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denimbex1986 · 10 months

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'“Oppenheimer,” Christopher Nolan’s staggering film about J. Robert Oppenheimer, the man known as “the father of the atomic bomb,” condenses a titanic shift in consciousness into three haunted hours. A drama about genius, hubris and error, both individual and collective, it brilliantly charts the turbulent life of the American theoretical physicist who helped research and develop the two atomic bombs that were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War II — cataclysms that helped usher in our human-dominated age.

The movie is based on “American Prometheus: The Triumph and Tragedy of J. Robert Oppenheimer,” the authoritative 2005 biography by Kai Bird and Martin J. Sherwin. Written and directed by Nolan, the film borrows liberally from the book as it surveys Oppenheimer’s life, including his role in the Manhattan Engineer District, better known as the Manhattan Project. He served as director of a clandestine weapons lab built in a near-desolate stretch of Los Alamos, in New Mexico, where he and many other of the era’s most dazzling scientific minds puzzled through how to harness nuclear reactions for the weapons that killed tens of thousands instantly, ending the war in the Pacific.

The atomic bomb and what it wrought define Oppenheimer’s legacy and also shape this film. Nolan goes deep and long on the building of the bomb, a fascinating and appalling process, but he doesn’t restage the attacks; there are no documentary images of the dead or panoramas of cities in ashes, decisions that read as his ethical absolutes. The horror of the bombings, the magnitude of the suffering they caused and the arms race that followed suffuse the film. “Oppenheimer” is a great achievement in formal and conceptual terms, and fully absorbing, but Nolan’s filmmaking is, crucially, in service to the history that it relates.

The story tracks Oppenheimer — played with feverish intensity by Cillian Murphy — across decades, starting in the 1920s with him as a young adult and continuing until his hair grays. The film touches on personal and professional milestones, including his work on the bomb, the controversies that dogged him, the anti-Communist attacks that nearly ruined him, as well as the friendships and romances that helped sustain yet also troubled him. He has an affair with a political firebrand named Jean Tatlock (a vibrant Florence Pugh), and later weds a seductive boozer, Kitty Harrison (Emily Blunt, in a slow-building turn), who accompanies him to Los Alamos, where she gives birth to their second child.

It’s a dense, event-filled story that Nolan — who’s long embraced the plasticity of the film medium — has given a complex structure, which he parcels into revealing sections. Most are in lush color; others in high-contrast black and white. These sections are arranged in strands that wind together for a shape that brings to mind the double helix of DNA. To signal his conceit, he stamps the film with the words “fission” (a splitting into parts) and “fusion” (a merging of elements); Nolan being Nolan, he further complicates the film by recurrently kinking up the overarching chronology — it is a lot.

It also isn’t a story that builds gradually; rather, Nolan abruptly tosses you into the whirl of Oppenheimer’s life with vivid scenes of him during different periods in his life. In rapid succession the watchful older Oppie (as his intimates call him) and his younger counterpart flicker onscreen before the story briefly lands in the 1920s, where he’s an anguished student tormented by fiery, apocalyptic visions. He suffers; he also reads T.S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land,” drops a needle on Stravinsky’s “The Rite of Spring” and stands before a Picasso painting, defining works of an age in which physics folded space and time into space-time.

This fast pace and narrative fragmentation continue as Nolan fills in this Cubistic portrait, crosses and recrosses continents and ushers in armies of characters, including Niels Bohr (Kenneth Branagh), a physicist who played a role in the Manhattan Project. Nolan has loaded the movie with familiar faces — Matt Damon, Robert Downey Jr., Gary Oldman — some distracting. It took me a while to accept director Benny Safdie as Edward Teller, the theoretical physicist known as the “father of the hydrogen bomb,” and I still don’t know why Rami Malek shows up in a minor part other than he’s yet another known commodity.

As Oppenheimer comes into focus so does the world. In 1920s Germany, he learns quantum physics; the next decade he’s at Berkeley teaching, bouncing off other young geniuses and building a center for the study of quantum physics. Nolan makes the era’s intellectual excitement palpable — Einstein published his theory of general relativity in 1915 — and, as you would expect, there’s a great deal of scientific debate and chalkboards filled with mystifying calculations, most of which Nolan translates fairly comprehensibly. One of the film’s pleasures is experiencing by proxy the kinetic excitement of intellectual discourse.

