#a rare pic of a wild el appears | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

regrettablewritings · 3 years

Text

Preference: When They Get Jealous

Characters: Nevada Ramirez, Okoye, George “Digger” Harkness, Lucifer Morningstar, Clyde Logan

Nevada Ramirez

Nevada Ramirez does not get jealous. Don’t get anything in that pretty little head of yours twisted: Nevada “El Trujillo” Ramirez does not stoop so low as to feel jealous. Jealousy is what a pussy incapable of keeping his woman feels. And Nevada don’t never gotta worry about that type of bullshit.

Nevada Ramirez does not get jealous. Not even when he sees some jackass getting a little too handsy with you. He gets angry, sure. But not out of jealousy: It’s because that dumbass just doesn’t know his place. He knows you’re too sweet for your own good, that you’ve never been particularly good with confrontation or speaking up when it came to strangers; luckily for you, your boyfriend is more than happy to lend you a hand with that problem.

He sees you smile all wobbly at the asshole, brows ever so slightly furrowed over eyes that whimper in panic. Maybe even reads your lips a bit. He can’t hear you over the thudding bass of the club, but he knows you well enough to know that you’re stuttering, your voice quivering as you try ever so gently to politely shut him down. It almost makes Nevada want to smirk: You’re trying to help your own pest, give him a head start and give him a chance to escape. But it’s too late for that, and you know it the moment you see two of ‘Vada’s boys stalk up to you and your new friend, with one of them grunting that it’s “time to go.”

You’re pretty sure your “new friend” knows it’s too late as well, given how he tenses, but the hand he has on your lower, lower back stays. Maybe even applies further pressure. He tries (stupidly) to hold his ground. But the ground can’t hold him; not as Nevada’s boys pick him up effortlessly and drag him off to a more dimly-lit section of the club. The only thing shining brightly from that corner being the exit sign.

Fifteen minutes later, your boyfriend joins you. He would pretend that he doesn’t know why your lips are pressed in disapproval, and that he doesn’t see how your brows are still furrowed but this time, in a way to suggest disapproval. And you would pretend that you don’t smell the smell of cigarettes smoked in the alley, or sweat worked up from an activity he got too into. More importantly, you pretend that you don’t see his bruised and bloodied knuckles as he rests and arm about you, gently ushering you closer to him as he murmurs about how lonely you looked without your Papi around.

Instead, you give in to the kiss he gives you. His idea of an apology without outright owning up to it.

Nevada Ramirez does not get jealous. He gets even.

Okoye

On the outside, she is calm and collected. The very image of the perfect warrior. But on the inside? Okoye is blaze with passion. Of course, her fierceness shined through when it came to protection, particularly that of her country, her king, her queen, her princess, and, of course, you. But it was ultimately her taciturn countenance that people took note of, which makes her all the more deadly to the unassuming.

Case in point, if she sees anyone putting the moves on you — man or woman — they will find themselves in one of two situations: They will either have the tip of an often-used vibranium spear pointed at them, or they will be requested to help Okoye spar. And, more often than not, the latter is what she chooses to apply.

Mind you, the challenged needn’t be a member of the Dora -- they needn’t even be a seasoned combatant or even have so much as an orange belt in Tae Kwon Do. Which frankly isn’t very fair, considering they’d be receiving a challenge from the head of Wakandan security, but oh, Okoye will insist: “There are few things more patriotic than assisting your protectors where they need the assistance,” she says. The smile she speaks with is very slight, but there’s no doubt from anyone who knows here that there’s a sliver of malice in them.

There’s really no need to go into how the match goes, especially since it’s obvious who the victor is every single time. Generally speaking, there are only four things that bare mentioning:

For one, no matter how much of a sweat or how bruised and banged up her opponent gets, Okoye always goes easy on them. Always. For two, every blue moon, Okoye might let them land a hit on her. However, this is out of pity as well as being for show. Because in the event they so much as scratch her, there’s the third thing: At the end of every sparring match, you go up to your beloved, singing her praises or to offer her a cloth to dab what little sweat she might have shed, or to tend to whatever sores she might have received. But whatever the case, you always go to her.

Fourthly, none of Okoye’s opponents ever try getting cozy with you again.

