.

The vampire peeled off the gloves and tied the bag shut when he was finished. He dropped it off to the side before reloading the bucket. Then he looked up at Tseth and stood, taking a step closer.

Alarm jolted up Tseth's spine. He pushed himself back while hissing wordlessly, spine hitting the nightstand.

Fangs stopped, hands up and open. "You look like you need help getting to the shower." The vampire seemed genuine, and that he didn't immediately forced Tseth into being manhandled was a point in his favor.

Tseth wavered with indecision. Had he been given any kind of bath while he was out? He didn't know. All he could smell was the venom in his sweat. It would be so nice to shower. But it would also mean getting naked, wouldn't it? Or at least being wet and not having anything dry to change into. He had boxers on—his own boxers, even. Had they been on when he was strapped to the table? Had they seen him naked? Did they know? Did they understand what the scars on his chest meant? Would they care? But he couldn't take the risk that it would make the situation worse, could he?

He shook his head, trying to get upright again. With the help of the nightstand, he was able to sit up. Swallowing, trying to erase the burning in his throat, he said, "What did my grandparents say?" His brow was creased with effort it took to form the words.

Fang's mask slipped momentarily, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "Grandparents?" He fetched something out of his pocket, tossing it into Tseth's lap.

The dhampire flinched, too slow to move before the thing had already settled. Hands weak and shaking, he found the oral anesthetic. It took him only a moment to decide to get some on his finger and onto his gums. The action gave him time to think, and fortunately it helped clear away the taste of sickness.

His grandparents were the ones with money. That had to be the reason he was kidnapped, right? They found out somehow... Vlad overheard something while he was talking to them? Somehow connected him.

Grandma was right, he reflected miserably. I shouldn't have left home.

"The ransom demand," he said, feeling the numbing agent immediately start its work. Some tension eased from his shoulders, agonizing pain fractionally reduced. "Have they responded? How much did you ask for?" He didn't actually know how much his grandparents had, but it was like a lot. Not billionaire a lot, but a lot.

"I can't tell you that," Fangs said, face clear again. "Do Tylenol or ibuprofen work for you?"

Frustration built at the man's answer and change of subject. But he wouldn't turn down the opportunity for non-venom painkillers. Pulling his legs to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them. "A dose and a half of Ibuprofen. Please."

"And do you like chicken or beef more?"

Also not a question that hurt to answer. Eating was important. "Beef, and I eat green smoothies for other nutrient requirements. No milk." As Fangs nodded, Tseth pressed his luck. "Please, can't you tell me anything? Who's your boss?"

Fangs bent to pick up the bucket and trash bag. "Be back in a few." He left, lock clicking behind him.

Tseth leaned his head back in frustration. He couldn't get a read on the man. The other one had seemed more than willing to hurt Tseth into compliance, but Fangs... Were they doing good cop bad cop, maybe?

Worry scratched at the back of his mind. Was it standard to maim a ransom victim right off the bat? You only did that when you sent the body parts to horrify people into paying, right? I've got to stop getting my criminal knowledge from action movies.

His grandparents would pay for him in a heartbeat if they could afford it, he had no doubt. Or send a private rescue team or some shit, but either way, they would get him out.

But Fangs had seemed confused. Was it possible he wasn't here because of money?

He wiped his forehead, nervous. Only one other thing set him apart from the general populace.

Half-breed. His hands tightened on his legs. Was that a slur when he was the only one he knew about? Vlad had certainly said it that way. Betrayal ached in his chest. His roommate had never been particularly chummy, but never in a million years would he have imagined...

He swallowed, tears in his eyes again. You knew a vampire called Vlad was sketchy, moron. It was just so hard to find people chill about a vampire roommate.

If he was here because he was half-vampire half-human—

It's got to be because of money, he told himself, running a hand through his hair. Please let it be about money.

He didn't think about the fact that he'd already seen the face of one of his captors.

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#tseth the dhampire #enthralled #original work #whump writing #captivity #vampire whump #emeto tw #anxiety #mars writes #vampire whumpee

[tipsydipsydo]

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader

Gender of the Reader: female

Word Count: 3.7k

Alternative Universe: CEO! AU

Rating: 18+

Genre: Smut!

Warnings: Sexual Language + a bit Dirty Talk; Dom-/Sub-Themes (Dom! Hoseok x Sub! Reader); Sadism; Masochism; Degradation; Oral (m); Deepthroating; Cum-Eating; Sextoys; Lingerie; Pet-Play (Collar + Leash); Bondage; Spreader-Bar; Exhibtionism/Voyeurism; Teasing + Edging; Begging; Praising; Orgasm Control; rough (!) unprotected vaginal Sex (please stay safe!); very light mentions of alcohol (one sentences)

A/N: Over the weekend I looked through my old writing folders and... I think I've found some little diamonds in there.

Honestly, I'm impressed by myself.

I've rewritten the perspective of this story here and added some little details but in general I translated the original.

I hope you'll enjoy my old work as much as I did it. 😈💜

By the way... I wrote this story with barely 15.

Let me know what do you think about this story~ 👀🙈

Sneak Peak: "Laying open, completely helpless and so vulnerable in front of him. Presented like a meal on a silver tablet. His meal, his prey. Your wolf is starving, licking his lips with an animalistic and devilish smile at the sight of your parted pussy lips. Revealing his most desired things, this swollen and sensitive clit and this pretty tiny pussyhole. Clenching around nothing, literally begging to get filled with his fat cock and stuffed up with his cum until it’s leaking out of his little sweet swan..."

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「© tipsydipsydo」

The following story is my intellectual property and belongs only to my blog tipsydipsydo.tumblr.com!

Do not repost, plagiarize, translate or use any of my work in general!

That includes reposting my content on other social media platforms as well, even when you link me as the original author.

Please respect that. I’ll fight any illegal use of my work!

Thank you.

With a soft, barely audible click you open the door. A cold breeze welcomes you and caresses your body, giving you goosebumps. Slowly you step out of your bedroom and walk down the long corridor with well-considered steps.

The bright light of the full moon falls through the white, wide open double doors and guides your way. Your black heels clicking softly on the expensive parquet floor and the chains on the straps jingle seductively with every step, giving you self-confidence. Let you sound erotic and elegant without Hoseok even having seen you.

You pause within the frame of the double doors. Looking at the tall man, who’s standing at the huge panoramic window and looking down at Seoul. On the 20th floor you have a breathtaking view.

The moon is full and round, bathing everything in a soft, mystical light. The light breaks in Hoseok's dark hair and makes him look almost angelic. Even though you know he's the devil in an angel’s costume. 

He doesn't turn around to you, waiting for you to come to him.

You look at him closely. The tailored suit fits perfectly around his muscular body. His body proportions are in perfect harmony, he’s a breathtaking attractive man. Add this to his height, it makes him look really intimidating. Sublime.

His face has sharp, masculine features. Controlled. He controls everything. He loves to possess power and to demonstrate it all too clearly. He never loses his temper or acts impulsively. When it comes to those sessions between you two, there are no actions leaded by emotions, only controlled and thoughtful activities. He knows behind every single one its meaning, why he does this.

His skin has a sensual and seductive honey-gold tone. In stark contrast, his eyes shine in a cool, almost black brown. You have never seen such a dark eye colour and maybe that’s it what attracts you to him. 

This special, rare thing about him makes him incredibly attractive for you. It's like having a very rare diamond. It's the uniqueness of it that makes you want to own it. But in your case, it's the other way around. He owns you. And that's what makes you feel fulfilled.

Even though others may not see it that way, he gives you so much of himself. With it you not even mean the material things, he gives you so much of his love.

Yes, it’s love. His affection and loving torments, how he cares for you, the way he gives you commands and taking control. That is what fills you the most and it’s also the reason why you can give yourself completely to him. Hoseok takes your control and turns it into his own.

Others would panic if they were deprived of personal control. But if he takes it from you, then he will take care of you, so you can let yourself fall. Giving you more control than before. You trust him, he knows your limits and keeps to them strictly. He has control over everything and leaves nothing to luck or chance. That’s the reason why you trust him so much. He doesn’t act impulsively and rashly, he never crosses the boundaries.  

This control, this power that he has and exercises on others is what fascinates you so much. You love this dominance in him, it gives you a sense of security and safety. He doesn’t make any mistakes, you can completely let yourself go with him. Finally you have found the person who fits you perfectly. He has this special power, dominance and control and what you want is to submit to him completely, to obey him. 

Just the sight of him and this dominant aura around him excites you. You breathe out audibly and can hardly take your eyes off him. You know that you’re not undiscovered. Hoseok knows perfectly well that you are standing here, shamelessly staring at him. But he doesn't say anything, doesn't rebuke you, because he loves your awestruck, admiring gaze.

He knows exactly what kind of effect he has on you. He knows, no, he feels it in every fiber of his body how much you want to submit to him and beg him to give you any kind of relieve or satisfaction. His self-satisfied smile is already visible on his lips.

Your breath hitch, you shallow hard, your décolleté rises and falls quickly. Now you realize how hard your buds already are under the very fine tip of your negligee. The reason for this are these wild fantasies that are haunting you in your pretty head.

How you would love it to be tied to the bed again. Lying completely exposed under him, while he pours champagne over your breasts and letting it run over your stomach onto your until it collects in your navel. How much do you long for him to punish you when you are dying of lust and can't keep still... 

Every warning bite on your nipples sent a wave of sweet pain through your body, causes that a lot more of your juice is flowing out of you. You can remember how you moaned as you writhed under him, completely exposed and helpless to face his punishments. You thought at first, he’d give you finally some relieve when he pushed the vibrator into your clenching hole. But still, he refused to let you cum... 

His face was filled with pure satisfaction, he enjoyed hearing you beg... even dirty words left your otherwise shy mouth, out of pure desperation. That brought an amused smile on his lips. 

Hoseok loves to demonstrate his power and influence, it amuses himself how quickly you've fallen for the devil. No wonder he keeps calling you "my defiled angel." But you are so aroused by his arrogance, his self-confidence and cockyness. There's nothing you can do about it. You've gone right into his trap. The big bad wolf has captured the innocent Swan. The dying swan. Blood, the dark red blood stains the snow-white, pure feathers, while the black wolf's canines around her throat. 

"Turn the music on.” It’s the first thing that Hoseok say to you this night. His voice is deep and commanding, you obey his commands all too willingly. 

You step quietly to the stereo and turn it on. His chosen CD must be already in the music player. Now the sounds of slow piano play and the dark, erotic voice of a woman fill the plain, unadorned room.  White walls with light wooden beams, white leather couch and some fake fur blankets lie over the armrests of the furniture, which however look very real. A huge plasma TV dominates the room, together with some large boxes. On the right wall there is a huge bookshelf. Only filled with works in their original languages. Hoseok knows them all perfectly. 

Your ears focus on the slow but stimulating song that comes quietly out of the speakers. Toxic. Involuntarily you have to think immediately of this korean man, who still looks unperturbed at the huge metropolis to his feet. 

Too much time has passed, you made him wait, which he absolutely hates! You swallow nervously, at the sound of his voice you should have noticed it immediately! He sounded a little annoyed and waiting. Others would not have heard it, but you have already learned to hear that little difference. The emphasis of the words alone! God, how stupid and inattentive you are! Hoseok hates it when his counterpart doesn't concentrate completely on him and his wishes. Then he becomes very unpleasant and just his cold gaze punish you more than any spanks. 

With a weak stomach and chewing nervously on your lower lip, you start moving and slowly walk towards him. The translucent chiffon hugs your naked thighs tenderly and the cool air on your uncovered womanhood shoots a stimulating tingle through your body. Under this almost completely transparent black negligee you’re wearing nothing.

