#sprinkles of german words in sentences
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As a Klavier Gavin fan, I must confess writing dialogue for him literally gives me whiplash.
#please#sprinkles of german words in sentences#bitch ur not even german#also i learned several german pet names#against my will#liebling schatz yeah#💀💀💀💀💀#ace attorney#klavier gavin#love me a cringefail prosecutor
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after-workout snack
(cw: age gap 25/41; nsfw, mndi, smut, hard f*cking, smutty domesticity, fluff)
I get up from the couch, putting the book away I was just reading, and go to the kitchen. König has been rummaging in there for what seems like an eternity, prepping his after-workout meal (it really is more of a meal and not a snack, my god, this man can eat).
I pop my head in the door and there he is, in sweatpants and a simple black shirt with cut off sleeves. His long hair is still wet from the after-workout shower, swinging around as he navigates the small space between the counter and the kitchen isle. Well, it actually isn't that small, but his stature dwarfs even big rooms.
I come a few steps closer and of course, he hears me approaching. He shoots a look over his shoulder, the corners of his mouth turning up in a grin when he sees me. I automatically smile back, I just have to, when I see him like that, his smile changing his features, the intimidating looking scowl he always wears on his face dissipating into the smirky grin I have gotten so used to.
The pump from the workout makes his arms look even bigger than they actually are, letting him seem broader than he is, while the hulk of a man is just cooking himself something.
"You want some Eierspeis as well, Hexe?", he asks me, pulling his eyebrows up. He keeps sprinkling german words into his sentences and I learned the most important ones. Like the dozen pet names he calls me - his new favourite is "Hexe", meaning 'witch'.
And "Eierspeis" is just the Austrian word for scrambled eggs, and he eats a looot of those, so that he kind of perfected them over the years.
"Oh yes please.", I answer, coming closer yet.
He nods, "Coming right up!" and turns to huge fridge that is always stocked to the brim when he is on leave. He opens the door and bends forward to get the ingredients.
His thighs stretch and his butt - deliciously firm - gets pushed back, his cheeks filling the sweatpants just right, and an idea crosses my mind.
A giddy grin stalks onto my face as I take two huge steps in his direction. I grab his hips with my hands, my fingertips digging into the muscles, pulling him into me while I push my hips forward.
A tingle rolls down my spine, but I burst into laughter as my lap collides with his thighs, due to size difference, and his butt gets pushed against my tummy. He's already craning his head back, but I get on my tiptoes, barely containing my laughs, and hump him again.
"What are you doing, brat?", he asks me, his voice beaming, but I can hear the amusement in it.
He turns around and catches my wrists, right as I giggle: "Nothing!"
Before I can register what's happening, he already has turned me around and bent me over the kitchen isle. Pushing his hips up against my ass, stretching my wrists over my head, draping his chest over my body, until his face is nuzzling into my neck.
"Didn't I give you enough attention today?", he asks softly, but with an edge, pressing his groin up against me, humping me now, and I can feel him harden quickly.
"Apparently not.", I sigh, arching into his movements. Moaning when he rubs his dick against my clothed pussy, the friction driving me crazy.
He chuckles. "Seems like we need to change that.", he drawls, straightening back up and letting go of my wrists. He pushes my leggings down hastily, the panties getting caught in there as well, the fabric pooling around my knees, and pulls his dick out of his sweatpants.
He's dragging his length back and forth, between my butt cheeks that he is gripping with his strong hands, and I know his fingertips will leave marks. Teasing me like that, with languid strokes, not giving me what I want just yet.
I squirm underneath him, restlessly, the cool surface of the kitchen isle sending shivers down my body as I get pressed against it. "Please...", I say, quietly.
"Please what?", he asks, and I can hear the smirk in his words. Oh, he's enjoying this, getting me all needy for him.
He pulls back a little and spits, the sound blanking my mind, before I feel the wetness drip down my ass to my pussy. And I can’t even answer.
"Please what?", he repeats, his voice almost turning into a purr, while his dick slips between my thighs, warm and hard against the sensitive skin, his tip nudging my clit.
"Please, fuck me...", I plead desperately, my hips bucking up searching for more friction.
He doesn't drag it out any longer and slips into me. Holding onto my hip with one hand, the other grabbing my shoulder, as he slowly drives into me. The familiar stretch of his girth makes me shiver and moan, while my mind already screams for more. He lets me adjust to his size for a few moments before he pulls back and starts to fuck me hard. His dick pistoning in and out of my pussy, hitting that certain spot inside of me.
It's a good thing that the kitchen isle is one of those built in ones, cause the force of his thrusts is shaking it. Only a little bit, the sturdy wood is not budging easily, but still.
My obscene moans and screams echo through the kitchen, intermingling with the sounds of skin slapping against skin.
I would've slumped into the cool marble counter if it hadn't been for his big hand holding me in place. My back is arched, my head turned up, as he pulls me into him, meeting his movements.
"Taking me so well, Liebes.", he drawls, my only answer a fucked-out whine, as I get pressed into the countertop again.
The swells of my ass are cushioning his hard thrusts. This position is always the most intense, with our size difference, and how deep his dick reaches like that, the tip bumping against my cervix, more than once, and it's making me lose my mind.
My eyes roll back, when I stretch around him again, my mouth turns into an O-shape-
"Fuck, König! Fuck..." The words spill out of my mouth and before I can tell him that I'll come, I already am, my thighs shaking hard.
"Yes, Liebes, oh, fuck, ja.", he breathes, not stopping to fuck me, not even getting slower. "Fuck, du fühlst di so guad an." (You feel so good) I don't understand what he's saying, just the way he says it, his voice breaking off into a deep sigh, grunting as he bottoms me out again and fills me up with his come.
His thrusts are getting slower and shallower as we're both coming down from our orgasm, and he bends down to press a kiss to my cheek, and I turn to the side to meet his mouth, my hand cradling his face.
In moments like this I always wanna say something, but it's hard to find the right words. So a kiss must suffice, telling him what I can't say out loud.
"Thank you, Sir.", I mumble against his lips.
"You're so very welcome, Hexe.", he says, giving me one more kiss, before he straightens up and pulls back, his dick slipping out. I can feel his come drip out of me before he puts my panties and leggings back into place. His hand stroking down my butt as I slide off the counter, slumping into him. He hums softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, and I relish the little hug, pulling his arm closer around me. Just a little moment before we break away.
König gets back to the workout meal, fetching some more stuff from the fridge, where I interrupted him so rudely before. I get a wet cloth and some cleaner, and wipe the kitchen isle down properly, before I sit down next to him. And just watch him prepare the scrambled eggs.
"I didn't plan for that second workout...", he says with a wink, cracking another egg into the pan, and I laugh, seeing that he already went through a whole carton.
"Me neither.", I shoot back, adding cheekily: "Gotta watch your cholesterol, old man."
He pulls up an eyebrow, the 'watch it' clear in the look he gives me. Leaning in again, he murmurs: "Oh, I have you to help me work it off again.", the tone in his voice telling me exactly how he plans on doing that.
"You do.", I say smiling, kissing his nose, the crooked bridge where it has been broken two times. He goes cross-eyed, following my movement, and that breaks his domineering expression. I laugh a little, pulling back. He grins at me, catching my chin to press a big loud kiss to my lips. "Ach, Hexe.", he says, sighing, but it's a content one, as he gets back to finally finishing up the after-workout snack.
~ More in the Masterlist ~
#metalhead!könig#spending time with mh!k#könig#könig cod#könig mw2#konig#konig cod#konig mw2#könig fanfiction#cod mw2 smut#könig smut#konig smut#cod smut#könig x reader#tw: age gap
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repaired
seven: translation nation
chapter summary: Steve and Kate both have to go to work, but Kate holds a hesitation.
chapter warnings: smuttish, language, making out, alcoholism/alcohol abuse, steve likes kate's boobies
word count: 3.3k
series masterlist | masterlist
WHEN KATE HAD finally arrived at Scoops, she wasn't quite expecting to have to translate a Russian communication with Robin.