It’s at Berkeley that the trajectory of Oppenheimer’s life dramatically shifts, after news breaks that Germany has invaded Poland. By that point, he has become friends with Ernest Lawrence (Josh Hartnett), a physicist who invented a particle accelerator, the cyclotron, and who plays an instrumental role in the Manhattan Project. It’s also at Berkeley that Oppenheimer meets the project’s military head, Leslie Groves (a predictably good Damon), who makes him Los Alamos’ director, despite the leftist causes he supported — among them, the fight against fascism during the Spanish Civil War — and some of his associations, including with Communist Party members like his brother, Frank (Dylan Arnold).

Nolan is one of the few contemporary filmmakers operating at this ambitious scale, both thematically and technically. Working with his superb cinematographer Hoyte van Hoytema, Nolan has shot in 65 mm film (which is projected in 70 mm), a format that he’s used before to create a sense of cinematic monumentality. The results can be immersive, though at times clobbering, particularly when the wow of his spectacle has proved more substantial and coherent than his storytelling. In “Oppenheimer,” though, as in “Dunkirk” (2017), he uses the format to convey the magnitude of a world-defining event; here, it also closes the distance between you and Oppenheimer, whose face becomes both vista and mirror.

The film’s virtuosity is evident in every frame, but this is virtuosity without self-aggrandizement. Big subjects can turn even well-intended filmmakers into show-offs, to the point that they upstage the history they seek to do justice to. Nolan avoids that trap by insistently putting Oppenheimer into a larger context, notably with the black-and-white portions. One section turns on a politically motivated security clearance hearing in 1954, a witch hunt that damaged his reputation; the second follows the 1959 confirmation for Lewis Strauss (a mesmerizing, near-unrecognizable Downey), a former chairman of the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission who was nominated for a Cabinet position.

Nolan integrates these black-and-white sections with the color ones, using scenes from the hearing and the confirmation — Strauss’ role in the hearing and his relationship with Oppenheimer directly affected the confirmation’s outcome — to create a dialectical synthesis. One of the most effective examples of this approach illuminates how Oppenheimer and other Jewish project scientists, some of whom were refugees from Nazi Germany, saw their work in stark, existential terms. Yet Oppenheimer’s genius, his credentials, international reputation and wartime service to the U.S. government cannot save him from political gamesmanship, the vanity of petty men and the naked antisemitism of the Red scare.

These black-and-white sequences define the last third of “Oppenheimer.” They can seem overlong, and at times in this part of the film it feels as if Nolan is becoming too swept up in the trials that America’s most famous physicist experienced. Instead, it is here that the film’s complexities and all its many fragments finally converge as Nolan puts the finishing touches on his portrait of a man who contributed to an age of transformational scientific discovery, who personified the intersection of science and politics, including in his role as a Communist boogeyman, who was transformed by his role in the creation of weapons of mass destruction and soon after raised the alarm about the dangers of nuclear war.

François Truffaut once wrote that “war films, even pacifist, even the best, willingly or not, glorify war and render it in some way attractive.” This, I think, gets at why Nolan refuses to show the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, world-defining events that eventually killed an estimated 100,000 to upward of 200,000 souls. You do, though, see Oppenheimer watch the first test bomb and, critically, you also hear the famous words that he said crossed his mind as the mushroom cloud rose: “Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.” As Nolan reminds you, the world quickly moved on from the horrors of the war to embrace the bomb. Now we, too, have become death, the destroyers of worlds.

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tadpolesonalgae · 9 months

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Beast form!Tamlin x reader: The Great Rite[***]

A/N: so, this is a prequel to The Aftermath of Spring because most of you should know by now that I love anything to do with monsterfucking :)

Warnings: smut, monsterfucking, bondage (vines)

He’d requested you stay in your rooms that night, and you’d been too timid at the time to inquire about his seemingly out-of-the-blue request. So you’d gone home, and shut and bolted your door.

But the drums are pounding, and even as High Fae you find it strenuous work to resist that heavy beat that thunders through your being.

You’re enough of a female to admit you’re harbouring concerns about the night. It’s well-known what will happen, what activities your High Lord will engage in. You can admit you’re worried your efforts will be in vain. You’ve grown alarmingly fond of him, with his affections for poetry, and affinity for the fiddle. It’s not a lie to say you’re jealous of whichever female he chooses to bed tonight.