Your face is adorned with a filigree venetian mask. It is made of black metal and the transparency of it gives you just little anonymity. At the ends it is adorned with dark green diamond particulas and and on the bridge of your nose sparkles an emerald diamond. At his request you wear this outfit.

Your breasts sways gently with every step, the lace fabric rubs against your hard nipples and let the hot ball in your abdomen grow bigger. The small lust balls swings a little in yourself, let hot shivers of lust running down your spine. The light swinging of the balls in your sextoy heats your desire up with every step, so that your arousal is already running down the insides of your thighs. Let the beguiling smell of femininity exude.

You have to bite your lower lip in order not to whimper out loudly and your hands turns into fists, you wish, you could touch yourself for some relief. You’re so unbelievable desperate, even you would call yourself pathetic. But without his own instructions, Hoseok wouldn't find this funny at all and would punish you without any mercy for your indiscipline.

"How can I serve you, Master?" you ask quietly, your head lowered submissively, after stopping a few meters behind your dom. At first, Hoseok doesn't react until he slowly turns around after two minutes. "Why did you wait so long, Y/N? Why were you late?" he asks in a calm, demure tone. 

"I...I...", you start stuttering, looking for an excuse that doesn't sound as pathetic as the actual reason. That you were dreaming away and forgot the time. But Hoseok knows you and sees through your intentions immediately. 

He steps towards you, threatening you and overtowering your small frame. His aura is suddenly freezing cold and even if you can't see his face, you know that you would only find cold anger and displeasure in it.  How his jaw would be clench and his nostrils would be flaring as if he had actually problems to control himself. But his gaze is the most humiliating. 

Cold, icy dark brown, almost black eyes. Showing only resentment and disappointment. 

"Are you thinking about lying to me right now, Y/N?", he asks with a harsh and growling voice that has nothing in common with anything melodic anymore. You should have known never, really never lie to Mr. Jung Hoseok. 

"Answer me!", he groan angrily and impatiently, assessing you like a hungry predator. As soon as you admit you wanted to lie to him, he will pounce on you and tear you apart. But that's what makes you hot, you like to play with fire, you like to test your limits with him, love the thrill and excitement of being punished again. 

You’re so uncomfortable right in the moment, your gaze searches over shiny parquet floor, not daring to look up. You don't even know if you are allowed to. But this dangerous aura of Hoseok's dominance lets a little moan escape your throat. Lust takes over your body, taking every fiber of your whole being.

Finally you dare to look up carefully, but you doesn’t look him in the eye.  "I-I'm sorry, M-Master..." you mumble inaudibly. A sigh comes from your husband, who shakes his head. The moonlight shimmers in his hair, reminding you a bit of the velvety fur of a black panther. 

"...And I thought I reached you better. Why are you always so dreamy and inattentive? Is it that what you want? Do you long for punishments, my little swan?," he cooed as he approached you and grabbed your hair, pulling it not really gently back so you would look at him. His black eyes searching yours, looking inside you. He can read your mind you like an open book. 

He sees all your desires, your desires for him. The desire to submit to him and to let the dirtiest things be done to you. It makes you hot, it makes you horny. Pure desire, lust and despair pulsates through your body. Sexual need, the longing for sex, naughty play sessions, punishment and redemption dominates your mind and body.  A greedy fire of passive passion blazes hot inside you.

His gaze, which consumes everything of you, frees you with his eyes from the little bit of cloth, which you still carry on your body. Exposes and humiliates you. But you love to e under control of this dominant Korean man, following his will. The confirmation can be seen on your body, your arousal can almost be smelled. 

You want to swallow, but your body trembles with excitement like aspen leaves and a thin layer of sweat lies on your skin. The tight-fitting choker collar with its many details and chains reminds you at this moment more of a dog collar... It turns out for a good reason.

A pant leaves your full lips and you look at him with eyes, veiled in lust.  "Please punish me, Master! I-I want, I need to be punished for my stupidity! M-Make anything you want with me!" it bursts out of you, your voice trembles in lust. He begins to smile arrogantly and amusedly, releases your hair from his merciless grip and instead gently caresses your neck.  

"Good girl...", he says tenderly, praises you for having realized that you deserve an appropriate punishment for your misconduct. Suddenly he pushes your hair on your left shoulder, to get to the clasp of the chocker. Then something very cold hits your warm neck, causing you to flinch. You look up confused and discover a black leather leash, that is attached to your choker. Hoseok encourages you with an uninterpretable smile and tug on the leash.

"Come, my little.", he commands and you follow him well-behaved. A wild tingling sensation takes over your body and you are so curious to know what he has planned for you.  A lustful moaning escapes your mouth when you see where he is leading you.

To your pleasure room.

He opens the room quietly and you enjoy the smell that is still hanging in the air.  Suede, lacquer and a little bit more of the sparkling sweetness of your past play sessions. The light is dimmed, gives the whole thing an erotic-sensual touch. Your relationship is a little different.

Of course, he punishes you with tender slaps and spanks, tortures you until you die of sweet pain that’s paired up with irrepressible lust, but with you everything is based more on the balance of power. 

You enjoy being submissive, being given orders and being dominated. He loves to demonstrate his power to control you.  It doesn't have to have anything to do with physical pain, it's simply about the principle of power play. It excites you to be led and humiliated by him. To see his proud and superior, but also lustful smile.

Your master goes to the restored, antique-looking wing chair with the mahogany wooden feet. He sits down in it and straightens up in the armchair almost threateningly.  "On your knees," he says in a commanding tone, that is otherwise only found in the military and make an elegant gesture to you, to get down on your knees. 

Your heart makes a jump, his commanding voice only makes your pussy lips and clitoris swell even more. What would you give to have him eating you out. What... what would he do it if you’re literally offering yourself to him? But you do what you are ordered to, kneeling down to his feet and waiting for that what comes next.

"And now... lick them off", the order comes from above and he holds out his shiny polished brown suede shoe. You falter... You have to lick his shoes...? Unsure you look up to him with an questioning look. A nod of encouragement is returns to you. You swallow before carefully taking his left foot in your hands and holding it to your lips. 

This really makes you a bit uncomfortable and that's exactly why there is such a treacherous pull in your abdomen. Only more of your juice is flowing down your thigh. A little bit awkwardly you start to lick over the leather, getting over the time more and more eager and you end up enjoying it even in a precarious way.  The bitter taste of material is new for you, but with shy looks you squint at Hoseok, who obviously enjoys the sight. Lust seizes your body anew and you surrender completely to your humiliating punishment.

He grabs a handful of your hair and pulls you up a little. Between his legs, to his crotch. You look at him excitedly and this animal lust in his dark eyes says more than every word. 

Eagerly you open his trousers and pull down the waistband of his black shorts. His rock-hard cock jumps towards you and almost unrestrainedly you give yourself to his unspoken command. Licking all over this gorgeous shaft, massaging his balls and inhaling this musky scent of his groins. Pulling the foreskin back from his tip to give sweet kitten licks on his exposed crown. 

Hoseok's lustful look lies heavy on you, until he puts a hand on the back of your head and decides for himself what you do or don't do. He fucks your mouth in a controlled manner, guides your head and you enjoy the salty taste of his presumably on your nimble tongue. A muffled groan rises up Hoseok's throat before his cum runs down your throat. Willingly you swallow everything, licking lasciviously over your lips and give him a seductive look. You love that smug look on his face. 

"Such a good little swan you are for me...," he rewards you, gets up an lead you to the finally giant king-size bed, which is covered in black silk. 

He ties your leath tightly to the metal crossbars on the headboard so that you can hardly move. Exactly this fact causes a wave of electrifying lust flickers through you and you whimper willingly as you have to pull your knees up to your chest, as he ties your wrists with red rope to your ankles and attaches a spreader bar between your knees.  

He smiles smugly at you, your whole body is almost completely consumed by the pleasure you feel in being so exposed to him. His hand tenderly caresses your sweaty thigh and his fingertips play with your swollen clitoris. Then he clears his throat.  

"My little swan... You have mastered your punishment so well, now you may have the right to choose a reward... what would it be?" he asked tenderly and his dark lustblown pupils look into yours.  You tremble under his haunting gaze, your body soon burns from the inside out, such heat rages within you. The wish is already on your tongue, but your shame is still too big to say it out loud. 

"What do you wish, my beautiful swan?," Hoseok encouraged you with his dark, erotic voice and a... kinda diabolical smile. 

"Fuck me, Master! P-Please! I-I want you to stretch my tiny pussy open with your hard cock, I want you to be merciless, ruin me like you desire and fill me up with your thick cum!", you almost scream out with dark red cheeks. In that moment, he had pulled the lustballs out of you, with only one single tug.

You breath quickly, panting almost like a dog bitch in heat. Laying open, completely helpless and so vulnerable in front of him. Presented like a meal on a silver tablet. His meal, his prey. Your wolf is starving, licking his lips with an aminalistic and devilish smile at the sight of your parted pussy lips. Revealing his most desired things, this swollen and sensitive clit and this pretty tiny pussyhole. Clenching around nothing, literally begging to get filled with his fat cock and stuffed up with his cum until it’s leaking out of his little sweet swan.

Without any warning Hoseok sinks mercilessly and deeply into you, didn’t let you adjust to his long and girthy length. The rhythm is hard and fast. It’s exactly what you were begging for. Lust has taken over your mind and there was no room for shame. Hoseok pants heavily and bury himself deeper and deeper into you, reaching your cervix what let you cry out in pain and pleasure. You hardly know how to handle your lust, it feels like as if everything is already too much but still not enough to pleasure the greedy desire in your body. He fucks you so good, you’re overflowing with juices.

Your pussy makes lewd squelching sounds, these noise turns you on beyond belief and let your desperate cunt literally dripping onto the sheets. The smell of primal, animalistic and uninhibited sex is hanging heavily in the air.  Hoseok's white dress shirt gets sweat stains and this sight, this feeling of his pure lust makes you float.

You’re getting closer and closer in no time. The fact of getting brutally used only for Hoseok’s own pleasure let your own lust increase, building it higher and higher into the sky. The thought alone to know, that he’ll take you this night definitely to the point of pure exhaustion gets you high. Yes, maybe you are a nymphomaniac, but at this moment you want nothing more than to get fucked and breeded by Hoseok like the cockslut you truly are.

Your body burns, is ablaze with light and finally... finally that moment comes when all that pent-up lust bursts out of you. Your body trembles and you scream, whimpering out the lust of your orgasm. The world explodes before your inner eye in the most beautiful colors.

Only a few minutes later, Hoseok is already sitting in front of you again, smiling devilishly and watching his cum slowly dripping out of you. 

The night has just begun.

Yes, you are the fallen angel who has fallen to the devil. 

You are the white swan who fell victim to the black wolf.

#tipsydipsydo #bts writing #btswritersnet #bangtanhq #hopeworldnet #hyungsmutsociety #dom! hoseok #bts smut #tipsy was always kinky af #bts x reader #kinky since birth xD #kpop smut #hoseok smut #ceo hoseok #hoseok x reader #kinky tipsy

[herald-divine-hell]

Fire within the Blue Waves of a Bronze-Foamed Sea

Amayian awoke with a headache which pounded like a hammer against steel; and he fought back the tears which swelled as the faint streams of sunlight swept through the glass-frames set in the doors that lead out to the balconies, and the amber fire burning within the hearth, slender plums of smoke shivering up as a thin wall of gray-gold.

A shot of pain raked through the right side of his stomach, snapping all the way  up to the arm he had used to push himself upward. Capturing the gasp before it escaped, he tightened his jaw and took a sharp breath. He could feel two pairs of eyes upon him the moment he had woken up, but turning his head took too much energy. So, he would speak to them when he decided that he will speak to them, no sooner and no later. The two figures were a smudge of gray and purple at the corner of his eyes, which were grainy and made them out to be like smearing shadows, fading in blackness every so often.