Steve had told her a thousand times that she didn't have to help translate it. Kate, however, couldn't help but want to get involved. While somewhat of a secret of hers, she was totally a language dork—that was why she'd taken two in high school. While it had been different than translating either of the languages she spoke, she enjoyed the challenge Russian provided.
"So what languages do you speak?" Robin asked. Kate looked up at her with a confused look, but she elaborated. "Steve told me you speak four languages."
She scoffed, smiling as she shook her head. "Yeah, no, he's a liar. He counts Morse Code because of the alphabet."
"Dingus. What are the other two, then?"
"French and German."
"Wait, for real?" Robin asked, somewhat excitedly. "I speak French, too."
"Really?" Kate asked, matching her excitement. "Like actually, or enough to pass the class?"
"I read a lot of books and listen to tapes," she replied, trying to give Kate an idea about it. "I speak Italian and Spanish, too."
"Jesus, Italian?" Kate laughed. "How'd you manage Italian?"
"I've been playing French Horn since I was five, so I kinda—"
"Can you both stop talking and listen to the tape?" Dustin asked with an annoyed tone, rewinding the tape once again. He came to Scoops to decode it with Steve, not to let Robin and Kate get giddy over a language family that Russian didn't even belong to.
"Sorry, damn," Kate said sheepishly.
When they listened to it again, Robin twisted back around to face him. "Okay, that last part. Just one more time."
"Okay."
As Dustin rewinded the tape, both girls prepared to listen again for anything that stuck out to them.
"Dly-nna-ya," Kate said, drawing out the syllables. She wrote out the way she found it sounded in her notebook, staring at the word. "Obviously it starts with a 'D.'"
"D," Dustin repeated as he moved to the board. "The... The chair. The chair-looking thingy."
"Yeah, okay."
"L," Kate continued, looking at her paper as Robin started transcribing it down in the Cyrillic alphabet.
Once they'd gotten the rest of the phrase, Robin and Kate leaned out of the breakroom window to inform Steve of the good news. "We've got our first sentence."
"Oh, seriously?" Steve said, scooping ice cream into a cone.
"Nedelya dlinnaya," Kate replied.
"The week is long," Robin translated in a terrible Russian accent.
"Well, that's thrilling."
"I know, but progress," Robin said, slipping out the window.
"You still feeling okay?" Steve asked, touching her hand before Kate could slip out behind her.
She nodded, shrugging and smiling. "Yeah, I'm fine. Perfect. Having the time of my life in there. I think I'm gonna take Russian in college."
Steve chuckled. "All right, don't overwork yourself. Love you."
She saluted him with two fingers before she slipped out the window herself. "Love you, too, comrade." Before she could close the window shutters, however, she looked to the customers that Steve had been serving: her sister and Max Mayfield.
"Okay, here you go, you got a strawberry and then a vanilla with sprinkles, extra whipped cream."
"Thanks."
Kate only stared at Max and El in slight shock. Her sister was definitely not supposed to be anywhere near the mall, never mind inside of it to get free ice cream from her boyfriend.
"Wait a second. Are you even allowed to be here?" Steve asked, looking more specifically to El.
"No," Kate said from behind him, trying to get a closer look at her sister. She hadn't even realized that El and Max were friends now.
Both girls giggled as they ran away, and Kate only stared. She hadn't even noticed the horrified expression on Steve's face. He should've known that El wasn't supposed to be there, and now he had just given her ice cream? Then again, if he hadn't given her ice cream, what would she have done to him? Not only was there the opportunity for El to blow his brains out with her mind, but Max could also be really, really mean to him—
"We didn't see her here, got it?" Kate finally asked, looking to him with an unreadable expression.
He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. "Mhm, yep. Got it."
As Steve closed the gate to the ice cream shop entrance, locking it shut, he started talking about the Russian tape again. "I mean, it just... it just can't be right."
"It's definitely right, Steven."
"Honestly, I think it's great news," Dustin said.
"How is this great news?" Steve asked. "I mean, so much for being American heroes. It's total nonsense."
"It's not nonsense," Dustin replied. "It's too specific."
"It has to be a type of code," Kate elaborated, mostly to Steve.
"What do you mean, a code?"
"Like a super-secret spy code," Dustin replied.
"A code that would be useful for Ruskies, anyway," Kate added.
"That's a total stretch."
"I don't know, is it?" Robin asked.
"Both of you are buying into this?" Steve asked, unconvinced.
Robin sighed. "Listen, just for kicks, let's entertain the possibility that it is a secret Russian transmission. What'd you think they were gonna say, 'Fire the warhead at noon?'"
"Exactly," Dustin said.
"I mean, a code makes much more sense than anything else," Kate said. "Like, why would you not use a code to cover up some type of sensitive Soviet information?"
"Exactly."
"So I guess that confirms your suspicion," Kate said.
"Evil Russians."
"I can't believe I'm about to agree with this strange child, but yeah, totally, evil Russians," Robin said.
"So how do we crack it?"
"We can try translating the rest of it tomorrow and hopefully a pattern emerges," Kate replied.
"A pattern," Dustin repeated. "Right, like maybe 'silver cat' is a meeting place?"
"Or a person," Robin said.
"Or a weapon."
"It's probably gonna take a super genius to crack it, but..."
"We've gotten this far," Kate said. She opened her mouth to say something to Steve as she turned to the side, but she quickly realized he was no longer beside her. "Hey, where's Steve?"
The group of three quickly turned around to find Steve standing in front of the mechanical horse near Scoops that seemed to operate all day, every day.
"Hey, Steve," Kate called as he started to pull change out of his pockets. "What are you doing?"
"Uh, it's a quarter. I need... Do you have a quarter?"
Kate chuckled as the three ran over to him. She dug in her pocketbook for a simple quarter, moving closer and closer to him.
"Sure you're tall enough for that ride?"
"Quarter!" Steve shouted as Kate threw one to him, and he put the coin into the machine as quickly as possible.
Once the music started to play, she knew exactly what Steve had been going on about.
"You need help getting up, little Stevie?"
"Would you just shut up and listen?" Steve said as Dustin chuckled.
After the song played for a moment, "Holy shit."
"It's the music," Kate said as Dustin pulled out the tape from his bag and played it.
"I don't understand," Robin said.
"It's the exact same song on the recording," Dustin explained.
"Maybe they have horses like this in Russia?"
"Indiana Flyer? I don't... I don't think so," Steve said, looking to the name of the horse. "This code, it... didn't come from Russia."
"It came from here," Kate said, and she could only stare in horror at the horse as it rocked to the music.
When Kate and Steve arrived back at the cabin, they found Max and El in her bedroom.
This had been the second time today that they'd found the two girls together again. Kate couldn't think of a time that Max and El had been alone together before then, and suddenly it appeared like they were best friends or something.
She turned to Steve, putting her ear against El's green bedroom door to hear them better.
"Is Mike a good kisser?"
"I don't know. He's my first boyfriend."
"Ex-boyfriend."
Kate's mouth fell open.
Steve gave her a worried expression. "What?"
"Mike and El broke up," Kate whispered almost inaudible.
"Oh shit," Steve said somewhat loudly, not even bothering to whisper.
Before Kate could reply to him, Max called out to them from inside El's room. "Hey, who the hell is that?"
"Just me and Steve," Kate said after giving Steve a pointed look, and El opened the door with her powers. They stood in the doorway awkwardly, trying to act as if they weren't listening to them.
"Oh," Max said sheepishly. If she would've known it was Kate, she wouldn't have been so brisk. "Hey."
"You guys okay?" Steve asked them, leaning against the doorframe. He had a hand on his hip, which perfectly accentuated his Scoops uniform (Kate wished she would've had a camera).
"Yeah, Popeye, we're doing great," Max replied, earning a giggle from El.
"Do you even know who Popeye is?" Kate asked, giving her sister a confused look.
She hesitated to respond. "No."
"Great. That's great," Steve said, moving to Kate's room as he sighed.