It’s the final straw, the final fracture that catalyses your violation of his request. You want him to be yours, and you want him to call you his. There’s nothing else to be considered really once the conclusion reaches you. You’ve made your decision. And with a heart that’s pounding in time to the alluring drums, you unlock your door, silently slinking out into the hallways of your estate, heading for the bonfires.

————

Bonfire smoke tints the air, smelling so alluring and delicious as you follow it through the cluster of trees. Fire gleams in the distance, sparks and embers dancing between shadows as the centre of the revelry comes into sight. The drums thrum through the ground, reverberating up your feet into your ankles.

It’s the one night deemed acceptable for a Lady like yourself to dress with these unfavourable intentions in mind, and you indulge in the level of freedom you’re afforded, forgoing any slippers, or even a night robe to conceal your thin slip. You blend right into the crowd with your revealing dress, ankles and wrists on show for any male to peek at. It’s exhilarating.

But it’s missing something.

The eyes feel wondrous on your skin, licking and nipping at you with male intent, but they’re not his eyes. They aren’t emerald flecked with gold: a spring glade with threads of sunlight spooling between the leaves, creating dappled shade upon the lush undergrowth. You want his eyes dancing over your bared body, you want him to be the one silently considering ways to get you into bed.

The drums are reaching their climax—you don’t have long left before he’s forced to make his decision. He’ll make his choice without knowing the full extent of his crop. How will he pluck you out from the crowd is he isn’t even aware of your presence? The thought dampens your mood, leading you to wonder away from the fires, seeking the cool reprieve of the forest for comfort. You wish to mope in peace, bemoan the missed opportunity.

Leaves rustle at your back, but you leave the noise be. It’s most likely a pair of tangled bodies, coupling in the eves of the long night, getting a head start on the inevitable activities. A twig snaps, close enough by that you get to your feet, drying your dampened eyes as you plan to relocate yourself. You aren’t too keen on inadvertently getting an eyeful of misplaced lust when you’re in such low spirits.

Yet when you turn, you come to face a creature the size of a horse, its features distinctly lupine in their structure, large antlers protruding from its skull. Your attention is drawn to the green eyes piercing from golden fur, trained upon your form with razor-sharp intent. Tamlin.

You feel your muscles stiffen, still in the motions of drying your eyes. Slowly, you lower you arms in favour of crossing them over your chest, keeping yourself as concealed as possible. All too suddenly, your clothes feel insubstantial, like you should be dressed more modestly before him.

“Why are you crying?” He asks, words dragging from his animal throat with pleasing roughness. You shake your head slightly, averting your gaze elsewhere, fingers twining together at your front, “I was not crying, my Lord. The night must have tricked you.”

“I have not known you to keep things from me?” He inquires gently, moving forward with feline grace on his large paws, and you can hear the distinct frown in his voice. “Tell me: what has caused your sadness? I would like to right it.” Your teeth find placement within your lip, tugging gently as you make the effort to straighten; appear unruffled and dignified. “I assure you, my Lord, it is nothing for you to concern yourself with. I was merely out enjoying the festivities, you see, as I’m sure you will soon be, too.” A veiled question—to pry whether he’s taken a female yet, or whether you still have a chance. Slim as it may be.

This time his golden brow does furrow, “I have not known you to lie to me, either,” he remarks, a little sternly. It’s surprisingly difficult to remain calm beneath his scrutinising gaze, not to shift or fumble. But he huffs out a low breath, eyes gleaming as he again looks to you, “walk with me.” You don’t have in you to reject the order, so you take a few steps forward, careful to keep the distance respectful. His eyes mark your bare feet, zipping up your ankles to where the hem of your night dress starts.

The two of you move in companionable silence for quite a way, moving through the soft grass and moss, small fireflies and will-o-wisps dancing about between trees. “Have you been delighting in the revelry?” He asks, breaking the peaceful quiet that you’d settled into. You nod your head demurely, keeping up your act, “I have, indeed. There were a few dances that had me particularly breathless,” you tell him, making your words sound slightly embarrassed.