A familiar voice thundered in his head, thickening the pound of his headache, and yet soothing him in a way he wish did not effect him so. “He seems to be able to move around. Thank you, Solas. I will call you if anything else is needed.”

Solas appeared faintly in view, staring him with those cool, collected bluish-gray eyes. His voice was softer than Leliana’s when he spoke. “I wish get some of the potions ready for him, Sister.” He turned that icy gaze from Amayian to the purple-red smudge. “Keep him here. We don’t want him to pass out like that again. Have him drink some from the cup. I mixed some elfroot and other herbs in it, enough to soothe his headache.” With one final stare, the elf departed in that easy, casual strode, down the stairs. The door to his bedroom chambers creaked open and then slammed shut with an echo.

Silence cloaked the chambers, only cut by the crackle of the flames. Amayian rested his head on the pillow, so soft he had no doubt it had been hurriedly fluffed. Light steps with armor-covered boots echoed on the stone floor, then muffling by the softness of the carpet; and the purple-red smudge bleed into view, revealing Leliana - with her high cheekbones, sharp and cool brown-flecked blue eyes, and her long, curving nose splattered with soft freckles. Her full lips were pulled tight into a line, and her gaze were filled with concern, annoyance, and distant all at once. He met her stare as much as he could, but another snapping bite of pain cut through him, and his jaw tightened once more. This time, he was forced to close his eyes for a moment or two.

When Leliana spoke, the icy tones were soften like melting snows. “Here,” she said, turning and bending away, curving in his vision like a sickle moon, before reshaping back into her straight-backed armored figure. “Drink this.” She handed him a cup, unadorned and plain, with only silver flames etched near the rim.

Taking it in a two-handed hold, he sipped long and slowly, warmth surging within him like a gushing river of fire and life. The bordering darkness lifted away, and the grainy haze thinned and wavered to clearness. The fire became brighter, the steel lines of the cut-glass set in the balcony doors were more sharper. That snapping bite dulled to a burning throb, but it did not cause him to wince like before. He always seemed to take the brunt of pain more easily than others. The throbbing dimmed to the back of his mind.

Turning became easier, as he shifted his body to rest the cup on the rounded side table. But Leliana was faster, and seemingly more insistent. She grasped the cup easily from her hands, and laid the cup on it’s delicate plate. “I will get you another cup, once you go to sleep.” The steel was still there in her voice, but there was a softness which mended ice in those eyes, dispelling the shadowy mist which clouded them. But they were still as sharp as daggers, only their cutting was less inflicting.

“Thank you,” he said, glad that his voice did not waver or crack. “But I do not need anymore rest. From the coloring of the skies, and my own reconciliation, it seemed I have been sleep for the entirety of the day.” He shifted himself up, and he felt the blanket about him drift down and puddle into his lap, revealing his bare chest to the cool air. Distantly, he was aware that he was naked beneath the sheets and coverlet and blankets, and he would put on some form of clothing, after Leliana left. A light whisper ringed in his mind that spoke of letting her stay and watch, to prove he was in all right of condition to continue on his duties. But he pushed it down as quickly as it came, a rumbling warmth tickling at his heart, threatening to rise up his neck and cheeks. Maybe he drank the drink too fast? Maybe that is why the warmth is so overwhelming. He did not want to find out, in any case. Nor did he wish to scar Leliana with his nakedness. “You may return to your own duties, Leliana. I know you are no doubt busy.”

Leliana stared at him with those lidded eyes, saying nothing, but merely peering at him like how an animal stalks its prey. Arms crossing over her chest, she dipped her hip a little to the side, and merely watched him, as if waiting for something to occur. Doing his best to ignore her stare, Amayian rested his hands on the soft mattress, and heaved himself up...only to collapsed back into the bed with a heavy breath he did not have the time to keep down, the pain from before stabbing and shoving it’s way across his body, like a boulder suddenly smashing against his chest. Crunching his eyes close, he took a few heavy and short breathes, calming his racing heart, tightening his hands into fists before let go. The pain ebbed slowly away.

Sharply, he felt Leliana’s hand on his, squeezing and drawing circles into the back of his hand, and for some reason, it soothed him enough that the pain fled away like a wind. When he opened his eyes, all the ice and the steel and the coldness was gone from her gaze. Only concern and worry swirled in those blue seas with its bronze foam. The shine of sunlight bathed her copper locks with a touch of amber, as if she was hooded in the fire of sunset. His fingers itched to pull away a strand which slipped over her eyes, but he kept his hands at his side. Amayian told himself that he only did so because he did not want that pain to fill him again.

“You are a fool, Amayian,” said Leliana, her voice gentle and warm. The softness filled him with that soft and persistent fire again. Where did that keep coming from? It was surely not from the pain, was it? When did she remove her glove? Her fingers were lightly calloused, and yet still soft. And they were warm. His hands always seemed cold, unless he filled them with magic. “But at least now you can see that you will not be leaving this bed anytime soon.” Her fingers, either without her knowledge or if she did was aware of it, gently squeezed around his hand.

It felt wrong for her to touch him, because he did not deserve the softness of her eyes, the kindness in her voice. He did not deserve it now, as he did not deserve it then, during the Blight. A tangling web of fear grasped at his heart, cooling the warmth, but he slashed it with effort that took too much. Unable to tear his gaze away from Leliana’s, from the soft crinkle at the corner of her eyes were faint wrinkles were growing or the gentle curve of her lips in that breath-capturing smile, he frowned. “In a few hours, I am sure I can leave.”

She hummed. “Hours which you can hasten if you sleep.” Her smile grew deviously, like the way she used to tease him for something he did not know. “Go on, I will be waiting.” Leliana stopped him when he opened his mouth to argue with a hand. “I already brought my reports up here, and since you will no doubt be in the bed for a few days, I can keep you up on things.”

She snatched the words before I could argue against them. He expected as much from Leliana. She always seemed to know how to read his mind, even if he did not understand it himself. Sighing, he nodded, and leaned against the pillow, before shuffling down. At the corner of his eye, he can see Leliana make her way to the couch which rested against the stone railing of the stairs that led down and out his room. She rested on it with one armored foot over the other, and poured herself of wine he did not saw before. When she caught him staring, she smiled in that easy and light way, which always seemed to render him a touch confused, and he turned away to stare up at the ceiling, slopping into a pyramid at the tip.

For a while - how long, he did not know - he stared up at the ceiling, listening to the soft trod of the wind against the stone walls and glass of the tower. But, soon, he heard Leliana hum a melody, a familiar song he could not name. A couple moments passed, perhaps even an hour, before she lifted the melody to song.

It was that song which lulled his eyes with a drowsy heaviness, and it was the soft Orlesian words which finally sealed his mind away for sleep, all fears and worries fleeing from mind and heart, and the memory of the softness of the eyes and smiles of Leliana, a remnant ghost of a woman who once shone as bright as dawn.

Amayian fell asleep to that sight, and only the Spymaster knew that a smile was on his own lips when he did.

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age Inquisition #DA #DAI #Dragon Age OCs #my OCs #Dragon Age Leliana #Amayian Trevelyan #Leliana #Sister Leliana #Leliana x Inquisitor #Inquisitor x Leliana #Dragon Age Trevelyan #Male Trevelyan #Male Inquisitor #m!inquisitor #m!trevelyan #Dragon Age Fanfic #my fanfic #fluff #fluff fanfic

[toushindai]

Where Flattery Gets You

Zagreus has a gift for Megaera.

(pointlessly sweet little canontimes established relationship ficlet because I think the world needs more fluffy painplay. only slightly nsfw.)

[ Read on AO3 ]

*

He claims his chambers are due for an inspection, and then, as if to head off her teasing show of deliberating over whether to give him what he wants, says, “There’s something in particular I want you to inspect.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Did an especially good job of cleaning this time, did you?”

“That is definitely what I mean,” he says, his voice richly facetious.

She’s not particularly in the mood, but he does seem to have some specific reason for the request and that makes her curious, so she goes with him. Even so, she isn’t expecting him to offer her a bundle wrapped in thin red fabric.

“This is for you,” he says, nervousness obvious in his voice, and Megaera accepts the bundle from him with a curious glance and unfolds the cloth wrapping.

It’s a whip.

A snake whip, specifically, flexible from the round, sturdy knot at one end to its narrow tip. Ten feet in length, it is made of leather in the vibrant pink she favors, and unadorned other than the intricacy of the knot.

“I hope the lack of handle is all right,” Zagreus frets. “I know most of yours have handles, but Mr. Amosis said those were harder to make, and this one took me six tries as it is, and—”

“Wait,” she interrupts him, a sudden flush spreading up the back of her neck. “You made this.”

“Yes?” he answers, surprised that she’s surprised. “Please don’t ask about the first five attempts, they were… less impressive.”

“You made this for me, and you tried six times until you got it right.”

“Well, I mean, I know that the quality of your things is important to you, especially when it comes to your tools, so… I had to make sure it was decent. I didn’t want to give you something beneath your standards.”

Megaera drops her eyes to the lash again. But no, even knowing this, she can’t see any signs that an amateur like Zagreus plaited it. It’s fine work, as flawless as Amosis’s, and he’s been supplying her tools for aeons. Megaera feels down the whip, fingers searching for the places where the lash gradually narrows—potential weak spots in the construction. But the tightness of the braiding doesn’t falter, even there. It’s incredible. And Megaera has never felt so pleasantly embarrassed, so far beyond flattered. She feels warm and loved. What a feeling for him to spring on her without forewarning, the little brat.

Her stunned delight must not show on her face, because Zag shifts from one foot to the other, hopeful anxiety in his face. “So… do you like it?” he prompts.

She doesn’t answer right away, instead bending the lash near the knot to test the flexibility there. Casually, she says, “I’m not sure. I’d have to try it out first.”

“Oh—” A whiff of disappointment in his voice first, until she lifts her gaze with a raise of one eyebrow. Then he catches on. “Oh. Might I make a suggestion for your first victim?”

She rolls her eyes. “Wipe that smirk off your face, Zagreus, and take off your clothes for me.”

Which only makes his smirk grow as he reaches down to remove his greaves. “Well, I’ll undress,” he says airily, unlacing his leggings, “but I think, in this case, that wiping the smirk off my face is your job—”

With an easy flick of her wrist, she cracks the whip only inches from his ear. The lash is responsive, springy, balanced; the sound splits the air. Startled with one leg in and one leg out of his leggings, Zagreus stumbles, hopping in place and then laughing as he catches himself. His smirk is gone, replaced with a pleasingly jumpy sort of grin.

“—And you are phenomenal at your job, has anyone ever told you that, Meg?”

“Hmm.” She cradles the knot at the butt of the whip in her palm, content with the way it fits there and the control she can feel it extend through the length of the lash. “I don’t get many compliments in my line of work,” she admits sardonically.

“Well, you should, because you are very good at what you do. And if I have to be the one to say it, then I will; I’ll say it over and over—”

She steps forward and seizes him by the belt. “You’ll get yourself ready for me is what you’ll do, Zagreus,” she says, through a teeth-gritted grin, and yanks the belt off him.

He laughs again as he sheds his chiton. He’s too pleased with himself to slip away like he usually does, too happy to go cowed and quiet; and she still isn’t really in the mood. But that’s all right. He’s earned himself some thanks, and Megaera can still work with this. She shoves him against the wall once he’s naked, left arm across the back of his shoulders, whip doubled up in her right hand so that she can trace the loop of it down his spine.

“Five rough drafts, and then this, huh?” she murmurs in his ear. “And I bet you were thinking the whole time about what it would feel like.”