Kate shook her head, sighing slightly. "Okay, we'll, uh... leave you two alone. Don't, uh... do anything stupid?"
The two girls both smiled innocently at her. Almost too innocently for comfort. "We won't."
Kate closed the door behind her, which immediately led to the giggles of the two girls as "Angel" continued to blare in the background. In a way, Kate's heart warmed at the thought that Max and her sister were now friends. It seemed like an odd duo, but she figured that both of them probably got so tired of hanging out with all of those boys all the time. A friend like Max would be good for El: she needed someone that would help her speak her mind, to help her break out of Mike's shell (because Kate was very, very tired of her dad being so upset about Mike). Kate also liked Max a lot more than Mike, so she would take what she could get.
Whenever Kate walked into her room, shutting the door behind her, she found Steve had already put on another pair of shorts, digging through her drawers for a shirt. "Well, she's taking it better than I could have ever imagined."
"No shit," Steve replied, still looking for a shirt.
Kate's lips tugged upward as she moved to lean against her dresser, watching him as he dug through her drawers. She liked to admire him whenever he wasn't looking, mostly because she knew his ego didn't need any boosting when it came to how attractive he was. She loved to trace over his freckles with her eyes, his happy trail. The shorts he had on now sat low on his waist, leaving a bit less to the imagination. She, however, pushed it to the back of her mind—she, currently, was much more invested in her sister's relationship. "She obviously broke up with him. Figures. She was too good for him anyway."
When Steve finally found a shirt of his, he put it on top of her dresser, then put a hand on her jaw. "You done talking about the kids now?"
She gave him a pointed look, holding her hand over his. "If your sister just dumped her boyfriend, you'd be talking about it, too."
He chuckled, kissing her as he rubbed his thumb against her cheek. When her tongue slid over his, he sighed, putting one of his hands on her waist, moving under her tank top and flannel to touch her skin instead.
She slid her flannel off of her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor as she wrapped her arms around his neck again, melting into another kiss as he pinned her against the wall. He hoisted her up, her legs immediately wrapping around his waist. Out of breath, he released her lips and began to make his way down her neck, making light nibbles as he moved. When she let out a soft moan when he landed at a particular spot, he smirked for half a second before moving back to the same spot, biting and sucking at it.
He moved back to her lips whenever she'd finally giggled, making him exhale heavily. His hand spanned the width of her cheek, fingertips grazing her hairline whilst his thumb managed to pull at her bottom lip, eager for more.
The loose change and random books on her desk fell to the floor whenever Steve picked her up and moved her on top of it, legs spreading for him to fit in between. One of his hands roamed up her thighs, pushing at the soft skin there until he hitched a knee up and over his hip, pressing himself into her. Kate broke the kiss for only a second to slip her tank top over her head, leaving her just in a bra and shorts.
Just for a moment, he pulled away, chest heaving, pressing their foreheads together. "They're on the other side of that wall."
"And?"
"I'm not gonna be able to stop if we keep going, Kathy."
She stifled a laugh. "Okay."
With her words, Steve shrugged it off and moved down to her chest, kissing over the lace triangles that covered her chest. He looked back up to her again, almost as if he were asking for her approval. She nodded at him, and he unhooked her bra, leaving her topless as he held one of her breasts in his hand and his tongue traced over her nipple.
She moaned softly, immediately running her fingers deep through his hair, tugging in appreciation as she smiled at the sound it pulled from him. His eyes fluttered shut as he continued to kiss, nip, and suck at her breasts, his hands skimming up and down her sides before they settled on her ass. She wrapped her legs around his waist again, noticing the hardness pressed up against her thigh. She moved her hips slightly, making him let out a small moan.
As Steve moved to unbutton her shorts, the front door slapped open and shut, clunky footsteps seeming to follow.
Her father had come home, and he was absolutely pissed.
Kate quickly pushed Steve off of her, throwing on the t-shirt Steve had thrown on her dresser, and Steve quickly dug through the drawer he'd claimed in Kate's dresser, quickly throwing on a shirt of his own. Kate quickly rushed out of her bedroom, finding her father stumbling to El's bedroom door, a wine bottle in hand. "Hey! When I say three inches, three—"
When he slammed the green door open, he found Max and El laying on the floor, reading two magazines.
"Do you knock? Jeez!" Max shouted.
"Yeah! Jeez!" El repeated.
"Oh, hey," Hopper slurred.
When Steve had followed behind her, finally putting on a shirt, he watched Hopper just as Kate had. When he finally looked at her face, his heart dropped: she looked horrified.
It had been a long time since Jim Hopper had stumbled home late after a long night of drinking. Kate couldn't remember a time when her father had done it since they'd added El to their family, and it certainly hadn't been something she missed. The thought of him driving home like this from downtown made a chill run down her spine. She could only stare in horror as her father only made the situation with the two girls in El's room even more embarrassing and awkward.
"I'm sorry," Hopper said, trying to make himself sound more put together. "I thought that, uh—"
"Mike's not here," Max said knowingly.
"Max wanted to have... a sleepover," El said. "Is that... okay?"
"Yeah?" Hopper said. "Yeah, yeah. Yeah." He looked at Max. "Your parents know about it?"
"Yup," she replied, popping the "P."
"Uh, yeah, it's cool," Hopper said. "That's... That's really cool."
Whenever he stopped talking, an awkward silence hung in the air.
"Did you need something?" Max asked.
"No, no," Hopper replied, almost in a daze. "Uh, I'll leave. I'll just let you... I'll leave you..." He stuttered until he finally shut the door, letting the two girls enjoy their time together. Whenever he noticed Steve and Kate's presence, he turned to them as the two only stared at him in horror.
"Hey, you two," Hopper said, smiling drunkenly.
"What happened?" Kate asked, eyes wide. Her father hadn't been this drunk in a long time.
"Oh, nothin'. Joyce stood me up at Enzo's."
Kate sighed. She hadn't even realized Hopper had asked Joyce out on a date, let alone the fact that they were going on one tonight (or didn't go on, she assumed). "Dad..."
"It's not a big deal. I'm home with you now, so it's all good."
She frowned. "Dad, I don't... are you okay?"
"Oh yeah, I'm fine," her father answered, sitting and reclining back into his chair. "Just glad to be home with you kids."
"Dad—"
"Why don't you two come sit," Hopper said, turning the TV on to a Magnum P.I. rerun. "We can enjoy ourselves."
Before Kate could object, Steve grabbed her hand, pulling her to the couch. "Sure."
"What the hell're you—"
"Just trust me, okay?" Steve said, sitting down on the couch.
Kate looked to Steve, almost not believing what he was doing. She knew they needed to just leave the room, hide out in her room or something. Even though Steve's parents were home, she wasn't even opposed to going to his house instead. Anywhere would be better than right here right now, and she was absolutely sure of it. Hopper would eventually get better if they just left him alone, that or he wouldn't get any worse.
Whenever he shot her with the puppy dog eyes, though, she sighed, sitting on the couch next to him.
After a couple of hours, Kate had finally fallen asleep. Since then, she had curled into Steve, leaning her head on his chest. He hadn't moved a muscle since then—he knew how much she struggled with falling asleep. He didn't want to risk waking her up, even if it meant he and Hopper were left alone.
Hopper finally cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "You're a good kid, Steve."
He almost hadn't heard what he said. He could've sworn he could've imagined it. "What?"
"I said that you're a good kid."
Steve hesitated. "Really?"
"As much as it pains me to say it, yeah," Hopper said, shrugging slightly. "Out of any of 'em she could've picked, I'm glad it was you. There's not a son of a bitch in this town that gets her like you do."
Steve smiled. "That means a lot, sir."
Hopper looked at him with an unreadable expression. "You, uh… remember what you promised me last year?"
Steve almost laughed at the idea. How could he not remember? it had been that night when she had gotten so hurt, and she had been laying in Jonathan Byers's room, passed out from all the blood she'd lost. After she had almost died, Hopper had asked him to keep her safe, no matter what happened. Back then, it had seemed like a promise that would be difficult to keep, but it truly hadn't been. Not yet.