George “Digger” Harkness

Digger’s got a lot of nerves, daring to actually exhibit jealousy. He’s not a cheater, no, but he sure doesn’t exactly keep his eyes locked and loaded on you as much as you would like for him to. The amount of times he’s earned your ire for glancing at a jiggling ass or checking out a pair of swaying hips could fill a small novel.

So you (pretend) that it isn’t petty when you finally gain the opportunity to enact revenge on him.

Considering that his release from Belle Reve wasn’t exactly officiated by actual personnel (and was, in fact, just a flat-out jailbreak), your beloved Aussie had to lay low for a bit. That meant that in order to keep the feds from knocking down your door and getting you more involved than what you already were, Digger had to hide from place to place for a bit before he could even dream of returning back to you and setting up shop in your humble abode. But just because his life was sort of on pause didn’t mean that yours had to be.

It seemed like every time Digger gave you a ring from a burner phone, you were about to be headed out somewhere or were planning on going to an event with friends. Really, the fact that you wanted to go somewhere wild should’ve been a big indication to Digger that you were pulling his leg, but it didn’t matter: On the occasion that you sent a pic of what you planned on wearing, the jealousy consumed him.

You were going out? In that outfit? In that color you know makes you irresistible to both him and probably literally anyone with functioning eyes and a working downstairs!? Well, no, actually: While you did occasionally join your friends for a night out on the town, it was rarely ever in any of the outfits you implanted in Digger’s mind. And even then, for the most part, you weren’t actually going anywhere except to the couch to scroll YouTube or binge watch New Girl until you fell asleep.

But of course, Digger never thought this might’ve been the case. Instead, he thought to enlist the help of “friends” to keep an eye on you and report back to him if any bastard’s eyes or hands went anywhere they didn’t belong, aka on you. And when those efforts came up fruitless (he refused to believe them when they insisted you weren’t acting up), he took matters into his own hands: His dumb ass cut his location-hopping a bit short, appearing at your door a frustrated and possessive mess as he wasted no time storming through the door, hoiking you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes so he could take you to the bedroom and “remind you who you belong to.”

So, in short, Digger’s main resort when he can actually be around you is his go-to for most things he gets involved in that isn’t thievery: He, ahem, “smashes your back out”. Lovely.

Lucifer Morningstar

Lucifer swears he doesn’t get jealous but since he doesn’t think it’s a lie, he’s technically not lying. But he’s most definitely not being forthcoming with the truth. And that truth is that when he gets jealous, Luci becomes the most petty baby of them all!

Normally, he’s pretty confident that he has your attention. After all, what’s not to love? He’s sexy, talented, witty, interesting, and, oh yeah, the literal embodiment of enticement and charisma. Regular men just simply cannot compare! . . . So why in the Heaven would you be smiling at such a drab, bipedal specimen who thinks that they can replace having a personality with simply owning a pocket watch in this day and age!?

He doesn’t care that that guy is your coworker, he’s boring and stupid and there’s no way you really find him interesting, right? . . . Right?

If left to his own devices (hell, he’ll make the devices himself even if you protest), Luci will go out of his way to try and prove that that guy isn’t worth your attention and that you should please keep it on your loving Devil instead please. He’ll bequeath him unpleasant sobriquets; he’ll enlist his connections to dig up some dirt; if you leave them alone together for too long, Lucifer might even ask him what his deepest desire is. But these will often fall flat on the ass: The nicknames will roll off the “opposition’s” back like water off a duck (or you’ll fuss at Lucifer to quit it); the worst thing that could be dug up was that he was a college republican or something; and apparently his deepest desire is to acquire a copy of the Star Wars holiday special.

And somehow, that’s even worse!!

He might actually become a little pathetic (which, considering it’s Lucifer, probably just means his hair becomes a bit less combed, his clothes become more disheveled, and he might even somehow become even more clingy and demanding and even direct his pettiness towards you) because (Y/N), please, you can’t seriously be considering leaving your handsome, interesting, Devil for some boring, sad, oblivious piece of --

Really, the best way to get Lucifer to stop pestering is by reminding him who you’re with: Himself. After all, you’re not going home with the guy from work. Nor do you let him rest his head on your lap so you can play with his hair, or giving him your kisses, or letting him touch you in places only Heaven and Hell know drive you wild.

No . . . Those are reserved only for Lucifer, your beloved Hell bastard, for better or for worse. But mostly for the better -- even though he can sometimes just be the worst.