“The whole time,” he affirms with a chuckle, resting his forehead against the wall.

“Tsch. What kind of gift is it if you get as much out of it as I do?”

“Oh, a very selfish one, I suppose.” But he’s realized already that she likes it and doesn’t rush to apologize for his self-serving action. For once. Megaera smirks, so utterly fond of this man.

“You’re going to enjoy this, Zag,” she promises him in a low voice, and then she steps back to give her new whip a try.

And it turns out that she likes it very much.

 *

His back is a heated red and her heart is thumping with exertion by the time she’s finished with him. Still, she hasn’t pressed him particularly hard. When she puts the whip aside and runs her fingers through his hair, he hums, present and content.

“What’s the verdict, then?” he asks, smiling. “You like it?”

She twists a lock of his hair around one finger, then takes his chin and guides him into a kiss, slow and deep. When she breaks it, she smiles back at him—not smirks, not sneers, but simply smiles.

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

#hades game #megaera #zagreus #megzag #zagmeg #zagaera #megaera (hades game) #zagreus (hades game) #tou wrote a thing #where flattery gets you #nsft

[nimmy22]

A Mistake: Chapter 7

A man and a woman, each strapped to a surgical table and naked, screaming for help. Their cries shifted from, "God, please help. Please!" to, "It's your fault, you bitch! You wanted to come to this god-forsaken town. You did this! Why am I here? I didn't want to come here. I did nothing wrong, I swear. It was all her. She kept wanting more money. She kept stealing from everyone, even our daughter."

With a bracelet authorization approval, a door slid open with a beep, revealing two staff members in yellow biohazard suits fitted with oxygen tanks and masks. One wheeled in a metal cart covered by a sterile blue drape. The cart was positioned and locked in place near the medical tables, the blue drape lifted.

The man and woman looked at the sheer size of the needles and the vails of bright purple liquid laid out neatly across the cart. Any day, they would've stolen, cheated, and lied to have the sweet relief of a drug but not like this. The irony was unwelcome.

Their wide eyes stared unblinking, their pleading lips forming incoherent words. The nightmare refused to let them go, no matter how hard they bit their tongues, tasting metal. Reality sunk in harder than the restraints digging into their raw bruised flesh. Soon the woman became delirious before fainting while the man sported a growing wetness between his legs, dripping onto the floor of the unadorned white room. The only colors in the room were the yellow of the suits, the dark brown urine, and the Umbrella logo in the center of the floor.

One of the staff members turned to the camera in the corner of the room before speaking, "Experiment number 9932-Code X, subjects are a 43-year-old female and a 51-year-old male. Treatment with Serum X41 injected intramuscularly at the deltoid site. "

The contents of the syringes were injected into the upper arm of the two test subjects. They didn't so much as blink an eye as the male begged for his life and questioning their humanity.

"Mama... please, I'll be a good boy. Please let me out. Mama..." the 51-year-old man wailed, digging his nails into the leather restraints. They retreated as fast they entered, sealing the door behind them.

"Experiment in progress, do not enter experimentation chamber number 451 due to a biohazard element in containment." The voice of a female AI sounded through the speakers, a warning to all employees on the level.

William's eyes glowed as he watched through the reinforced glass, his thumb repeatedly pressing the ballpoint pen in his hand. He leaned forward, licking his lips as the serum began taking effect. The subjects began convulsing against the restraints, their limbs spasming as their entire genome was remodeled.

With a scream, the bones of the female cracked. Her teeth tumbled out of her bleeding gums, muscles and tendons ruptured. She burst out of the restraints and threw herself against walls, pounding with bloody fists as she screeched. The serum made work of replacing her organs and connective tissue, reforming her into something stronger, faster, and more deadly—an elegant hunter of pure carnage.

William hardly paid attention to the male whose body exploded, spraying the entire room with innards. Nothing remained to identify him as having once been human. Smelling the fresh blood, the female lapped the bloodied walls with an impressively long tongue slithering out of a mouth layered with sharpened teeth. With skinless appendages, she explored the room, climbing the walls and walking on the ceiling. It wasn't long before instinct led her to devour what remained of her husband.

"Excellent! We are making progress. This is the first subject to survive injection with Serum X41 without becoming a pile of liquefied tissue. Increasing the concertation of the base chemical allowed the body to become more receptive to the serum. I can't wait to Annette and Albert know. I'm thinking of calling this project black widow." He babbled to himself, feeling like he deserves a pat on the back. All those nights spent bent over his desk were finally paying off.

Sparing one last glance at the remains of the male, William frowned. "Looks like your mama didn't quite hear you but thank you for offering yourself to science. Your contribution is greatly appreciated." William said as he began recording the experiment's findings into a clipboard adorned with the Umbrella logo. William loved making progress in his research. It flooded his brain with dopamine better than a night of good sex or winning the lottery.

------------------------- It had been three days since the last time she had seen Wesker, but she heard his voice plenty enough, calling her for hourly updates while she was alone with Sherry in his house. He didn't personally pick her up after school. Instead, He sent a very kind elderly driver under the assumption that he was employed by her' parents' to drop her off 'home.' Both were so extremely far from reality. Thankfully, the man seemed busy playing cops and robbers. She was left alone with Sherry, and while she was in a more relaxed mood, she didn't dare go exploring the property belonging to the devil. The less she knew about him and his dealings, the looser the noose around her neck.

Her actual parents were nowhere to be found. Still, she wasn't worried. Aside from the whole situation with Wesker, these were the most peaceful days she'd seen in a long time, in fact… ever. The bruises could finally heal without the addition of new ones. Her parents most likely realized the extent of their financial situation and made a break for it. The loan sharks were not going to wait forever and will soon take more forceful actions. As much as it hurt Cara, she believed they left her behind to distract the collectors. They had done something similar years back in a town not too different from Raccoon, but at least they took her with them. It worked once, and they likely believed it will again. She decided to worry about that later, placing her problems on hold. A break was much needed.

Putting on her nicer pair of sneakers and her least washed-out pair of jeans, Cara regarded herself in the mirror and opted to leave her hair down. Wondering whether she should take the cellphone, Cara spent ten minutes arguing with herself. With a heavy sigh, she stuffed it into her back pocket, hoping to 'accidentally' smash the damn thing while sitting down extra hard. What would Wesker say? You have a big butt? Don't sit down?

Today Cara was hanging out with Rick, a mutual friend. They never hung outside school before, especially on their own, and she was a little nervous about things getting awkward. Due to Cara's 'full-time job' after school, they decided to skip a few classes and go out for a hike in the Arkley mountains. This would be her most needed change of scenery, and she may walk away with a good friend.

For Cara, the past few days have been a routine, wake up, go to school, go to Wesker's home to watch Sherry, and then come home to sleep only to do it all over again the next day. Things have been calm, and so Claire's suspicion turned off its headlights, but she often complained they couldn't hang out as much.

Cara tried inviting Claire to head out with them, but she turned the offer down, smiling from ear to ear. She hinted to Cara that Rick might have caught some feelings for her and that the courage to make a move required they be alone under the right circumstances. Guys and girls alike often confessed in the Arkley mountains. It became an omen of good luck for couples to stay together longer. Of course, that was total bullshit as many of those same couples break up soon after. However, it's nice to have hope in a relationship, something Cara never experienced. She decided that if Rick did indeed liked her that she would at least give things a try.

She was shy about Rick picking her up from the bad side of town and instead promised to meet him by the start of the Arkley trails. By the time she arrived, he was already there, standing by a pickup truck in the trail parking lot. Cara smiled, catching him in the midst of fixing his brown hair and testing the smell of his breath in a cupped hand. Why hadn't she ever noticed him? He seemed like such a pleasant guy.

When he finally noticed her standing behind him in the reflection, he spun around, almost stumbling over his feet. "T-there was something stuck in my hair, I swear," He stuttered, scratching his neck while his ears roasted tomato red.

"Whatever you say, pretty boy," Cara laughed, feeling her heart grow lighter with every minute. She had a good feeling today will be very meaningful.

The two walked along a path marked with bright orange ribbons tied to the trees. They passed dozens of signs warning hikers against straying off the path, many of which were covered with graffiti. All around them, birds chirped, and strangely, a few crows cawed as they hovered over the trees.

Walking around a growth of poison Ivy, they talked about random silly things and the distant future. Cara was glad to find herself closer to another person. Real genuine friends were a shortage in her life. She always had to be to one extending a hand, reaching out first. It was nice for a change that someone else extended their hand.

"You know, Cara, despite all the things I kept hearing about you from everyone, I knew they were wrong. They judged you without knowing shit about you."

"What…kind of stuff. And who is talking about me?" Cara's voice held a hard edge, her feet taking a pause. With furrowed brows, her eyes followed Rick as he walked ahead before noticing she stopped. This was the first time Cara heard of any rumors concerning her. She never made any enemies, keeping herself relatively unnoticed at school. Cara felt betrayed, wondering if Claire heard the rumors too, and if so, why hasn't she said anything? Why does she have to hear it from Rick?

"Oh, don't worry about it. It's nothing important. What matters is that I'm on your side." He spoke quickly, scratching the back of his neck.

"Rick, what are they saying about me," Cara walked closer to him, her eyes piercing through him.

"You'll be upset," His eyes kept avoiding Cara, settling on a hole in his shoe.

"I can take it. I just want to know what was said. Please Rick."

"Ah shit…um… they've said that someone saw you walking on Chandler street where all the…dealers and escorts hang. They said you offered to give blow jobs for five bucks to some older men behind a dumpster. That the bruising on your arm because you inject heroin, that your parents pimp you out to-"

Cara expelled a breath, her eyes misting rapidly. "No! that not true. I didn't do that. Why would anyone say something like that? I'm a fucking babysitter, ok? I'm not this, I'm not…my mom." She turned on her heel, wanting to get out of there. "I'm not like her." She repeated, clenching her fists. They didn't have the right to spin stories about her, turning her into a lunchtime gossip storyline. It wasn't fair. She was wrong. She couldn't handle it. She was always pathetic, always crying.

Rick caught up to Cara, grabbing her shoulder to spin her around to face him. "I'm so sorry Cara, I knew it was going to upset you, and I still told you about it. God, I'm so stupid." He said, wrapping his arms around Cara. She was caught by surprise and tried to push him away. Eventually, she found herself leaning against him, letting out a sigh as he stroked her hair.

"It's ok Rick, I'm glad you told me. They're just stupid rumors. I don't know why I'm over- " He kissed her open mouth midsentence, softly at first but quickly added more pressure. His hands fisted into her shirt, forcing her closer. She felt the bile rise quickly.

Cara's eyes were wide open as she tried pulling back, but he held her tightly. She tried forcefully turning her head, but his hand reached up to hold her chin in a painful vice grip, his tongue demanding entrance against her lips. She whimpered, clenching her teeth shut. Her lack of participation agitated him, and he grabbed her arm with a bruising tightness. Cara cried out in pain, and he took the opportunity to force his tongue into her mouth.

Cara wanted to shout for help, her eyes darting around the forest, encircling them. Still, they were completely alone, save for a couple of crows weeping among the trees. They seemed closer than before, sensing a meal in the making.

Allowing his tongue full entrance, Cara bit down as hard as she could on it, gagging against the metallic taste. Rick shoved her away, groaning in pain as blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Cara spat the blood in her mouth before shouting. Her eyes burned into him as she backed away.

"I believed in you despite everyone else. I told you I was on your side, and you hurt me. Do you know how many times I defended you? How many times I got picked on for simply standing beside you? You led me to think that you felt something, and then you hurt me." He growled, nursing his tongue in his hand.