"Yeah. Yeah, I remember."
He hesitated. "Don't forget it."
Steve nodded. "I wasn't planning on it."
Hopper stood up, clapping him on the shoulder before walking into his room for the night.
That night, as well as the night she'd gotten so hurt, would be something he'd never forget.
next chapter
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The translation of Welcom to Night Vale (the novel) is so bad I'm publically shaming translators Wieland Freund und Andrea Wandel, as well as the so-called editors at Klett-Cotta. We have:
your standard formal/informal address shenanigans
Translating general words with specific words. Turning the Man in The Tan Jacket into the Mann im hellbraunen Jackett is the new "Elf Pferde" (from the German version of Pratchett's Lords and Ladies, where "elf horses" turned into "eleven horses" because it's what fifth graders who learn English call a "false friend").
a gross misunderstanding of singular they (most egregiously, City Council has become "members of the City Council". The character City Council has many limbs, but how many members they have is between them and Station Management.)
"Dog Park" is neither a loan word nor a proper name, but it remains untranslated for some reason.
"Fun Fact" gets translated to "lauter lustige Fakten" despite the English word being widely used in exactly the same way.
"Rabid flying mammals" somehow was turned into "misbehaving flying mammals" when we literally have a word that expresses both the rabies connection and the rowdy behaviour. Like rabid.
Translating "Diane hurt" (she felt pain because of the miscommunications between her and her teenaged son, a context clue I picked up from reading the damn book) in the only possible way that leaves you wondering "Diane hurt who?" because this translation is literally on the level of Altavista's Babelfish, ca. 2003.
Translating "sentient" as a word that can be read as "with a talent for empathy" is like those tire killing speed bumps on a wide, straight, well lit road that doesn't get a lot of traffic.
Translating the "yet" in Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency as "nichtsdestotrotz" when we have "doch" or in a pinch even "aber" is an act of war.
Ignoring "sondern" entirely and always going straight to "aber" for every single "but".
Ignoring "tatsächlich", "echt", and "reell" completely and going straight to "wirklich" for every single "real".
At this point I think they get off on it. Mmmm yeah, right in the grammar, oh baby.
Just gendering things that remain ungendered in the English text for the hell of it. (Or it's supposed to be a generic feminine and they're using it inconsistently and didn't tell anyone about it.)
Translating commands by always using the infinitive instead of the normal imperative while otherwise slavishly adhering to the casual tone of the original. For a that random little sprinkle of Bundeswehr feel.
Speaking of slavishly adhering to the original: Translating sentence breaks, pauses, and filler words literally and placing them in the exact same spot in a sentence as in English, with a total disregard for how much of the actual meaning is lost because GERMAN DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY.
I'm on page 82 of 376.
Brought to you by the publisher who rendered Gandalf talking with the Hobbit children about fireworks as "G is for g...[editor's note: "horny"]", said the geezer and grinned.
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20 questions for fic writers
@flowerparrish was kind enough to tag me. Thank you my friend! <3
How many works do you have on ao3?
78, many are just art, some are combos and ficlets
what’s your total ao3 word count?
162,540 and I've got about 65k that I am currently editing. :3
What fandoms do you write for?
So far only Star Wars, but I have a terrible, terrible wip that I wrote about Pacific Rim in about 2015. It will never see the light of day! XD
What are your top 5 fics by kudos?
1. the longest klick (fic)
2. say you feel the same way too (long fic with art)
3. Nearly a Skywalker (fic and a couple of pieces of art)
4. Mystery Gift Exchange 1 (art and a ficlet)
5. I wanna feel your skin on mine (art and 2 drabbles)
Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?
Yep, I respond to them all (if I didn't let me know because I didn't mean to miss it!)
What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending
Ending? Hmm, not really a fan of just angst. Usually I like that payoff in the end of nice things and good times.
What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?
I saved Mayday, what could be better? (Longest klick)
Do you get hate on fics?
... not yet... 🤞 It's also pretty damn rude to hate on people for writing stuff for free. Don't like, don't kudos or comment! Move along.
Do you write smut? If so, what kind?
:3 I try my best, but I do love my clones getting it on. XD
Do you write crossovers?
Nope, not yet anyway!
Have you ever had a fic stolen?
Not that I know of.
Have you ever had a fic translated?
Nope, bit that would be pretty awesome!
Have you ever co-written a fic before?
Yes. @indira-korr and I had a lot of fun with Fives in washing is all the rage!
What’s your all-time favorite ship?
Echo/Fives, it rots my brain so good. XD
What’s a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?
Uuuuh, probably the PacRim one I mentioned above.
What are your writing strengths?
Adding oddly specific and gross tidbits.
What are your writing weaknesses?
Punctuation and typing (I mean most everything, bit I'm still learning).
Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?
Uuuuh, does Mandoa count? I typically just use a sprinkle of words here and there, but any other language? Hmmm, I could probably cobble together a couple simple sentences in German and Spanish.
First fandom you wrote for?
Pacific Rim
Favorite fic you’ve written?
the longest klick, it just leaked out of my head and grew 2 more chapters.
tagging: How about @nightfall-1409 @wrennette @anstarwar @seascribbling (feel free to ignore if you've already been tagged). :)
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Ok, ok, last thing about Putlitz (for now)..
I know you’ve already read “Brandenburgische Geschichten” but I can’t get over how this is how he introduces Katte…
Apologies for the poor translation….
“
Torn, and the apparent proved that his mutation with the newly arrived guest had been right. Wrapped in his coat, in haste, a lieutenant from the gendarmes entered the room.
Another hasty greeting of the older officers, he approached the Wirth and asked about the Lieute nant von Spaen from the royal regiment.
The figure was not great, but skilful and strong, the attitude more the free of a world man than the stiffness of the then military. The face was tanned and torn apart by leaf scars, the bushy dark eye browns, which shaded a beautiful eye, gave him a gloomy expression on top, like the raised lips a little dry sensual. [NOTE: The exact word used was “Sinnliches.” I’m not fluent In German…. Is there…. Perhaps…. Another translation that I’m not familiar with?]
Nevertheless, the whole appearance had something Attractive. Youthful cockiness and graceful movements.
The uniform, blue with red lapels, sequin vest and golden Balleten [NOTE: I can’t find a translation for this I’m sorry] bore the fight. (?) Traces of a quick ride, the high boots were sprinkled with feces, the hair in disarray. The young man had safely taken a seat, had taken off the thick riding gloves, and the most beautiful man's hand, decorated with brilliant rings, rested on the backrest of the armchair.”
Yeah, I love how he's all "Look at this mysterious hot stranger" and then Katte just can't keep his mouth shut to save his life for the following pages :'D Another thing I genuinely liked about Brandenburgische Geschichten, to my own surprise, was Katte's scene with Wilhelmine ("Her Royal Highness will be glad to hear that I am leaving forever and she never has to see me again!! :((" and "You have been talking about his plans and being in his favour with everyone you met!" "No never, I did not tell a soul!" *a few scenes earlier* "So the CROWN PRINCE, who likes me, is totally gonna run away if things don't change. See ya later, I'm being summoned by THE CROWN PRINCE!", he's such a dumbass idiot).
You did very well with your translation!! A few things that were perhaps slightly off/I tried my hand at to clear up possible misunderstandings:
The first sentence is incomplete, it's more like "He could not finish talking, the door was torn open and one look proved, that his assumption about the new guest had been correct."
Wirt[h] is the barkeep/tavern owner/guy who sells you beer
"The figure was not tall, but dextrous and strong, his posture more the free one of a worldly man [Weltmann is like... He is modern and has been travelling and knows what's up] than the stiff one of the military of the time."
Blatternnarben are pockmarks and his "full lips give him something defiantly sensual". Sensual is the proper translation of sinnlich in this context, I believe, which... Putlitz made a choice there :'D
"Nevertheless, the whole appearance had something attractive, spraying with youthful cockiness and the movements were graceful."