Silvery moonlight catches on his claws before they’re retracting back into his large paws. You peer up at him then, only to find his attention already on you, eyes gleaming. Hurriedly, you turn your gaze elsewhere, attempting to track the shift of the winds to remove your focus from him. “Strange,” he remarks, and you could swear you hear a smile in his word, “I didn’t see you amongst the revellers.”

It’s an effort to keep yourself from stiffening beneath his intense gaze, piercing into you as if he knows the reason you crept from your room after he specifically requested you remain inside. For what reason, though?

“You must have been preoccupied with your fiddling,” you retort primly, perfectly aware of the insinuation you’ve just made. A pleasant laugh drags form his throat, having something warm and liquid lighting in your lower belly. “I could show you, if you’d like,” he drawls, lips curving into a feline smile.

You stop in your tracks, head spinning as you turn to face him. He’s also come to a halt, watching you with the intense green of his, nostrils flaring delicately. A soft snarl rumbles in his chest as the wind blows past you, carrying your scent for him to get drunk on. “I beg your pardon?” You manage, slightly hoarsely.

The High Lord laughs lowly; quietly at your stammer. “I said: I could show you. My fiddle still remains beside a bonfire. I would happily play for you,” he supplies, turning to face forward. “It wouldn’t be for long, as there are still duties I have yet to fulfil, but for the moment…” his eyes flick to yours in question. Your heart drums against your chest, beating and pounding at his attention, the apparent vulnerability in those emerald and gilt eyes.

You turn away, averting your gaze so he cannot see the nerves that are sizzling beneath your skin, frying and scrambling your mind. “I would not want to withhold you from your duties, High Lord. I think I’ve stolen enough of your time as it is. You should not keep the night waiting.” He makes a low sound in his throat in reply, pausing before resuming conversation, as if he had hoped you might change your mind. “Then, allow me to assure you safe passage back to the festivities, at least. To be sure your lovely dancing-feet don’t give out from your revelry,” he says softly, his charm almost a tangible thing in the night air.

Delving through your mind, no words come to hand that would be a polite dissuasion, so all you can do is gracefully accept his offer. You turn to make the walk back, but something like a laugh resounds in his chest, making you pause. “What do you find so amusing?” You ask, resisting the urge to return his good nature as you peer at him.

He prowls closer, coming to a stop beside you, near enough you can feel his warmth grazing your arms, hairs rising with awareness. “It’s a night of extravagance, of indulging in decadence,” he says smoothly, but you still don’t understand. When he settles to the ground, great paws tucking beneath him, you begin to get the idea. “It would not be right for me to allow you to wonder back on those feet of yours. A Lady should not walk when she has no need to.”

Heat flushes your cheeks, lips parting in barely concealed astonishment. “You—… You are asking me to ride you?” You ask, disbelievingly. His smile broadens to a grin, the same one he’d shown you multiple times past, seemingly just for you, “you have quite the tongue for implications, don’t you?” You flush further, replaying your words. “But yes, that is what I am asking,” he says, watching you carefully. You manage what you hope is a vaguely confident nod, before approaching him.

“Is it…acceptable to put my hands upon you, my Lord?” You ask, unsure how you would manage to mount him otherwise. “More than acceptable, Lady. I would argue it is expected,” he laugh softly. You swallow your embarrassment, stepping into him as your hands find purchase in the soft locks of fur, swinging your leg over him. He goes slightly rigid beneath you, and you pray to the Mother he can’t feel the nakedness of your heat though your dress—thin as it is. But then he raises onto his paws, muscle shifting beneath you, and your thoughts are banished.

And as he begins the slow wonder back the way you’d come, you feel your muscles lose their tension, melting into the solid heat beneath you.

————

“Thank you for the…company, my Lord,” you say, curtsying slightly before his large frame. You have a feeling ride wouldn’t have been the right word choice.

Heat is warming your bones, but he seems to be lending you the courtesy of not mentioning what is probably an obvious shift in scent by now. Most likely because you are doing the same for him. No sooner than you had mounted him, you’d been wrapped in the scent of his arousal, light enough to blend seamlessly into his usual fragrance.