Cara let out a pained breath, closing her eyes before turning her head away. She replayed what happened in her mind, wondering where things went wrong. She said she will give him a chance but, this was wrong, so very wrong.

"Rick, stop this. I appreciate what you did for me, but you made me uncomfortable. I did not enjoy that, I did not consent to that, but you touched me anyway."

"How much would it take you to fucking notice me? I've tried being Mr. Fucking nice for two years, Two fucking years. But you never look at me differently." Rick snarled, clenching his fists. He unleashed his rage against the nearest tree punching it repeatedly. He did not stop the assault even as his knuckles split, and the blood flowed freely, staining the bark.

"Rick, please stop before you do something you'll regret," Cara whispered softly, reaching for his bloody hand.

"I will make you want me!"

Cara barely had a second to process things before a rock made a disorienting contact with her head. She saw an assortment of colors and shapes on her way to the muddy earth.

Rolling on her stomach, she tried to push herself up, but everything was spinning, or maybe she was spinning. She rested her cheek against the mud, willing the world to stop shifting. Blood trickled down her face, and she had to blink it out of her eyes, unable to wipe it away. Her limbs felt as if weights were tied to them, giving gravity a greater pull.

Cara fought to stay awake, drifting in and out of the dark, faintly aware of being dragged by her foot through rough earth. It scratched her exposed skin, forcing the back of her shirt to ride up.

#albert wesker #Albert Wesker X OC #resident evil #oc

[bubblesandgutz]

Every Record I Own - Day 642: Black Meteoric Star Disco

This is an album highlight of 2020.

I’ve mentioned it here many times before, but I struggle with connecting to most electronic music. I want to be more open to it, it’s just that there isn’t much in that realm that really grabs my interest. So if someone I know with decent musical taste suggests something in the electronic world, I usually try to give it a spin. Such was the case with this triple-LP by Black Meteoric Star, which won me over within the first few bars of “Disorienting Shapes.”

I don’t have a lot of reference points for this kind of music, so I can only really talk about it as an outsider. There are things that I generally dislike about electronic music---when it sounds like it’s cut-and-pasted together on a computer grid, when it has a very synthetic sense of space, when it sounds like it’s been made with the same software as every other club hit of the season, when the kick drum is just relentless four-on-the-floor---but Disco circumvents all of that. In many ways, this is a very no-frills recording. Everything sounds naked and unadorned. While these tracks definitely thrive on propulsive repetition, there is never a sense of things happening without intention. The beats are interesting and there is an underlying sense of tension to the whole album.

On the surface, this is just a predominantly instrumental dance-driven record. Digging a little deeper into the process and motivation behind the music helps explain why this one resonated with me. It was recorded live with no overdubs or multi-tracking. That lack of adornment and studio sheen makes it feel more raw and DIY. And much like the lo-fi production on a Darkthrone album means that the riffs have to be that much stronger, so does the barebones approach to Disco mean that every beat and synth line has to stand on its own. 

There’s some interesting context with regards to the album title that enhanced the listening experience for me as well. Disco is not an album of disco music. Rather it’s a reference to the spaces where this kind of music has unfolded over the years. “Whether it be through partying in former industrial buildings, contested spaces of labor built on lands violently appropriated from indigenous people, uncomfortably inhabiting vacuums in queerness left by the AIDS epidemic, lifting lineages through sampling, or the relentless cycle of whitening that accompanies dance music’s march into the market, our experiences in the Disco have been permeated by the spectral and the haunted,” reads the artist bio. 

Disco means something else to me too. For much of my childhood, disco was a reviled music form... the epitome of vacuous canned music targeted at the widest possible audience, and the death knell for the rebelliousness and counter-cultural impulses of rock music. In my formative years, the “Disco Sucks” movement was viewed as a backlash against the Bee Gees, Barry Manilow, the endless slew of established rock artists trying to cash in on the craze, and the even more embarrassing phenomenon of disco-themed novelty records. Music historians are now more likely to focus on the latent racism and homophobia tied to events like the infamous Disco Demolition Night. And while those prejudices were certainly a factor in the disco backlash, I could also easily understand why rock fans would be miffed that their favorite FM stations now filled their rotation with singles by the Gibb brothers, ABBA, and the Village People, particularly in an era when radio was just about the only way to discover new music. I’m inclined to think that most people weren’t mad at Donna Summer and Sylvester; they were mad at “Disco Duck” and Queen’s Hot Space album. As someone that latched onto punk in my early adolescence and viewed it as a phenomenon in course-correcting the vapidness of popular music in the late ‘70s, it was a little tough to accept that at least part of the maligning of disco was rooted in either flagrant or subconscious homophobia and racism. I thought disco was bad because it was commercial and anodyne. But I understood that while rock music in the late ‘70s was bloated and boring, it had once been a true voice of change. So why wouldn’t dance music have similarly revolutionary roots?

Having the history of disco recast in a new light has been illuminating. The husband and I listened to a lot of disco on satellite radio this summer and it’s been interesting to revisit the golden age of that sound, before Saturday Night Fever and straight white men commodified it. It’s still difficult for me to accept the excess and elitism of Studio 54 as being in any way revolutionary, but there is an undeniable sense of empowerment and rebellion in so many of those dance floor hits. It’s served as a good reminder that all music becomes tainted as it’s commercialized. It was true for rock music. It was true for disco. And it was true for punk. But Disco harnesses that sense of urgency and defiance that’s been at the heart of every important musical phenomenon of the last century, and I’m hoping that by understanding its charms, I can reassess and garner more admiration for various dance-driven and electronic music forms made by misfits and outcasts. 

#black meteoric star #everyrecordiown

[missmalice202]

Designing Your Melody: Chapter 09 - Letters

Chapter 01 - Chapter 08

With less than three weeks to go until Paris’s Fall Fashion Week, Marinette was surprisingly relaxed. After her initial fittings with both Adrien and Juleka, she had been sewing non-stop in preparation for her first major fashion show of her career. A select few of her pieces had been featured in shows and competitions before, but this was to be her official debut of “Designs by Marinette” and she couldn’t be more excited… or more terrified.

So far, she had been making amazing progress completing her collection. Most of Adrien’s looks were finished. It had been a big help that his measurements over the years hadn’t changed much, so a lot of the clothing she had made hadn’t needed much altering to fit the slender model to perfection. She really was fortunate to have such a good friend in Adrien. The advice and behind the scenes knowledge of Fashion Week he had shared with her made her confident that she was mentally prepared for her show. Admittedly, she still had had a panic attack or two due to the immense pressure she was putting on herself, but for her, that was significant progress from the absolute mess she used to be in high school. Yay for maturity! She giggled as she thought that maybe her online screen name may have rubbed some of its good luck onto her.

Carefully hanging up a meticulously packed garment bag on the portable clothing rack she had purchased for the show, she looked at her tablet once more and checked off another item on her “Fashion Week Collection Pieces” checklist.

Setting her tablet down on her sewing table, she heard the alarm on her phone begin to chime. Brow furrowed, she walked over to where it lay next to her computer, still attached to the charger. Why had she set an alarm? She couldn’t remember if she had to do anything today. Later in the morning she was expecting a delivery from the fabric store that she had ordered the lining for Juleka’s final look from, but she wouldn’t have set an alarm to remind her of that.

Upon reading the text on screen accompanying the alarm, Marinette gasped. How could she possibly forget? She had an appointment to meet with the producer of her fashion show to go over music and a few last-minute details at 11:00am. She had thirty minutes to get to the venue on time and no time to call and reschedule the delivery of her material.

Shoving her feet into her pink ballet flats, she hastily tugged the pencil she had used to hold her midnight locks in a messy bun out of her hair and raced over to her vanity mirror. After a quick finger comb to smooth out any obvious kinks, she hastily tied her hair back into her signature pigtails. She grabbed her purse, stuffed her phone inside, and was down the trap door.

She stopped at the counter where her mother was taking care of customers to ask her mother to tell the delivery boy to take her package up to her room when he arrived to drop it off. She wanted to be extra careful with the expensive material she had ordered to be the showpiece of her collection. And frankly, she didn’t want a trace of flour to mar the beautiful deep purple satin she had chosen for her masterpiece.

With a kiss blown to her mom over her shoulder and a shouted “Au revoir” to her papa, Marinette was out the door, disappearing down the street in a blur before the door closed behind her.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Pedaling down the street with his guitar safely stowed away on his bike, Luka once again checked the GPS on his phone to make sure he was going to the right address.

A few minutes ago, while he had been sitting in the park, noodling on his guitar, he had gotten a text from the courier service he worked for, VeloPostal, asking him to make a pickup and delivery. He’d sent a reply text that he accepted the job, packed up his guitar and set out on his way to the specialty textile store, Brocade, to pick up a bolt of fabric that was to be delivered to a bakery of all places. Why a bakery would want expensive fabric, Luka could only wonder. To each their own, he supposed.

After he signed for the delivery, he secured the large bold of fabric to the back of his bike and once again brought up the job description on the phone. For the first time, he noticed the name of the bakery he was to make the delivery to: Tom & Sabine’s Boulangerie and Patisserie, the very same bakery that Juleka had brought home those delicious pastries from.

The corner of his mouth turned up in a small smile as he thanked his luck on this job. Ever since he had eaten their delicious confections, he had been meaning to track down that bakery so he could get some more, but between working for the delivery service and putting up with Jagged and Mr. Roth’s antics, he just hadn’t had the time to scour the city in search of tasty treats. But today was apparently his lucky day.

With renewed enthusiasm, he pushed himself to go faster to arrive at the bakery. Parking his bike against the pale limestone wall of the bakery, he gently removed the bundle of cloth from the back of his bike and entered the building.

Immediately, he was surrounded by the delicious scent of freshly baked bread and hot, sweet icing. The bell over the door announced his arrival and behind the counter, a pretty little Asian woman looked around the customer she was currently serving and smiled at him.

“I’ll be right with you, dear.” Her voice was lyrical in its clarity, having a sweet tone to it and an almost breathless quality to it. He smiled at her and crossed over the black and white tiled floor to the display case. As he gazed upon its offerings, he completely forgot his reason for being there. The sparkling glass shelves were filled to the brim with an assortment of flaky pastries, berry topped cakes, multi-colored macaroons, and even a triple layer chocolate cake, a hefty wedge missing from where it had already been sampled by the masses. Mouth watering at the appetizing food on the other side of the glass, he gripped the package he was supposed to deliver closer to his chest to keep himself from caressing the glass in a somewhat obscene manner.

“Can I help you, sweetie,” the woman behind the counter asked sweetly.

Jerking his head to snap out of his reverie, Luka reluctantly pulled his eyes away from the display of delicacies and focused his marine eyes on the woman. “I’m with VeloPostal with a delivery from Brocade,” he said.

Eyes falling to the plastic wrapped package in his arms, the woman’s mouth bowed in a smile. “Ah yes, My daughter mentioned that she was expecting a delivery.” She wiped her hands on the apron covering her front and walked around the counter to stand in front of him. His lips quirked as he observed how much short she was compared to him.

She gazed up at him and tilted her head slightly. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a small favor. Would you be so kind as to bring that up to my daughter’s room?”

Luka hesitated. It was usually frowned upon to enter a customer’s home and he didn’t want to get in trouble with his employer.

“I understand that it’s a strange request, but I have to watch the register and Tom is in the back getting an order ready. I’d leave it down here in the bakery, but unfortunately, flour and dark fabric just do not mix well. My daughter asked me before she left to have you bring it up to her room.” She tilted her head in the other direction and looked up at him with eyes sparkling with humor. “If there are any issues, I’ll take full responsibility.”

He thought about it for a moment. “I’ll tell you what, if you can box me up a half dozen of those croissants and a slice of that fruit tart, then I’ll be a customer. There aren’t any rules about customers doing you any favors, is there?”