"paille Weste" is not a sequin vest (that would be Paillettenweste), although that would be very funny. Paille is an uncommon word for this yellowish beige colour of the military's vests and trousers. If I had to guess I'd say the Germans just used a French word there?
No idea what Balletten are. I know that the fancy uniform of the Gens d'armes had golden trims, so it's either that or maybe Putlitz gave him anachronistic epaulettes? People who know more about uniforms than I do, speak up (also why would he be wearing that uniform, iirc that was a privilege for special occasions and *only* for the Gens d'armes and he rakes it through the mud :'D Get your yellow leather riding fit, silly)
no matter what they are, the Balletten "carry the visible marks of a fast ride"
Kot does mean feces, you are correct in that, but it used to be used in a more general "dirt" kind of way. Since I don't know if the same is true in English I feel like I have to clear up that Katte doesn't show up there covered in shit, it is probably mud :'D
"The young man had exhaustedly thrown himself onto a chair, had taken off the thick riding gloves, and the most beautiful man's hand, decorated with brilliant diamond rings over which rich lace cuffs fell, rested on the [arm- or back]rest of the armchair." [my little drama queen, I adore Brandenburgische Geschichten Katte <3]
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#012 Independent Project
LTI – Lingua Tertii Imperii
"Lingua Tertii Imperii" can help me better understand the Nazis' linguistic invasion. I learned about this book when I was doing a previous project. It mainly introduces how the Third Reich led by Hitler carried out linguistic invasion. The book mentions that on a new people's celebration day, Hitler's birthday, "the people"(Volk) was used very frequently in speeches, just like we use salt when eating, and sprinkle a grain of "people" on everything, the people's festival, the people's group, close to the people, from the people. As well as the word "worldview"(Weltanschauung), the word "viewing" is more formal and vague in German. It means a kind of seeing, in the heart of the viewer, with their emotions involved.
The language of the Nazis also changed the value and usage of words. A niche word became a public word. Because of their constant propaganda, language served their terrible system and became their most powerful and most powerful one. Publicity is also the most secret method of propaganda and deception. These repeated and constantly used languages can be said to be a kind of language pollution. The word "Herorisches" is also frequently mentioned in the language system of the Nazis. In itself, this word should be righteous and pure, but the Nazis continued to whitewash "heroism", making its core hollow and destroying its reputation.
The Nazis firmly believed that they could have eternal vitality. Every speech the Führer made was historical, even if he said the same thing a hundred times, so "historic" was particularly prominent in the language of the Third Reich. Every holiday is historic, even all days. "Superlative" is also the most commonly used language form in this party. It is frequently used by orators and agitators and is essentially a form of advertising. When the officer gave the order, he said "The best weapons in the world, made by the best workers in the world (Welt), are provided to the best warriors in the world, arming them", "The world obeys the leader", every time a game is won Big battle, there is "the greatest battle in the history of the world".
What these languages pursue is fanaticism. The word "eternal" (ewig) can be understood as the highest level of Nazism in the language of the Third Reich. When I call something "eternal," we find the path to eternity. Hitler said at the school's celebration ceremony, "What comes after the Third Reich?" Some students may answer "The Fourth Reich", then they will be regarded as unqualified believers. The correct answer must be "The Third Reich is the eternal Germany."
It can be said that the most powerful influence of the Nazis did not come from speeches, leaflets or articles. They relied on common phrases and the most common sentence patterns to subtly influence people's way of thinking, using things that are easiest to absorb and accept. The more naturally these words ring in our minds, the more unconsciously we surrender our thoughts to these words.
In rural China, bold red characters on the wall are the most common form of publicity. You don't know when it appeared or when it changed. These red slogans have always existed on the wall. I think it is a kind of discipline. The "socialist values" that I was required to recite when I was in high school can still be blurted out now. Words like "civilization", "harmony", "freedom", etc. have a positive meaning, but when it is used as a slogan, when it is written all over the streets, it will gradually lose its own meaning. The Chinese caused controversy by writing these slogans on the walls of London. Under freedom it was written "There is no freedom in China". Here are also opposing ideas and different views colliding. When we give meaning to words, it affects us and creates confrontations and contradictions, further invading our thoughts.
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Student!Reader x Professor!Obito
Summary: Every teacher has their favorite student, even the surly unapproachable types. Lucky you, you had just the charm to work on your professor to ensure that position belonged to you. And if you happened to be exploiting his weaknesses to improve your grades in the meantime, was that so wrong? You didn't deserve that F and he knew it.
Words: 13.8k
NSFW
teacher-student relationship, smut, porn with plot, under desk blow job, desk sex, rough sex, unprotected sex, spanking, dacryphilia, dirty talk, praise, cockwarming
Read: AO3 / FFnet
Bend the Rules for Me
“Class dismissed.”
Behind you, students clamored out of their seats and crammed their assignments marked with red X’s into their backpacks, or glanced over the scribble in the margins spotlighting all the reasons their paper was lackluster and crumpled it into the trash can beside the door as they stomped up the stairs and grumbled to their friends about how bullshit the grading was.
Everyone left. Except you.
You uncrossed your legs. Slowly. Reveling in the feel of the fabric of your skirt skimming your upper thighs; lingering in the position with your knees pointed outward while you gathered your things and stood up at the same time your professor turned his back to you and busied himself anywhere else.
Clouds of chalk dust fell from the green board, sprinkling his crisp dark blue dress shirt. Professor Uchiha brushed it off, then unbuttoned the sleeve cuffs, rolling them up his forearms until they fit snug under his elbows.
“I know you’re there,” he said, erasing the last of his sloppy handwriting detailing next week’s exam. “I imagine you’ve prepared an hour long speech about how unjust your grade was and how I should persuade my fingers to enter one a smidge higher when I log it in online?”
You didn’t reply; opting instead to simply shake your pages and pages of research stapled together on the whims of late nights stressing red veins into your eyes and the accompanying bags under them.
He dropped his head back and sighed. The eraser was tossed on the metal tray and he shoved his hands in his pockets before turning around to acquiesce your face: slackened in disapproval.
“I’m here to discuss why you think I’ve earned this when I understood the assignment just fine and wrote a, quite frankly, wonderful and well versed and well researched paper detailing the similarities in the plays down to the themes in how the women treat each other, the direction beats on stage, and use of Germanic language in the seconds acts.”
There was no use in sending you away.
Stiffly, he shuffled to his chair and fell into it, scooting it up to his desk and sitting so snug the wood edge dug into his solar plexus. Only then did he remove his hands from his pockets and clasp them under his chin, resting his elbows on the manila folders littering his desk next to the upturned mug of spilled pens crowding his mouse pad.
He regarded you with his blank stare--if not tinted pink across his nose--and goaded you with all the boredom in his tired voice after his lecture, “Well, let’s hear it.”
Professor Uchiha may have looked you in the eye, but it seemed difficult to do so. Like when someone averted their gaze to hide their true thoughts inside their brain from being seen, heard.
Or similar to when you’ve spotted someone you didn’t like from across the room and strove to ignore them at all costs, despite taking quick glances to ensure they were looking at you too.
Or when you both thought you were innocent gazelles, but you are the lion stalking the thin reeds of swaying yellow grass.
His presence dominated when class was in session. After? When it was just you two? You always got what you wanted.
“Well, considering I can’t read your wise remark under the very first sentence, let’s start there,” you posed, eyebrows raised.
A childish groan emitted from his throat. Ceased abruptly when you turned on the ball of your foot and strutted around his desk to the chalkboard. You picked up the stub of chalk he used that afternoon and wrote your comparisons in an easy to read bullet point list.
Professor Uchiha’s eyes followed your parading around his domain. Behind his desk. Touching his belongings. Assured in your cocky tone when addressing him; acting like you’ve done it dozens of times. Because you had.
Tracking your every graceful movement, he spun in his chair to give you the attention you wanted. But not before adjusting his trousers over his lap, deciding to lay an arm over that part of him while he cooled down.
It didn’t work.
You wrote sentence after sentence. Long loops of words. Vocalized in a purr to his ear. A delightful rumble in his chest as he hummed along. A growing desire forcing him to sit awkwardly.