You stand opposite one another, silence stretching between you as you anxiously wring your finger behind your back. The thought alone of that distinct scent has you aching in response. You consider it a perfectly normal reaction to be having to your High Lord upon this particular night, affording yourself yet another excuse. “It was my pleasure,” he says, green eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight, and you can pick out the sparks from the bonfires reflecting in the depths of his gaze. Piercing in their intensity. “I would invite you to enjoy the night to its fullest, Lady,” he rumbles, talons protruding from his paws as if to keep him in place. “And I for you, Lord.”

The wind blows toward you, and you’re once again wrapped within his scent, powerful and comfortingly masculine with a soft undertone that has your toes curling in the grass. “I hope you do well by your Court, on this eve,” you add, wishing to spend a little more of yourself on his time—selfish as it may be.

Again, those green eyes flick over you, glinting with something too fleeting to place. But then he’s taking a step forward; your heart spikes, foolish illusions forming themselves in your mind’s eye. “You came out of your room tonight,” he says, softly enough it’s a struggle for your ears to pick out the words. When you figure them out, however, you stiffen. This is the conversation you had been hoping to avoid. “It’s Calanmai,” you reason with surprising ease, “I would like to enjoy the perks of the celebration like every other female.”

He regards you, taking another set of steps forward. His scent becomes more overpowering with each inch gained, heart picking up at his closeness. “Why lie to me?” He asks, catching you off guard. You blink, and it’s the confirmation he needs. “You weren’t dancing with the revellers,” he says, softly.

“And I suppose you would know because you fiddled at every bonfire?” You ask in the same soft tone. The smile he gives you is a little feral, “I would know, because the magic of this night took me to your estate, just as I had anticipated.” You go preternaturally still as his words fall on your pointed ears. “And yet here you are, out in the forests when I had specifically requested your absence this night.”

You flush as you put together his pieces. His scent, the unusual forwardness, the…ride. “Forgive me,” you murmur, quietly, “I had no intention of—”

The wind changes.

Steadily, your scent catches on the cool breeze, winding and wrapping around him as his own had with you. His pupils contracts, talons sliding deeper into the soil with restraint, nostrils flaring as his body goes rigid. Muscle tightens, lip curling slightly as his attention centres on the dip between your thighs. “I suggest you leave, now,” he manages, voice strained with tension.

But the magic had called him to you, and you to him. Surely there was reason for the drums holding more allure than they had in past years. Maybe it’s not a weak will that has led you to this circumstance.

You take a small step forward, his pupils contracting further, muscle trembling as your scent envelopes him. “Tamlin…” you begin, taking another small step toward the towering beast. Then his pupils are dilating, filling the marvellously rich green of his iris’, almost swallowing them whole. “I don’t want—” he manages. “I want you, but…”

“But what?” You ask. “This is the purpose of the Rite. Nothing to be concerned about.” But the shake in your voice betrays your emotions.

“I want you to want it, too,” he rasps, strain evident in his jaw; the harsh line of muscle up his paws.

You nod, taking that last step forward. If he lowers his neck, he’ll be able to press his vulpine nose against you. “I do,” you murmur, “I do want you, Tamlin.”

A low snarl sounds in his throat, his name seeming to be his undoing as he takes a sudden step forward, pushing into your stomach with enough force to knock you to the mossy ground. Your eyes widen, attempting to gather yourself but vines and roots are crawling about your body, winding hastily up your calves and thighs, pulling up your night dress until you’re bare in the night.

His eyes seem to glow in the dark, magic thrumming beneath his skin as your heart follows the drum of his power. “You’re sure?” He asks gutturally, somehow keeping himself at bay a little longer. “I’m not— I don’t want to hurt you.” Your eyes lock, and you’re aware that you’re panting, heat swelling in your chest the longer you look at him.

Slowly, tentatively, you latch your fingers at the hem of your night dress. His gaze narrows on your hands as you raise the material over your head, leaving you naked for him, “I trust you, Tamlin.” His eyes hold enough anguish for you to grasp the depth of his concerns—he doesn’t want to ruin whatever it is that’s flourishing between you. “Have you ever hurt anyone before? During the Rite?” You ask. He manages a shake of his head, and you nod in response. “I believe you,” you say, relaxing beneath the roots and vines constraining your lower body. “And I trust you, Tamlin,” you repeat, letting him feel your sincerity.

“I’m here: take me.”