Clyde Logan

It really depends on the environment, because it ultimately can go one of two ways based on that alone. Clyde thinks the world of you, that you must be some kind of angel to see something good enough in him worth dating. And while it’s a bit of a confidence-booster in some respects, it also leads to a lot of other worries, highlighting even further his own long-term insecurities.

In a way, he’s both shocked and glad that you don’t get hit on every moment of every day the moment you walk out the house: You’re clearly the most gorgeous gal ever. You deserve acknowledgement of this! But then again, he doesn’t want so many eyes on you; one pair might most definitely belong to somebody better for you than him: Better-looking, better at talking, better socially, better job . . .

So when the two of you are out grocery shopping or visiting a local farmer’s market or anything and some rugged fox of a man casts a sensual smirk your way, Clyde can’t help but gain the demeanor of a nervous puppy, his large frame seemingly shrinking as his long hair curtains his face. If he had a tail, it would most certainly have tucked itself between his legs. It only gets slightly better when you only return a polite but small smile and take your partner’s hand to gently lead him elsewhere. But only slightly. It may take some cuddles and smooches when you get home to properly perk Clyde back up, but that’s far from something you mind doing.

However, should you both be at Duck Tape, or any other gathering that might make use of a mixologist for that matter? Clyde is in his element.

Clyde isn’t one to boast or show off; it’s not compatible with his shy nature, and his belief in the Logan Family Curse just doesn’t allow for him to get greedy about it. But if one night you drop by to visit him at work and he sees some guy making goo-goo eyes and hokey small talk at you? It’s on.

It doesn’t matter what drink the guy orders: Clyde immediately knows how to make it and make it perfectly, utilizing only his organic hand. The concoctions are mixed with such ease and precision, his every move emoting a sense of confidence that the unsuspecting would never have guessed a man like him could possess. And if he would be so bold, Clyde might even do so while barely breaking eye contact. It’s all the more better if the guy flirting with you tries ordering a drink for you himself. Because that’s when Clyde can start off with the man’s drink . . . before making you a completely different one entirely. The patron’s brow furrows.

“That’s . . . not what I ordered for her,” he points out.

And Clyde nods. “Nope. But that’s her favorite, and I reckon she’d prefer that over what you wanted her to have.”

You toasting at your beloved and offering a, “Thanks, honey” only sweetens the deal.

There aren��t many opportunities where Clyde feels like The Big Man on Campus, so to speak. But moments like that, where he feels he gets to show some of his worth? He can’t help but be a bit emboldened by them.

Of course, it goes without saying that it isn’t the drink-mixing or skill that drew you to him: It’s that sweet, thoughtful disposition of his. Because let’s face it: In a county of foxes and wolves, you can’t beat a sweet-eyed puppy-dog.

#nevada ramirez x reader #okoye x reader #digger harkness x reader #lucifer morningstar x reader #clyde logan x reader #nevada ramirez #okoye #captain boomerang x reader #trouble in the heights #black panther imagines #suicide squad imagines #lucifer imagines #regrettablewritings

343 notes · View notes

clausvonbohlen · 7 years

Text

Life and Literature.

I don’t wish to be bleak, but it does sometimes seem to me that, with a few exceptions, life consists of a series of disappointments; the art of living is finding one’s peace with that fact, without losing one’s sense of humour or enthusiasm.

This realization stems from the combination of honesty, and a capacity to dream by day. Like Fitzgerald’s Nick Carraway, I think of myself as one of the few honest people I have ever known – honest with myself, at least. And I most certainly dream, but I am always aware of the gulf between my dreams and reality. That’s the primary source of the disappointment. And how could it be otherwise? In the long run, I mean. The nature of matter is to disintegrate. Our bodies fail us. The things we care about will one day cease to exist.

There are consolations. There is love, for those lucky enough to find it, and skilled enough to hold on to it. There is the thought that it is better that there is something, not nothing, even when that something falls short. There is the satisfaction that comes from the honesty, from looking the truth in the face without flinching. And for the rest there is literature, which is really the sharing of the honesty. In a few rare cases, literature is also the creation of a dream that does not compromise the honesty. It is very hard to do, and therein lies the alchemy.

What has precipitated these trains of thought?

I have just spent ten days in a small hut in a clearing in the Amazon jungle. The terreno belongs to Otilia, a Peruvian shaman in her late fifties. I know her from a previous visit, seven years ago.