He surrendered. Your back was to him. He stuffed his right hand in his pocket and grabbed the thing seconds from embarrassing him and wrangled it flat to his palm.
The smirk twitching at your lips was smothered as you moved on to your next point on the board. Pretend as much as he wanted; act aloof, be a hardass during class. Professor Uchiha was wrapped around your finger.
Absolutely no one dared approach him after red-inked grades were handed back. He never changed them. He never gave extensions. His office hours were spent alone, as was his lunch.
Unless you were there.
As you often were.
If only your classmates got word that all they had to do to improve their grades was wear a short skirt, a blouse missing its top buttons, and thigh high stockings.
Professor Uchiha had his weaknesses. You ruthlessly exploited them. Your speech was punctuated by bending over. Underlined by the flounce of your skirt hem swinging to and fro while gesturing at his bleeding red notes shouting about how your interpretation of the text was wrong. Emphasized by your automatic coyness to lace your hands in front of you when he was defending his ruling; your tits creating ample cleavage he only wished he was strong-willed enough to stop his eyes from darting to when stumbling through his rebuttal.
Poor Professor. He shifted in his chair and admitted defeat at the tilt of your head and batting of your lashes. Fight it as he did, he always acknowledged your argument in good faith and raised your points in the spreadsheet that determined your worthiness as Pass or Fail. They weren’t egregious changes. Just enough to score a C.
You beamed and thanked him for his time, clapping the chalk dust from your hands and giving him a sickly sweet smile before ascending the steps and leaving.
In a way, how you charmed the tent in his pants was its own reward. Your vibrator required charging yet again after leaving his class.
~~~
The following week you sat at your table in the front and held one of your usual discussions with your professor. Well, at one point it was a discussion. For months this routine quickly delved into talking about deeper topics, then surface; what you did over the weekend, what his hobbies were, reciting poems or lines from plays you were studying in class. All around laid back conversations. Always with his sleeves rolled up, his hair a disheveled mess like his desk, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, and that goofy grin on his face.
It was criminal how he made you laugh when his personality during class was so opposite. No other student had this rapport with him. Naturally, this trivial fact inflated your ego. Being able to interrupt his lectures by uncrossing your legs and watching his cheeks flush. Such a simple man.
Seducing him to hide his blatant erections behind his desk fueled your lifeblood. Torturing him more by tugging at your shirt collar and testing the limits of your buttons crying out for relief over your lacy bra. He was so obvious, it was cute.
Professor Uchiha unbound his fingers from behind his head to read his watch. “Shouldn’t you be on your way?”
You tapped a manicured nail on your phone to check the time. “Seems so.” Stashing away the worn paperback you were conferring on him about for your dissertation, you walked up the stairs, passing rows and rows of tables and hard plastic chairs. “Have a nice evening, Professor.” You paused at the door attempting to read his expression from across the room.
He raised a hand and waved goodbye. “Lock the door on your way out.” You obliged, depressing the lock on the handle and closing the door behind you.
Professor Uchiha waited for the click, the jiggle of the handle. He had requested you to perform the task many times in the past. So many, in fact, you no longer tossed him a questionable brow before leaving.
Penetrating the silence of the empty classroom was the heels of your shoes clicking down the hallway for a few steps until they faded away altogether.
The top drawer of his desk ripped open--banging on its metal slides--and he grabbed his phone and bottle of lotion laid sideways. Smacked the drawer closed. Ignored the rustling of his things jumbling into one amalgamation inside. Lotion, box of tissues, phone. Mouse pad shoved aside.
He lured in the mug of pens closer to use it to prop up his phone and proceeded to go through his gallery.
“I thought I saved them..” he grumbled to himself. At this point the ache sending a dull pain to his stomach should’ve told him it wasn’t that important, but he opened Instagram on his second account and navigated his way to yours with one finger. Hunched over and trying to unbuckle his belt.
On your profile he scrolled down to find his favorite post of yours. A photoshoot from your summer vacation. Many pictures. Many angles. Many pouty looks at the camera wearing a layer of sand and a trendy micro bikini. The sand provided more coverage.
He swiped to a photo he hadn’t masturbated to in a while and finally! His hands were free.
His leather belt was threaded through the buckle. Button steered through the loop. Zipper cascaded over his rock hard cock warming his palm, wrestled from the confines of his boxer briefs.
After holding back for an hour, he needed it. Wanted it more than anything.
Two pumps of lotion smeared over his fingers. Tissues waved in the wind of his grunting. His skin was hot all over, uncomfortably so. Simmering blood wound rivers through his tense muscles. Boiling lust compelled his eyes to ravage the image, not deciding on which aspects the hormones in his brain liked best: the side of your tits, voluptuous ass, or plump pussy peeking out due to your writhing on your stomach on the beach towel. Arching everything so perfectly for him it was as if you were made to please him.
The rest of his concentration was spent fucking his hands.
Long inhale, shuddering exhale.
The rhythmic beat of sins pulsed in his ears. Taboo quickened his pace. Thrill seeking adrenaline coasted his twitching fingers over his reddened tip. The groan stirring in his chest unearthed all the restrained affection he had for you; it was demanding to be released. To moan your name where no one could hear him.
But he had to keep it stamped down. Try as he might to not show favoritism in class, his gaze wandered to you far too often. He chose you to stand and declare your snarky answer to his question while he hid himself behind his desk. The times you showed up early to see him and he made you write out the day’s lecture on the chalkboard--since your handwriting was legible compared to his.
All benign excuses to reel you in.
Mornings spent hanging out. Evenings spent arguing over your grades. Not like you were a bad student; your exams were what almost secured your position for passing his class, it was your papers that needed work. Riddled with disjointed thoughts, meandering points, and leaps in logic so incredible it could win gold at the Olympics.
None of it detracted from his allure to you. Quite the opposite. It gave you a reason to hang on to his every word, stay around after class, talk to him like a peer, and the familiarity of knowing each other on this level gave you the boldness to squabble with him during class.
To set his face aflame when you had the gall to wear those short skirts, legs opening and closing when speaking to him. Make him slip his hand in his pocket under his desk when you challenged him.
No one could hold his interest like you did.
No one.
Professor Uchiha pumped faster. Used a knuckle to swipe to the next photo. One with your tits on display for the camera. It was cruel how the strip of fabric over your hard nipples caused his jaw to tense and his nostrils to flare. Your tits in photos, your tits bouncing under the thin fabric of your shirt when you sauntered around his desk, your tits slick with his eager kisses, your tits covered in his cum.
Damn you for tempting him. And damn him for encouraging it against his better judgement.
He was in too deep.
The thick vein along the underside of his cock throbbed. His body went taut.
Release. Relax.
Professor Uchiha gathered the tissues. One, two strokes.
“Mm!” he stifled the moan, eyes flitting from working his cock to the photo of you. Devouring the contours, curves, dips, and swells of your body. Picturing you naked under him. Twisted in pleasure. Shouting his first name.
He circled his fingers, guiding them in smooth sprints over his cockhead, each graze of his digits sending him to the precipice of the cliff.
Fuck.
He emptied himself into the tissues. Milking his cock dry in long, slow strokes while staring at his phone.
The cleanup was made in haste. Tissues disposed of, a wet wipe on his hands as if it would wash away his delinquency, briefcase packed, and spent cock tucked away for another time. He checked his watch; he should still be home in time for an unloving, resentful, cold dinner left for him on the kitchen counter and moving boxes strewn about the living room couch where he slept.
Walking alone in the dark parking lot gave him time to think. And thinking allowed the insidious venom of self loathing to replace the endorphins tingling his nerves.
He developed feelings for one of his students. And he yearned for more than inappropriate hours he scheduled to be with you. More than the hours he expended in pondering your interactions, and the exhaustive state it left him in after he dumped his energy into idyllic scenarios with you.
Oh, how he reveled in it.
You were his escape, and he wasn’t about to change that.