Vines wrap around your waist, hugging your skin as they circle over your breasts, coiling around your nipples before snaking down your arms. They don’t pull, or guide, simply hold you—make no mistake he could move you as he pleased if he wished. Hooked talons gleam in the moonlight, eyes glowing with inner power as he stalks forward. “Is that why you stumbled out of your lovely estate?” He drawls, voice roughening with carnal hunger as he towers over you. “You wanted to find me, too?”

Unimaginable lust melts the arousal in the pit of your belly, turning it to something liquid and molten as he settles on his paws before you. You try not to be embarrassed at the position, how he can see everything between your legs. How turned on you are: gleaming beneath the stars. “Yes,” you swallow. “I was hoping to find you.”

His lip curls in a soft snarl, prowling forward while keeping low to the ground, “if I had known I could be so forward with you, I wouldn’t have waited all these months to have you in my bed.” His admission has your pulse spiking, has your legs widening a little more. His eyes glitter with dark hunger, noting the gesture; the invitation. His snout roughly nudges your thighs further apart, vines constricting as they follow his will. Heat prickles your skin, awareness lighting your body as a cool spring breeze licks over your nakedness.

A quiet breath escapes your lips as he presses between your legs, your panting becoming deeper. “Oh, gods,” you stammer shakily, his eyes flicking up to you in pleasure. Then his jaw is opening, his slightly rough tongue dragging flatly over your heat, passing through your centre. “Tamlin…!” You breathe, muscles tensing at the abrupt stimulation. A sound of deep, male satisfaction purrs through his chest, repeating the action with firmer intent.

Your lips part, spine arching as the vines slither and slide over your skin, giving attention to every nerve ending. “I…what?” You stammer, mind fumbling from the pleasure. Your teeth find your lower lip as his tongue starts moving eagerly over you, the textured scrape over your clit making your eyes roll to the back of your skull. When he purrs with pleasure, the wet muscle vibrates, sending those quick-fire pulses straight to your nerves, and you shudder.

When a startled moan slips from your lips, he growls, eyes flickering as if he’s warring for control within himself. Hunger glitters in his darkened gaze, and one large paw lands possessively over your abdomen, spanning your entire stomach. A humiliating whimper drags from your throat at the delicious pressure, one leg hooking over his other paw, toes curling in the grass.

“Tamlin…” you pant, loving the way his talons hook around your waist, keeping you pinned beneath him. But it’s comforting, you feel secure instead of trapped. He growls in pleasure, and more moans spill from your parted lips, arching into him, almost trembling with the effort to keep all this euphoria within you. It simply builds, and builds, pressure intensifying beneath your skin until you know you’re going to snap.

Your mouth opens in a silent moan, head tipping back as his paw presses a little harder over you. The tapered end of the wet muscle presses against your entrance, the base part of his tongue pushing into your clit, purring roughly as he feels you tighten once, the sign you’re about to tip over the edge. He growls with male pleasure as your body relaxes into his vines, melting into his power as pleasure floods your blood, singing beneath your skin.

His name is a mantra in your mouth, repeating over and over again like it’s the only word you know, the only word you can remember as your vision flashes light and dark. “Tamlin…” you beg quietly, pleading for him not to stop, to let you continue on this high as your legs spasm and your body goes limp.

Your vision is somewhat blurred when you softly float down from your high, and you have to blink away the dampness. Your skin is gleaming with sweat, heart pounding in your chest as heat ravages your body and you have this need, this incessant need to push your legs wider. You need to have him, want and need and need and want him so badly you feel like the world is whirling inside of you.

His vines release you enough for you to attempt shifting, but you’re so sensitive that you tremble. “Tamlin, I…” you murmur, looking up at him desperately, but then your attention catches between his hind legs, and you could sigh with relief.

The vines tighten and constrict around your form, finally taking advantage of you as you’re moved to his pleasure, flipping you onto your arms and legs—feet flat against the ground as you’re bent until your palms are planted in the grass. You flush wildly at the position, leaning heavily into the vines to keep you balanced at such a sharp angle. You’re completely open to him, and you watch from between your own legs as he prowls forward.

Your hair slides up over your shoulders from the slant of your spine, brushing the ground as you feel him put himself over you—the soft fur of his stomach brushing silkily against your back, his front paws landing further beyond your own arms, hind legs just behind your feet.