She blinked at him for a moment, before throwing her head back and laughing. “Oh, I like you.” She turned and walked back behind the counter and grabbed a box to pack his order into. “You’re funny. For doing me a favor, it’s on the house. That way, it’s a favor between friends.”

He grinned at her, nodding his head. “I like the sound of that. My name is Luka.”

“Enchantée, Luka. I’m Sabine. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she replied.

Introductions made, he followed her directions up the stairs and made his way to the top floor of the cozy little apartment. Upon entering the room on the other side of the trap door, the first thing he noticed was the chaos. Bits of fabric and scraps of paper were scattered all over the wood floor. It was made obvious that the room belonged to a seamstress, given the sewing machine in a place of honor in the middle of the room, surrounded by other bits and bobs of her craft.

He looked around to find a safe place to leave his cargo and he decided that the best place to leave it would be right on her worktable. Tiptoeing around the mess on the floor lest he unknowingly disrupt a vital piece of her creative process, he made his way to the table that was home to a green cutting mat and multiple other folded bits of fabric. He gently placed the bolt on top and turned to leave.

And froze. There, against the wall behind the trap door, was a pair of dress forms, one male, one female. The female form was unadorned, but he didn’t notice its naked state in his captivation.

On the male dress form was a work of art. A finely patterned blazed hung from the form’s broad shoulders. The black fabric of the garment shimmered with a nearly imperceptible pattern of vines and the lapels were made out of silk brocade patterned with ivy leaves the color of freshly cut grass. Asymmetrical pockets accented by the same brocade were detailed on the front, one pocket on the left hip, two on the right. Stepping closer to get a better look at the jacket, Luka noticed that the lapels sparkled with fine golden thread; tiny, hand-embroidered veins decorating the ivy leaves.

The construction of the garment reminds him of the design that had haunted him since the day he picked it up from under his boot. Looking up from the piece, he notices the drawings taped to her wall behind the forms which he assumes is for easy access to her designs when she’s working on the pieces.

Stepping closer, his heart stopped.

There, in the corner of every drawing, are three small letters: MDC. He reached his hand out to trace them before he realized what he was about to do. Here he is, in her private domain, invading her personal space. The tips of his ears color and he quickly withdrew his hand and shoved them both into his jacket pockets. After one last glance around her creative space, he descends the stairs into to bakery below.

Sabine – Mrs. Cheng – was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for him, his box of baked goods in her hands. “Thank you so much for bringing that up for me,” she said.

Once more embarrassed at almost losing his cool and touching her personal effects, Luka dragged his eyes away from her observing expression and trained them on the box she holds out for him to take.

“It’s no problem at all, Mrs. …” he trailed off, stretching the silence he hoped she’d fill.

Quirking an eyebrow, she smiled in response to his not-so-subtle inquiry. “Cheng. I kept my last name after I married my husband, Tom. This bakery has been passed down in his family, so our daughter’s last name is hyphenated so if she decides to take it over someday, it’ll still be a DuPain Bakery.”

He chuckled, walking with her as she returned to her spot behind the counter. “From what I saw upstairs, it looks like your daughter has another career path in mind.”

Sabine’s smile was blinding as she proudly said, “I know. My Marinette’s dream is to become a famous fashion designer. She’s well on her way, too.” She sighed. “My husband and I are so proud of her, but I know deep down Tom wishes she would take over the bakery when she gets older.” Shrugging her shoulders, she continues, “But I know that’s not where her heart lies.”

Nodding his head in understanding, Luka bids her adieu and leaves the bakery.

Now armed with her name, Marinette DuPain-Cheng (and some delicious, flaky pastries), he dons his helmet and pedals off down the road, more determined than ever to make the Tom & Sabine bakery a regular stop. Who knows? Maybe next time he’s in the mood for a croissant, he’ll run into Mademoiselle Marinette, his mystery muse.

-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-xXx-

Chapter 10

*Woohoo! He finally knows her name! yay! progress! But it’s not going to be that easy... or is it? Find out next time, my lovelies XOXO*

#lukanette fic #lukanette february #mlvalentines2k20 #ml fanfic #miraculous fanfic #miraculous ladybug #luka couffaine #lukanette #marinette dupain cheng

[elesianne]

A Silmarillion fanfic for @feanorianweek​ day 1: Maedhros

Summary: In the happy days of Valinor, Maedhros and Fingon celebrate to mark the happy occasion of Maedhros moving out of his family home.

Pairing: Maedhros/Fingon; Length: ~2,400 words; Rating: Teen and up audiences

Some keywords: romance, implied sexual content, fluff, humour

AO3 link

*

In the warmth of your smile

When Maitimo is given a position at court as his grandfather's secretary, he gets his own room at the palace, too.

Findekáno squeals when he hears of that. His eyes shine as he says, 'I intend to see how loud I can make you scream.'

Maitimo blushes against his will and replies, 'You are one who is likely to scream. Please keep your voice down for now, Finno. We are not yet there.' They are in his room in his home, and in the next room is Makalaurë. He is currently practising on his flute but might be told to stop at any moment by Fëanáro or Nerdanel for it is late. Even early-rising Tyelkormo might tire of Makalaurë's late-night practice.

'But we will be soon!' Findekáno does lower his voice, though he beams excitedly at Maitimo still. 'You will ask for a room far away from grandpapa, won't you? And from any keen-eared busybodies.'

Maitimo can't help grinning too. 'As far away as I can manage. And grandfather's seneschal likes me very much so I think he will fulfil my requests.'

Findekáno's grin melts to softness as he replies, 'Everyone likes you, Russandol, and with good reason.' He sweeps Maitimo's hair away from his forehead. 'You have enchantingly pretty hair, and the rest of you isn't very bad either.'

His voice as dry as he can make it, Maitimo asks, running a hand down Findekáno's chest, 'Not very bad? I have a memory from last week of you singing – or moaning, rather – my praises when I spent a good hour in the hunting cabin showing you just what I can do to you with my 'not very bad' body –'

Findekáno shivers at Maitimo's touch, laughs at his words, and begins undressing. 'A godlike body, then, Maitimo, with the grace of Nessa and strength of Tulkas and the clever fingers of Aulë and the blinding radiance of Varda. There, is that enough for you to take off your clothes and to do to me what you did last week?'

It is. With fingers that are certainly no match for Aulë's corporeal form but quick enough at undoing the two dozen small buttons of his surcoat, Maitimo undresses himself and takes his beloved into his arms. Maitimo will not say it out loud now because Findekáno needs no praise to know that he is fair but in Maitimo's eyes, he is more radiant than anyone.

Once they are both naked, bare skin delightfully meeting bare skin, Maitimo runs a hand up Findekáno's back, curling his fingers in the soft hair at his nape. He asks, 'Are you in that mood tonight, then? To let me do with you as I wish, for as long as I wish?'

Findekáno tips his chin up and looks Maitimo in the eye. 'Indeed I am', he says boldly. Grabbing Maitimo's free hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss, he adds, softer, 'I already know that whatever you want is what I want. You know me.'

'I do know you, my love', Maitimo says, something in his throat. How does Findekáno always manage to bring tenderness to passionate moments, and humour to serious ones?

And there it is now, a spark of laughter in Findekáno's eyes and in the corners of his generous mouth. 'Then you know that it would be wise for you to keep one hand on my mouth', he says. 'Since we are still in your parents' house.'

Maitimo thinks of the privacy they will have in the palace, finding himself unusually impatient for something. 'If I forget to, your loud noises will no doubt remind me', he says, and carries Findekáno off to the bed before he can point out – Maitimo knows him indeed, and knows that he would – that Maitimo enjoys his loud noises.

And he truly does, when there are no brothers on the other side of the wall. For now he will enjoy the muffled version of Findekáno's moans, almost equally delightful.

*

Findekáno dances around Maitimo's new room on light feet, beaming more radiant than ever, while Maitimo watches him with hands on his hips, fond.

'You remembered to order the thick curtains, I see. Very good! I like the colour too, it's a nice shade of green. And a sturdy door and lock, a very nice lock.' Findekáno stops his flitting about to caress it lovingly, making Maitimo chuckle.

'Would you put the lock to use and come here, you silly thing?'

'Oh, so you want my hands on you instead?' Findekáno locks the door and comes to throw his arms around Maitimo's neck, standing a little on his toes to be more of a height. 'You only need ask, always', he says.

Maitimo considers saying 'I know' but decides that a kiss will send the same message and be more enjoyable for both of them. So he puts his arms around Findekáno's trim waist and pulls him close and kisses him with the goal of making him moan and melt in his arms.

After a moment of Maitimo's intent exploring of his mouth and soft touches to the back of his neck, a sensitive place for Findekáno, he does melt, and while he leans against Maitimo with much of his weight, he is certainly not idle. One of his hands snakes between them, hitches up Maitimo's tunic and starts on the laces of his breeches.

Maitimo lets him, raising one of his own hands to the buttons of Findekáno's jacket.

Breaking their kiss for a moment, he pants, 'It would be faster to undress each other if we weren't kissing at the same time.'

'Don't be tiresomely practical', Findekáno scolds even as he takes advantage of their lips being parted to pull Maitimo's overtunic over his head. Maitimo can feel his unbraided long hair getting into a mess that will soon tangle if he doesn't smooth it down, so he does.

'Fastidious Maitimo', Findekáno grins as he pulls up Maitimo's undertunic too, kissing his chest as it is bared, taking a second to suck on a nipple too.

When he can speak Maitimo replies, 'Says Finno with his hair that takes more time to do every morning than his mother's.'

'It is not my fault that she has little eye or time for beauty!' Findekáno tosses his head and his braided black mane with its golden beads and ribbons sways beautifully.

Maitimo does love it, and he tells Findekáno so. 'I like all of your adornments.'

'And I like you free of any.' Findekáno pets Maitimo's hair. 'I like you unadorned and unclothed and – undone.' He flashes a smile. 'I wonder, why am I waiting to undo you?'

And with that he takes Maitimo's hand and pulls him towards the bed, both of them half out of their clothes now. Maitimo goes willingly and lets Findekáno's single finger push him backwards on to the bed. It is a common occurrence, almost a habit of theirs.

Only there is something hard on the bed this time and Maitimo yelps and jumps back up.

'Oh no!' Findekáno's hand covers his mouth as he tries not to laugh. 'My present. I forgot I put it down there.' He comes to rub at Maitimo's upper back where Maitimo himself rubbed it after he was poked there by the hard, paper-wrapped object in the bed.

Findekáno grabs it and gives it to Maitimo. 'I hope that you'll like it even though it ambushed you so grievously.'

Maitimo huffs in amusement as he unwraps the gift. Then he stares at it, at a loss for words.

'Well, what do you think?' Findekáno prompts.

Maitimo settles on saying, 'It is… interesting.'

It is a little copper statuette, the length of about two hands. Whoever made it obviously has technical skill, and the flowing lines of it are well-done, but it is… hideous. It depicts some animal but Maitimo cannot even tell what animal. Whatever it is, its mouth is open in a grimace and its eyes bulge out. Maitimo has a horrible, inexplicable urge to mimic its expression.

Findekáno smiles as bright as ever as he says, 'It is absolutely horrible, isn't it?'

Maitimo's gaze whips from the deranged face of the figurine to Findekáno. 'What? I mean, why would you give me a gift that you think ugly?'

'A gift that I made ugly. I made it myself.' Findekáno beams, very pleased with himself. 'Isn't it brilliant? You won't be able to help but think of me when you see it, and to smile.'

'Or grimace.'

Findekáno's gently rubbing hand stops rubbing and swats Maitimo's back instead. 'Admit it, it's a great idea!'