~~~
You drummed your nails on the underside of Professor Uchiha’s desk; supporting your weight on it, ergo, bringing your tits together bracketed by your elbows to help persuade him to bump your grade up two points. That’s all. Two measly points.
“Oh no, looks like the program’s not responding,” he replied with a lopsided grin, running his mouse in circles and chucking at your frustration.
“Professor,” you whined.
He unglued his eyes from your cleavage after imagining his cock leaking between your breasts and redirected his attention to his computer screen. He furrowed his brows. Clicked around. Shook his mouse vigorously. Frowned some more.
“What is it?”
“It’s frozen.” He tapped keys on his keyboard.
“C’mon.”
“No, really,” he said, angling the screen at you and demonstrating the program he used to log your grades was static and the cursor was sitting in the same spot, unmoving.
You leaned over and spammed random keys as if by some miracle his computer would respond to your fingers and not his.
Professor Uchiha was entranced. Cleavage was nice, but his cup of pens.. One stuck out further than the others and its pointed cap was tracing your nipple. Coaxing it erect.
The sheer power of his fixation scorched you like the sun on a cloudless day. What a simple man. Tease yourself on one of his belongings and he’d cherish it forever.
You pouted your luscious bottom lip. Arched your back. Nudged the pen around your nipple until you were satisfied he couldn’t take it anymore. Your breath was light and tone airy, “Want me to take a look, Professor?”
“Great idea.”
Fuck.
His husky voice, heavy with arousal, imbued those two little words with a spell that bound you to them.
He pushed himself away from his desk with his foot, crossed his ankles, and shifted one hand to his pocket, the other on his armrest supporting his head. His expression was that of expectation. Yours was blank-faced trepidation, the sort of foreboding ingrained in your very bones telling you to comply, obey.
It wasn’t like him to be this serious when it was just you two. And it was equally unlike him to return even an ounce of your flirting. Not to this degree. When it was you and him, he dropped all pretenses of having authority over you, but now, the fierce lust in his eyes warned you that if you didn’t respect his commands, he’d punish you. The thought of which sent a zing of excitement straight to the apex of your thighs.
You walked around his desk--any other day this would include you tracing sleek a finger along the edge and a little swish in your step, however, at this moment your brain was in a tizzy under his watchful gaze. Giddy at the tendons flexing in his neck. Fascinated by his cutthroat stare appraising your body like you were for sale.
Bending at the waist, you mashed the control, alt, and delete keys. Harrumphing when nothing happened on screen.
Awareness prickled the hair on your nape at the sound of his chair creaking and an object disappearing from your peripheral. Whatever it was, it was forgotten when you gandered at the cables leading from his keyboard and mouse down the hole with the rest of the wires connecting from his computer to underneath his desk. They bulged oddly. You groped them, tugged.
Your suspicions proved correct as they dangled in your hand. “Sir, they’re not plugged in.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” he cooed behind you. “Care to rectify that for me?”
“Y-Yes, sir.” Submissive. Quivering. Anticipating. Wishing. Hoping. You crouched under his desk and peered into the dark. The wood panel on the front blocked all light from entering. Kneeling, you ran your hand up the back of his tower, prodding fingertips through dust, hunting the empty USB slots in pitch black.
Professor Uchiha couldn’t be happier.
On your hands and knees in front of him.
He opened the camera app on his phone--snatched from his desk when you weren’t looking--and started recording a video.
The phone was tilted down to his lap. He had threaded his cock through a hole cut out in his pocket and bunched the fabric of his trousers so that his engorged tip was visible outside. Swollen and in search of a reason to create new scenes in his memory bank. This time by his own accord.
On his phone screen played a close up of his cock encircled in his thick fingers. He stroked for a few seconds, a fistful of himself before panning to you. Face down, ass up. A strip of white cotton wedged between your cheeks like a blaze leading him to the parts begging for him to lick, to suck. Adorning a wet spot where it stretched tight over your cunt. You couldn’t have known this particular pair was his weakness. They were most visible in his dimmed classroom; the black lace pair became obscured in the shadows of your thighs. The crisp, stark white? He bathed himself in their radiance when you gave him a peek.
His heart pounded in the wide expanse of the room. He had his excuse prepared since the moment he concocted this plan over the weekend: if you turned around, he would hide his cock and click on the flashlight on his phone, like he was helping you see all along.
But you didn’t turn. You didn’t look. You weren't curious if he was up to anything. You were too busy gagging at the dust under your nails as you tried to line up the cables with the ports.
The chair creaked again. He shifted to the edge of the seat. Knees angled out on either side of your ass. Stroking his tip faster. Your heat inches from him. Heavy breaths linking the space from his cock, to his phone, to your panties.
Metal dinged metal. Cables knocked cables. You must’ve thought he was an idiot. He probably was. Swimming in the murky waters of student-teacher relationships. Antagonizing you to bicker with him, asking you to help file papers in his cabinet. Becoming too bold, too stupid in pushing his boundaries.
But if he were drowning, so were you.
You found the USB ports minutes ago. Actually, it was already plugged in, but teasing your professor like this.. Hearing the rustling of fabric the more you wagged your hips back and forth. The pure debauchery of the air cooling your soaked panties should’ve sentenced you to a lifetime of shame. It didn’t. It felt fucking good knowing he was looking. Captivating him.
Seconds passed.
You arched your back to an agonizing degree.
Presented yourself in all your glory.
The shame did come.
When he didn’t act upon his cravings.
He never did. Something held him back. It always did. But it felt like this time was different.. Despite your efforts week after week, Professor Uchiha was a lost cause.
Enough playing around; you crawled backwards from under his desk and stood, tapping away at the miraculously working program to change your score and hit enter.
Wheels squeaked. His knees bumped into the back of yours, causing yours to buckle, bend. “Oh!” You faltered and caught yourself on his desk, spinning to face him at the same time he decided to rise from his chair.
He used his body to box you in.
Surprised in the tangle of shoes knocking shoes, knees gone weak, and hips grinding on hips as you both lost your balance, you clutched onto his tie--earning a strangled cough from his cinched air pipe--and his arms fell to either side of your body, pinning you between him and the solid piece of wood that was his desk. The edge of which dug into your plush ass.
The silkiness of his tie rivaled only by the softness of his pink lips hovering over yours. The hardness of his charcoal black eyes boring into yours rivaled only by what was pressing into your stomach.
“Sorry.” Your whisper was so shushed your voice cut out as you let go of his tie and smoothed your hand down his chest, his stomach. “The computer’s working now.” Radiating body heat sweltered in the mingle of your two bodies united as one. Words were stolen. Excuses were lost in the passage of time. Impure thoughts raced. Ones saved for empty classrooms and toys that didn’t come with baggage and consequences if caught.
The coarse fabric of his trousers grazed your upper thighs as he advanced forward. Laying his chest on yours to better reach his mouse snug against your ass and close the program on screen.
Months of seducing this man led to his unresolved desire brushing over your mound. If you just tipped your hips it would apply pressure to your needy-
His half-closed gaze perceived your ruse. Strong forearms enclosed to your waist. No longer shy about expressing what he wanted. You weren’t the lion in the reeds. You were the sheep and he donned the wool over your eyes.
Professor Uchiha’s wolfish grin tweaked at your innocent mouth agape at his forwardness. His mischievous lips graces words, “I dismissed class over an hour ago. Why are you still here prancing around in front of me?”
His pride curled over the shell of your ear, swept the length of your neck, snaked down the collar of your shirt. Smugness coiled his tongue. Innocuous words worked like a spark to dry leaves, inciting an inferno to the areas of you insisting to be touched, ruined.
The longer his lips deemed you worthy, the more you knew this is what you wanted.
Gaining some autonomy, you shifted your hand from admiring his abs up the planes of his chest to his round shoulder and down his arm, skirting over his rolled up sleeve to the forest of coarse hair standing at attention under your guidance. You reached his wrist and settle your hand on top of his.
His left hand.