You could cry when you feel his tip nestling against your entrance, the bare, soft skin surrounding that area hot and gentle against your ass. “Tamlin…” you beg, whimpering with need, “please…” He growls in response, talons slipping out from his knuckles, digging into the soil as he rubs himself over your wet heat. “Hold still,” he growls, the syllables of his order rasping against your pointed ears. You keep as still as possible for him, needing to have him pounding you into the mossy bed as soon as possible. With muscles like his, lining his body with feline grace, you doubt he’ll have any struggle doing so.

“Breathe in,” he commands. You do so, right as he pushes in. The air whooshes from your lungs as you take the first few inches, limbs trembling; going weak with pleasure. “Breathe in,” he repeats, a low snarl. The inherent dominance he has over you as High Lord forcing you to take in a gulp of air. Your vision clears, and he pushes in deeper. You curse softly, making him chuckle. “I had no idea you possessed such a foul mouth,” he growls, shifting his paws to rest over the roots of a nearby tree, levelling himself. “What other sounds will you make for me tonight, sparrow?”

You bite back a moan as he sinks those last few inches into you, creating such intense pressure within your abdomen it’s a wonder you don’r reach your high right then and there. “I’ll sing for you until my lungs blow out,” you breathe, pressing back against him, so it’s skin against skin, the delicious weight of him at your back. He groans, the husky sounds reverberating through your back, going from the tips of your toes to the peaks of your nipples, vines flicking over them playfully.

“Please, Tamlin…” you breathe, rolling your hips back against him, “please move.” He laughs lowly, as he pulls back, then slowly glides in, shoving the air from your chest. “You like being full up, don’t you?” He asks roughly, hips dragging back once again, further this time, before pressing back inside, tipping you forward ever so slightly. “Yes,” you murmur in reply, “love it.”

Tamlin snarls softly, finally dragging back all the way, reassured you can take him without being in pain, as he finally slams in. A loud, high-pitched moan spills from your lips, toes and fingers curling in the grass as he repeats the action. He raises his front paws, burying his talons into the tree so he can put his weight behind each thrust, cock dragging over those spots that have white dots dancing across your sight.

Words leave your mind as he sets the pace, one that keeps the pleasure flowing without turning too rough, or sloppy. You’re not sure you could handle him if he really decided to be rough, but then again…

He hits deep inside of you and you’re so relieved those vines are holding you firmly in place. Securing you beneath him so he’s free to pound into you, use you exactly how he wants. A scream spills from your lips as he doesn’t let up, continues giving you that pleasure, heat building and coiling as the pressure intensifies. All over again you can feel yourself tightening around him, ready to unravel, to spring free, then release everything.

He can sense it and it spurs him on, hips bucking upward as he slightly changes the angle, twitching inside of you once as you tighten. “Tamlin, I…” you can’t form the words, don’t even know what you’re trying to say but he purrs in response, as if he can understand. The reverberations strum through you, and you fall. You topple over that edge, fluttering around him and he roars in response.

Your eyes roll back as he spills into you, hot spurts of liquid pumping you full, so much that he spills down your thighs, so much you feel every part of your inner heat swell with his come. The world goes black, and then you’re thrown into a storm of pleasure, rough waves cresting over you, taking you under as you fight for breath; as it overwhelms you entirely.

You’re shaking and trembling when he at last finishes, the final drops of his release pumping you to the brim, stuffing you full as he pulls away. The vines slowly release you, gently enough that you don’t immediately hit the floor, instead settling into the spongy moss. Your breaths come out in deep, hurried pants, hauling air into your body as you begin to recover from the intensity of the night.

Magic crackles at your back, and then warm, sturdy arms are wrapping beneath your middle, pulling you back into a firm chest. You melt against him as he presses kiss after kiss to your temple. He keeps you against him, set between his powerful thighs as he strokes your skin lightly.

The moon still gleams over head, the drums a far off beat, over the hills and through the trees. From another world entirely. In this world—in your world—it’s just him. Him with his arms around you, keeping you warm and comforted as your sight darkens into sleep.

You pass into night with the soft press of his mouth to your hair, fingers grazing your skin with infinite care, as if worried he’ll break you with too much force.

His scent is the last thing you remember before you’re swallowed entirely into oblivion.

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