Maitimo turns the statuette in his hands, his lips tugging into a smile. 'It's an idea that is very characteristic of you. And it is a skilfully made little statue, even if it is the ugliest I've ever seen. Your practice at bronze casting has paid off.'

'Yes', Findekáno agrees without any arrogance. He takes the statuette from Maitimo and puts on the bedside table, stopping to check the drawer. 'Ah!' he exclaims. 'I see that you have already put the most important thing in its place.' He tosses the vial of oil between the pillows.

'I don't know about the most important thing', Maitimo mumbles, feeling a blush crawl up his neck and face again. His pale, freckled skin flushes almost as easily as his mother and Carnistir's.

Findekáno comes to him. 'Look at you blushing after almost two years of us being lovers', he teases, and more tenderly he adds, 'You know, the visiting silver-haired lass of the Falmari who wrote a poem about your eyelashes was quite right. They're remarkable. Long and dark red –'

'They aren't red', Maitimo protests. 'They're brown.'

Findekáno waves a hand. 'Reddish-brown. It's more poetic to say that they are red. And though I am no poet, only a singer, I am –' he glances around the room '– already writing a poem in my head about how I am going to make love to you and your red eyelashes on every piece of furniture in this room.'

'You're going to make love to my eyelashes?' Maitimo can barely keep from snickering – Findekáno's playfulness is contagious – and has to dodge Findekáno's swatting hand again. 'It sounds very unpractical, even without the eyelashes. That small table by the door would surely break under the weight of even one of us.'

'You are even less of a poet than I am! Do not take things so literally, Maitimo. Except this: get naked and get on the bed.'

'Feeling domineering today, are you, my darling?' But Maitimo does take off his breeches and socks, all that he was left wearing.

He does not mind a little bit of imperiousness from Findekáno every now and then.

'Rather, and tired of all this talking', Findekáno confirms, stripping himself with a few quick movements.

'I will not lie on my back', Maitimo warns as he sits down on the edge of the bed. 'It still aches from your very hard gift.'

Findekáno bursts into laughter. 'I swear, my love, I never know whether you make all those innuendoes on purpose or not.'

'Sometimes neither do I', Maitimo admits.

Findekáno comes to stand between his legs, naked and hard and smiling. 'If you will not lie down, then would you be on all fours or astride me?'

Maitimo hums. 'My favourite options.'

*

Findekáno lies on his back with his arm thrown over his face, quiet and languorous like he only is in these post-pleasure moments.

Next to him Maitimo lies on his stomach, head propped up on his arms, watching Findekáno's well-muscled chest rise and fall and breathing calm and slow.

When the heat on Maitimo's own skin has cooled, leaving behind only stickiness, he gets up and fetches a cloth, wets it from the jug on the wash-table, and cleans up Findekáno and then himself.

'Mm.' Findekáno kisses him as a thank you after Maitimo has tossed the cloth back to the wash table and returned to his lover's embrace. 'That was a very good first try from us', Findekáno says.

Maitimo tries to look stern but his mouth twitches without his permission. 'A try?' he asks. 'You call that a try?'

'Well.' Findekáno's fingers write quick characters on Maitimo's back. Vertical lines – Sarati, Maitimo thinks. Not Tengwar, unsurprisingly. Findekáno continues, 'We were in too much of a hurry in the end. Didn't even get anything inside – anywhere.'

'I still don't understand how you can be completely shameless about doing these acts and yet bashful when talking about them. Silly boy.' Maitimo breathes in the scent of Findekáno, sweaty and warm and familiar.

'Well, I am a prince. Very properly brought up.'

'Unlike me?' Maitimo raises his brows just to tease.

'You are a prince but your father can hardly be called proper.'

Maitimo has to hum in agreement at that. Fëanáro can be called many things, and indeed frequently is, but never 'proper'.

'Darling.' Findekáno touches his cheek. 'Do not let your smile escape. I am sorry I brought up our parents.'

'No need to apologise.' Maitimo tries to smile. It is likely a wan attempt, but Findekáno smiles back anyway, and he always knows how to do it right.

'Perhaps one day we will not need curtains so thick and a lock so sturdy', he says. 'Perhaps one day our love will be accepted by others besides just us.'

'Perhaps', Maitimo says. He is better at forcing false conviction to his voice than light into his smile.

With a final kiss to Findekáno's strong shoulder, he gets up and starts gathering his clothes from the floor. While he dresses he says over his shoulder, 'I'm going to take advantage of the staff in the kitchens here being less nosy and less familiar with me and go get something to eat.'

'Something sweet, no doubt. You and your sweet tooth', Findekáno grins. 'Bring me something with lemon or honey, please.'

'As you wish.'

Before he unlocks the door he casts one more look at Findekáno in the canopy bed, sprawled on the silk sheets as relaxed and happy as a cat in a warm place, eyes closed and hair a dark cloud around his head. He has a smile on his lips still.

Flowers might bloom in the warmth of your smile, Maitimo thinks as he slips quietly into the hallway. I certainly do.

#reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated as always <3 #feanorianweek #silmarillion fanfiction #tolkien fanfiction #russingon #maedhros #fingon #in the warmth of your smile #my fics #elesianne's fics

[jurijurijurious]

Walsibeth one shot

Soooo here’s that random one-shot ficlet I’ve been writing tonight instead of the actual fic. This fits in after the chapter of “Mea Culpa” I’m currently writing, of course, but it works as a one-shot; I don’t think I’ll include it, it’s an optional maybe extra? But maybe I’ll put it in there. I don’t know.

I haven’t done a thorough proof-read either because I should be in bed already and I have work tomorrow:

Elizabeth’s eyes moved across the folds of the heavy drapes surrounding her bed, moving across the dark recesses of one, over the lightened surface of the next, and then back into the deep dark of another. She heaved a deep sigh, groaned a little, and pressed her knuckles into her eyes.  She had lain awake for hours now; sleep would not come and her mind buzzed, zipping through not only the day’s conversations and events, but back over the multiple strange and somewhat terrifying events of recent weeks.  How she wished she could still those restless thoughts, that nagged and jeered and tormented her every waking hour.  Her mind was a hive of malcontents that needed neither food nor rest, that dressed up and capered on a stage, playing back the day’s events before her mind’s eye until she was forced to tease out every error she might have made, every mistake, until she was misinterpreting every sigh, glance and hand gesture to the point of paranoia.

When would it all end?  Had she always been like this?  She could not recall.

Could she blame it on the child?  That restless little thing that squirmed and writhed like an eel trapped within her body.  The baby was making her chances at slumber ever more remote.  Not only did its movements keep her awake, the novelty of feeling the child thrashing within had long ago lost its novelty; at present it only served to make her feel nauseous.

She thought that Francis’ unexpected visit earlier would have put her mind at ease, but that clearly had not alleviated her anxieties either.  Appeased her desire, sated her proverbial appetite, but still left a gaping void, unanswered questions floating in a stagnant pool.  Though his every visit stilled her heart, filled her with a transitory reassurance, as ever when she was left alone she wondered at her own naivety - for hadn’t he said right at the start, and had she not constantly reminded herself, that here was a man who could appear to love anyone?  How could she ever know the secrets of his heart?

And yet she had to have faith in something.  There must be some constant, some bastion of honour within the labyrinth of his psyche, a vestige of that mysterious manifestation with which she had fallen incoherently in love with; and which she knew in return had fallen absolutely in love with her too.

She raised her knees and curled her body on on itself as far as it was possible, hugging her belly, and scrunching her eyes tightly shut, stifling another groan - whether this was at the discomfort in her body, her inability to sleep, or the mired quandary in her mind, she did not know.  All of a sudden, all she could see was that blasted bland mask of his face as he had left her at the door or her chambers, as she passed over the threshold into the care of her ladies, when she had asked him if he would stay the night.  It was a long ride back to Barn Elms, or Seething Lane, wherever his chosen roost was for tonight; why should he not tarry?

His face had not moved, but if one looked close enough, into the black pits of his eyes, pupils dark as sloes, one could almost see the cogs and gears of that infernal mind turning and ticking, weighing up the probabilities, the risks, the necessities…  No he had said, he could not stay.  There was little in the way of human folly and spontaneity contained therein.

Or so she thought.

She heard the click of the chamber door and the bubble of her deep thought was burst.  The feet on the floor were light, quick: Cat Ashley.  She knew the rhythm of her friend’s gait like a well beloved song.

There was a shuffle at the drapery, a light tough of her arm to see if she was awake.  She angled her head up, brow furrowed, blinking once, twice in the pale light that now trickled through the gap in the bed curtains from the small candle in Cat’s hand.

There were no words, just an exchange of glances.  Cat was smiling, though it didn’t quite fill her eyes; she looked a little fretful, as if she felt that she was going against her better judgement, but at the same time she knew that she had simultaneously allowed so many slips in responsibility, and was growing so foolishly accustomed to the status quo, that she was ready to just let it all pass…

Thus it was no surprise that there, behind her, materialising out of the dark like a wraith, was Walsingham.  When the candle light touched first his eyes, reflecting through the gloom at her like a couple of smouldering coals in a hearth, she felt her heart jump and her spirit begin to rise again.

Cat swallowed a sigh, turned to look at Francis, then back at her beloved Elizabeth.  Maybe Cat did not approve of this, yet if the presence of this devil of a man was what would gift her Queen with rest and a transient sense of comfort, then who was she to withhold it?  It spoke some volume to her that he had come back and trusted this little rendezvous to her.  He would not have done this just a few months ago; but they were too far past the point of pretending nothing was happening between him and his monarch any more.  If he had not Mrs Ashley’s trust, her soul, then none of them had any hope of succeeding in the uneasy enterprise that lay ahead.

Cat bowed herself out with a slow nod of her head, holding Elizabeth’s eyes for perhaps longer than was necessary - maybe so she could savour the overflowing sense of gladness and utter surprise that now filled her Queen’s gaze.  When the door to the chamber clicked again lightly, gently, and the candle was gone too, there was just the Queen and her servant alone once more.

“You came back,” Elizabeth whispered, caught uneasily between feelings of apprehension and mitigation.

Francis smiled and shrugged his square shoulders at the same time.  “Aye, madam,” he said.

“I could not sleep,” she said,

He nodded slowly as if to say ‘That is clear.  You are still awake and it is very late’.  And he then began to undress.

She watched him, not hungrily, just inquisitively.  It occurred to her that there had never been any normality between them as an illicit couple, that there couldn’t be.  She could not wake up next to him, break her fast with him, take a casual stroll with him, without there being either some business of state attached, or, at the other end of the scale, without it being a heady, lust-driven tryst.

When he climbed in next to her, calm, naked, unadorned, she remained sat up and looking him in the face.  He looked back, his eyes making their customary quick little studies of her person, checking her every curve, line and angle.

“What are you doing here, Francis?” she asked so quietly, she was amazed he heard; wondered why she feared the question.

His hand cupped her chin, thumb stroked her skin, and he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her brow.  “Because my lady needs me,” he murmured against her brow.  “Now… sleep.”

She took his hand from her jawline, kissed the palm, then lay back down.  It was strange how much more comfortable the bed felt now he was here, how sleep suddenly beckoned, and how soothing it was to have him here for no other reason than he wanted to be here; could there have been any other more irrefutable, unspoken testimony to his devotion?

And thus she felt safe enough to do that which she would not advocate anyone to do in daily life, and that was to turn her back on Walsingham; but it was not a slight, it was an invitation.  As her swollen belly made sleep awkward, she found that she could only find any measure of comfort by laying on her side, curling herself around the pivoting point that was the bulge of her growing child.  And in turn, as she settled, he in turn curled around her from behind, his head beside hers, his chest to her back, his pelvis to her buttocks.  She could feel his steady breaths on her nape, his even heart beats against her body.  And as his arm came over her and gently held her, she felt a small sense of joy within her that she had not happened upon before; a sense of belonging and being cherished for herself and herself alone.  Even if it was just for one night, even if the façade would shatter on the morrow, at least she had this, perhaps the smallest but most genuine gift he could ever give her.