Twice we have drunk Ayahuasca, the powerful hallucinogenic brew. I assisted in the preparation: a large quantity of woody Ayahuasca vines are beaten with a stick then boiled all day in a large pot together with chacruna leaves. The resulting reduction is an extremely viscous, bitter, lumpy and acrid sludge. I drank a cupful on an empty stomach on both occasions, and both times I was violently and repeatedly sick about an hour later. Each time it comes up, the taste is reintroduced and the sense of revulsion returns. The nausea continued well into the next day. Even thinking about it now sends a shiver down my spine.

There were some half-glimpsed visions for a few minutes the first time, and a few hours of physical wellbeing the second time, but that is a limited return. I felt very far from communicating with the spirits of the plants, and the only memorable lesson I received was that my mind is uncontrolled and runs wild on exhausting loops of thought, but I knew that already (though am now more committed to addressing it).

Jaguar in Iquitos zoo - his spirit did not attend the ceremony.

The ceremony is conducted entirely in the dark (but for repeated trips to the vomitorium of the moonlit jungle). After about four or five hours, Otilia comes over to conduct an examination and give a diagnosis. She feels and massages my stomach; her hands produce remarkable heat. She says that my liver is swollen and my gallbladder needs flushing out, for which she prescribes a plant diuretic. Apparently I also have intestinal parasites, for which she says I have to go to a pharmacy and buy a course of anti-parasitic purgatives. I am a little baffled by this. I live in the hygienic West, not in the Amazon; how have I come by these parasites? Does she have a form of X-ray vision which enables her to see into my body, or is that absurdly credulous on my part?

The proof will, as ever, be in the pudding. I will follow her instructions and prescriptions for a few weeks, assuming I can swallow some more of the filthy sludge. Then I will see whether I have recovered some of the energy and positivity which the years seem slowly to be eroding. That, according to Otilia, is simply the way things are, and she sees Ayahuasca as a bitter (so bitter!) medicine that counteracts that tendency. The benefits take time to manifest, there is no improvement without pain, and it is a holistic process that works best in combination with other plant remedies. If it works, then I will think of Otilia more as a curandera – a healer – rather than primarily as a shaman, or mediator with the spirit world.

Otilia says she would like to travel with me by boat to visit a Shipibo (indigenous tribe) community further south and take Ayahuasca with them, something she has never done. Assuming I can overcome my revulsion, I think we may do that.

My thoughts on literature, on the other hand, have been precipitated by listening to Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls on my ipod, when I have been unable to sleep the night after a ceremony. He achieves the alchemy. But how to translate that to today’s world?

The girl slept on, wrapped in his night coat on the forest floor. Robert Jordan kissed her short cropped hair one more time, then he leant across to the canvas pack. He undid the buckle on the leather strap, the strap that bore the fine sharp smell of horse sweat and the pure fresh smell of pine from where it had lain pressed against the needles during the night. Carefully he pushed aside the sticks of dynamite and reached for the inner pocket to take out his telephone.

Gently, and knowing – if the old gypsy woman was to be believed – that this was the last of their happiness, he woke the girl.

‘And thou, María, little rabbit, willst thou whatsapp me in the evening, after the bridge has been blown?’

The girl opened her eyes and rubbed them like the child that she was. Nay, that she had been, until the things of that night.

‘No, Inglés, I am thy woman now. I shall not whatsapp thee. Once I have returned to the city, and checked my facebook, and been to the beautician to have extensions fitted – for I want thee to love me always – then I shall snapchat with thee, and thou canst send me a dick pic.’

‘Qué va, little rabbit! I have no time for dic picks! El Sordo waits, Pablo is bad in the head, and the thing of the bridge must be done tonight.’

Robert Jordan looked away from the girl. She brought a softness to his mind, a softness for which he had no use now. He needed the space to be there, the big cold space that allowed for the cool calculations, so that the thing of the bridge could be done well and coldly.

‘Ay Inglés, my Inglés, that I had only swiped left with thee. Well, there are many others such as thee on Tinder, it is but little loss.’

The sun rose above the mountains in the east and the first rays filtered between the pines and danced around the entrance to the cave where the old woman now appeared.

‘I obscenity in the milk of thy Tinder!’ she shouted, and Robert Jordan and the girl knew at once that she spoke the truth.

1 note · View note