Her hand sought his, their fingers interlaced, and the squeeze she applied said more than any words they could utter to one another.  And at last, exhausted both, Morpheus found them at last and they slept.

.

.

Maybe I’ll draw this, it’s mindless fluff material...

.

Edit: Link to the ficlet on the Walsiebth LJ group if you wanna comment/follow over there.

#walsibeth #historical nonsense #mea culpa fanfic #elizabeth 1998 fanfic #elizabeth 1998 #fanfic #walsingham/elizabeth

[shyvioletcat]

Roommates pregnancy au but it's *Halloween themed*

Am I getting this in by the skin of my teeth? Is it still Halloween in places? I had planned to do it earlier today but it was either write or nap, and nap won.

For the sake of spoilers this happens before the incident but I still hope you enjoy it.

Masterlist for roommate pregnancy au

~~~~~

For the fifth time in 10 minutes there was a knock on the door followed by a muffled call of ‘trick or treat’. Rowan sighed angrily at the intrusion but Aelin swept by behind him towards the front door almost gleefully. “Hi, guys,” Aelin said opening the door. “Wow you all look amazing. Have some candy.” She said the same thing every time she opened the door. Rowan doubted it was actually true. Rowan hadn’t wanted to do Halloween, he wanted to leave the door unadorned and maybe even a no candy sign but Aelin had insisted. After a pretty heated discussion they’d come to a compromise. The door would be decorated and candy would be given out but Aelin had to do it all, Rowan would have no part in it. She also had to take down the decorations before leaving for whatever party she’d be attending tonight, because once she was gone he was not going to be handing anything out. Aelin ran back to her room, obviously to get ready. Rowan went back to his TV show, blocking everything else out. Then before he knew it there was another knock. Rowan paused the TV waiting for the flourish of noise, but Aelin didn’t come out.

“Can you get that one?” Aelin called from her room. “No,” he said back, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, waiting for quiet. “Please?” “That wasn’t the deal,” Rowan called back. The kids knocked again and hollered trick or treat a little louder. “I really don’t want to answer the door to a group of children with my boobs out so could you please get this one,” Aelin practically yelled at him. “Not my problem!” Rowan yelled back. There was an exasperated sound and then stomping and the banging of Aelin’s door being flung open. Rowan turned to see the solution to Aelin’s problem. She’d thrown on a loose sweater, arms folded over her chest. Aelin went through her ritual and closed the door a little harder than she usually did. And then glared at Rowan. “I don’t see a problem,” Rowan said meeting her stare. “The problem is that I had my hair done and was about to put on my dress, but I had to put something on so I didn’t answer the door half naked but didn’t want to disappoint the children so I chucked on the first thing I could find. Which was this. Which ruined my hair.” Rowan looked at her hair, he hadn’t noticed but Aelin had done something to make it look paler, almost white and the braids she had done were now loose and askew. “Well better get to it before there’s another knock,” Rowan said as he resumed his show. As Aelin went past she hissed, “Prick.” The next activity at the door wasn’t a knock from trick or treat-er, but Aedion arriving to pick Aelin up. “Hey man,” Aedion said as he closed the door behind him, he was dressed at Thor, cape and everything. “Hey,” Rowan said back. Despite his less that cordial relationship with Aedion’s cousin, Rowan and Aedion were quite good friends. “Aelin, hurry up!” Aedion called from the kitchen before inspection the fridge. “Shut up Aedion!” Aelin called back. There was a knock on the door and Aedion went to answer it. As he opened it there were audible gasps and a few ‘whoas’ as the kids took Aedion in. “Are you really Thor?” One kid asked. Aedion didn’t miss a beat. “Yes.” There were giggles and squealing then the door was closed. Rowan himself went to the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge, as he turned to head back to back to his spot on the lounge Aelin emerged. She was in a dress that had a white pleated skirt that hung low on her hips, it was attached by pieces of what looked like blue leather that crossed over her chest and then fanned out to created a small sleeve. The cups of the dress were the same colour of the skirt but textured to look like dragon scales. The way the dress was cut left Aelin’s sides bare and a diamond cut out over her taut stomach. She was dressed as Daenerys Targaryen. Lorcan’s most often used nickname for his roommate came to Rowan’s mind. Fire-breathing bitch queen. “Put a coat on,” Aedion said from his position by the door. “Don’t be a prude,” Aelin snapped back. “I’m not, its freezing outside,” Aedion said. Aelin sighed. “Ugh fine.” Aelin disappeared back into her room and Rowan heard Aedion step up beside him. Then there was a swift slap to the back of his head. “What – ” Rowan’s hand was immediately over the hurt. Aedion gave him a look. “That’s my cousin. Don’t even go there.” “I didn’t…” but Rowan stopped. Yeah, he had to admit he had been checking her out. Aedion’s look turned knowing. “Alright lets go,” Aelin said with her coat over her arm. She went straight for the door not bothering with goodbyes. Aedion followed Aelin out with a ‘see ya’. With the apartment now to himself Rowan resumed his evening of TV watching. He’d just settled into the perfect spot when there was a knock on the door. Rowan sat up. She didn’t… Aelin had left the decorations up on the door, no doubt on purpose as petty payback from him not getting the door while she was getting ready. Rowan groaned as he got up to answer the door, he put the candy in the bags before the kids even had a chance to say their line, and then he was ripping off the paper pumpkin cut outs and fake spider webs. The kids looked at him a little startled but then ran off to the next door. With the decorations under his arm Rowan stormed to Aelin’s room and scattered them over her bed for her to deal with when she came in wasted at whatever ungodly hour she got in. If she wanted to be petty about this it was fine, so could he.

~~~~~

I know its kinda technically not part of the main story but I’ll tag everyone anyway.

@fucking-winchester-trash // @literary-licorice // @galyxsy // @tangledraysofsunshine // @highqueenofelfhame // @3am-reading // @soup-that-is-too-hawt // @aelinfire-bringer // @nalgenewhore // @highladyofthesith // @http-itsrebecca // @sleeping-and-books // @average-girl-at-best // @alifletcher2012 // @westofmoon // @ttakeitbacknoww // @tswaney17 // @starseternalnighttriumphant // @rowaelinforeverworld // @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter // @they-call-me-cuatro // @musicmaam // @secret-lil-rendez-vous // @armixers-unite // @mariamuses // @chocolate-eating-bitch-queen // @velarian-trash // @queenofxhearts // @princess-galathynius // @heroesofterrasen // @ladyofstoriesandmusic // @tothestarswholisten // @chemicha // @therapeuticrambling // @mydarlingfireheart // @mybbyfeyre // @unassumingsodalovesherbooks // @amitynotpity // @loysydark // @queenophelia // @empire-of-wildfire // @crackedship // @camerooonchiu // @worldoffae // @notaddictedtoanything // @sierrareads // @lowhangingtreebranches //

[spicedrobot]

if you're still taking requests, grimm and some exhibitionism? either solo or with whoever

Grimm/PV - exhibitionism

The ancient pyre is lit, but the time is wrong. The troupe manifests deep below the surface, surrounded by a vibrant, bustling city, glittering as bright as the stars unseen. The troupe master fears for a moment the heart’s anger, the scent of decay is in its infancy; for years will these creatures thrive, unfettered by the golden whispers that will unravel everything they held dear. Yet, the heart does not speak. Complacent, for a time, freshly gorged as it is on the crimson remnants of the last fallen land.

A period of peace, but more importantly, time to investigate, to meet the starring actors that would fuel the end of this powerful, sprawling kingdom. 

His kin are outsiders, but well spoken and spellbinding, their spectacle a hit, whispered and dreamed about amongst the population. It is not long before they receive summons from the king himself, whose stature is much smaller than the stories claimed. Yet, there is an ancient, undeniable gravitas to him, enough that the eyes of the heart peer upon him curiously from its place within nightmare. 

That one, it whispers, screams, echoes, and Grimm bows to the fragile, powerful king who was the rise of his kingdom and will also be its fall. He kneels and kisses his lady’s hand, much larger and lovelier than her king. She smiles, her eyes sparkling like the cityscape. Then there is a hush, and she gestures with a single graceful motion of her heavily robed arm.

The heart is all seeing, all knowing, all powerful, but when they approach, not quite as tall as their mother but just as lovely, exuding nothing but a vacant stare, Grimm cannot look away. How wonderful! How interesting! A vessel, pure and resplendent. Unfeeling, unspeaking, unthinking.

Yet, how they track their king’s movements, the faintest twitch of their head, unconscious perhaps, of their body’s own betrayal. How it makes his own heart tremble, if he even had such a thing. He bows to this great figure, eyes barely able to leave them for a single moment.

There will be a fall, and they would be one of the actors. What harm could come, if Grimm tested such a vessel’s restraint? If they could dream, surely his actions would not matter one way or another. 

A true delight, when Grimm tests them. Their dream is vaguely empty, so very proper, but Grimm will not let it be so. He breathes into it, feels its edges shake and release, blacken and redden, nightmares summoned. Even here, the vessel is resplendent, armored, protected. No matter, Grimm conjures a little scenario of his own. Draped upon the lavish satin sheets of a great bed, framed by gauze and pillows, he splays, naked and unadorned. A scent lingers, deep and spiced, sensual, candles flickering at the room’s perimeter, casting him in coalescing light and shadow. He slips his hands down his body, segment by segment, shivering with anticipation. The vessel materializes before him, naked but for a simple gray shawl, somehow fitting and not, familiar but foreign. 

They linger like a ghost, watching him slip a hand between his legs while he clutches his throat, tongue slipping past the razor edges of his teeth. The heart is full, and so is he, vibrant and alive, glut on the freshness of this form, and the pleasure shivers through him, makes him grow. He is old, endless, and this pure, ancient one watches as he touches his emerging cock, red and tapered, glistening in the candlelight.

He speaks in the way of dreams, half-phrases, words to delight, to torment, to enthrall. The vessel’s stillness is something to behold. No one had ever remained so passive, but Grimm does not mistake it for lack of interest. No movement, because they are afraid of what it could mean, of what they could do, of what they could be allowed to do.

It matters little to Grimm, what their decision is. Only that there is torment, insecurity, desire, rising within them where none should bloom. He tosses his head back, hisses and spreads his thighs, strokes his cock, base to tip, slow, tantalizing presses punctuated by throaty gasps. The center of attention, the star of the show, the leader in the dance, all things he adored. In this moment, he is the only thing that matters, alive and heated in his own hands, enthralling the audience as he has done countless times before. Only no audience has ever been so enrapturing in return, even as they stand and watch, hands at their sides, motionless.

They cannot look away, and Grimm does not let them. How easy it is to spill beneath that gaze, flame and blood within his carapace, eyes like the very fire of his life force as he spills over his fist, keening and hissing like a base creature. And still he cannot shake this addictive feeling, dips his fingers into himself, eased by his own spent seed. How many times can he make himself come, fueled by the ever strengthening gaze of this empty one? Of the vessel who cranes closer minutely, near imperceptibly, as Grimm presses his fingers ever deeper, staining the sheets beneath his thighs with his want. The heart swells within his mind as his fingers quicken, tongue balanced between his fangs, focused and not, mindless and not, near his end and not, burning, relishing.

Oh, the fun he will have, performing for this one.

#hollow knight x grimm #pure vessel #troupe master grimm #fics #hk #lemon #Anonymous #en talks #asks