Lips at your throat. Breath down your dewy cleavage. Two lips resting on your fragile skin; just resting, not kissing. They were privy to your drumming pulse, certain it was caused by him. The twist of his mouth stopped short of the smirk it was forming.
A sense of dread overcame your embrace.
The low moan in the back of his throat stopped.
His body went rigid in places it wasn’t before.
He reeled back. Panic in his eyes. Vocal cords poised. Suspended in time. Preparing to create words of warning. Or maybe an explanation.
Your fingers explored. Roamed over his knuckles, mountains and valleys of protruding veins. You slipped down the slope of his left ring finger.
Nothing.
No bump of metal.
When did he stop wearing his wedding ring?
“Class was dismissed over an hour ago,” he repeated in a haunting whisper, an octave lower and devoid of emotion. The self-loathing at his impulses was evident in each shaky inhale. He used his imposing height as its own threat, bending your frame to his will, fingers gripping the desk with white knuckles of restrain, claiming the slice of air separating you as his own. The firm length prodding you surged against the pleats of your skirt with a cowardly roll of his hips. Testing the feel of you. Introducing his urges to yours, and hating that he had to stop there. “You should leave.”
He wound his fingers in your skirt above your thigh, refusing to let go of the fabric. Let go of you. The stubble on his cheek stabbed the sensitive skin of your face as he bowed his head to speak directly into your ear, “Go.” Heavy as the burdens he endured, he let your skirt slip free of his grasp. His arm hung limp at his side.
You were being dismissed from him.
Though he vocalized as much, he left you little room to do so. Your body was overtaken by his. Trapped due to his inability to surrender to his vices, nor give them up completely.
You wiggled out from under his looming presence, flourishing in the flattery of his sharp inhale and groan when you lurched your hips to drag along him, savoring the unmistakable sensation of your professor’s cock following your lead.
How insulting. Nothing would break this man. And it was another knife to your inflated ego.
You climbed the stairs in a rush, laid your hand on the handle. The cold metal seared into your hot palm, dissipating rapidly from his warmth. The chill seeped through your skin, mocking your affinity for him, erasing the weight of his chest pressed against yours from your memory.
Maybe it was better that way.
Surely ripe for punishment, you glanced over your shoulder. One last look before the winter break. A last impression of what you meant to him. Would he wave? Tell you to lock the door? Wish you a happy holiday?
Professor Uchiha was at his desk. Standing in the same position as before, slightly altered. His lush black hair hid his face from observation. Hands curled into fists, arms like pillars keeping him from collapsing completely as his shoulders hunched further.
Utterly destitute.
Good.
You twisted the handle.
He didn’t move. Didn’t address you. Didn’t explain, apologize, nor act in the ways you hoped.
He denied you.
You clicked the lock and left.
~~~
The grandiose holiday gave way to the lukewarm reception of classes resuming to an all out stomach churning response to his lectures. You stopped arriving early, Professor Uchiha stopped asking for you to stay late. You stopped speaking up in class, Professor Uchiha repressed any compulsion to interact with you. You ignored him, he ignored you.
A wonderful arrangement that lasted all of two weeks before one of you broke. He allowed his eyes to wander over your frame as you entered his room on the day he handed back graded papers and you found yourself packing away your things slowly after everyone had left.
In your time apart, he graduated from grumpy teacher to full on curmudgeon--scaring off students in record time with a single glare from behind his disorganized desk--but the giant red F bleeding into the crevices of your paper just wouldn't do.
“..So, in conclusion,” you ranted, circling two points on the board until the poor stick of chalk in your tight grip chipped to a stub, “I believe my interpretation is perfectly logical and that you, my astute Professor, could make an exception and bend the rules just the tiniest amount and raise my grade to a C, at the very least, as I deserve.”
You faced him for the first time since you sauntered up to his chalkboard. It was a good sign he didn’t immediately ask you to leave, but his only contributions to your conversation were in the forms of hums of disapproval or one word rejections. So, when you turned to him and he beamed his usual impish grin, legs straight out and crossed at the ankle, sleeves rolled up and arms tucked behind his head as he swiveled in his chair; you were unnerved, but grateful.
Silence fell thick between you. His eyes went unfocused, considering something in his head. You dawdled at the board, scrutinizing your points, seeking counter arguments for anything he may throw at you. Anything to get your mind off the way his gaze rendered you to the very nerves that summoned the gumption to wear your shortest skirt this morning after two weeks of jeans.
Professor Uchiha cocked his head. The silence broke. “I’ll bend the rules if you bend over my desk.”
Boldfaced shock slackened your jaw. “What?”
“It’s what I deserve,” he asserted, using your choice of words. “It’s only fair.” He jerked his chin twice at his desk, smirk pulling taut at his lips. “Bend over it and I’ll consider changing your grade.”
You hesitated. Face lashed with visible uncertainty. Tension as palpable as morning fog sticking to your skin. A gulp in your throat booming loud in the two feet that kept you from falling into his lap.
“Bend over your desk,” you repeated in a monotone voice. Somewhat composed on the outside, but head swimming in amusement, proving difficult to keep a shimmy out of your shoulders when you clinked the chalk on the metal tray.
You didn’t believe this man for a second.
Your shoes clacked on the wood paneled floor leading to his oak desk, rapping your knuckles on it. Knocking on it the same way you should be on your skull to check where your brain cells had gone off to. Professor Uchiha never made advances. Never followed through with yours. What could have changed?
You slid your pupils to him. He remained statuesque. Watching you, rapt. You tilted your head, pitched your voice in light innocence, “Going to give me a D, sir?”
“Stop talking and find out,” he said, invoking your compliance in his deep rasp.
His threats were all bark, no bite. Not until he made certain of them. Wastes of air on paltry promises. But surely, once you obeyed him, he would not be able to resist. Please, God, don’t resist. You needed to be fucked by him.
You pivoted. Spread your feet. Lined your hips with the edge of his desk and leaned until your fingertips made contact and your clammy palms arched like suction cups on the surface of his well made, durable desk.
Scratches and divots in the wood grain tickled your fingertips as you dropped your chest. Hard nipples excited by the cool veneer gliding along your thin blouse and unpadded bra. Your hamstrings woke up, stretching gaily from their long nap. At the end, you crossed your arms and rested your chin on your forearms. Getting comfortable. A sharp right angle bent over his desk.
“Going to spank me with a ruler?” Shuffling alerted you to Professor Uchiha sitting up in his chair; the menacing rubbing of his calloused palms together drew nearer and nearer. His warm sigh blew on the back of your legs.
“After you’ve teased my cock for months on end?” He ran his knuckles over the goosebumps on your thigh with one hand, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly with the other. “Not a chance in hell I’d stop there.”
Professor Uchiha dove his hand into his pants. Grasped his swollen lust determined to be released over his boxer briefs. Not now. Not yet. He had to ravish your first.
His hands cascaded up, groping your ass. One cheek in each. Giving them a hard squeeze and laughing at your pitiful whine. “Sweetheart,” he said hoarsely, “you’ll have to stay quiet if you want to have fun.” He reared his left hand back and smacked. You muffled your cry. His right slapped ripples in your soft flesh.
“Mmph!” At least he had the decency to hush the tears sparkling the corner of your eyes by following them up with a gentle caress.
Rolling his chair up to you, his knees inserted themselves between yours and your need was about even with his face. His breath graced your stinging skin. A shy touch of his lips on the sore spots as an apology. And yet, he raised his hand and spanked you again. Harder. Echoing in the empty room along with your cry.
“Professor!” The motion flung you forward, dragging your nipples over the rough texture of his askance mousepad. Knocking over his mug of pens. Arching your hips. Exhilarating sensations tingling from the top of your head to your curled toes.
“Shh.” His useless shushing lasted all but seconds until his puckered lips relaxed, then curled wickedly. He clamped down. Teeth, nails. Fingers digging for purchase. Canines bruising.
His hands roamed where they wanted. The front of your thighs up to the point of the desk impeding him, massaging the tight muscles responding to his dire affection. Climbing your legs to cup your cheeks and bring them to his mouth for more lovebites. Tasting. All the while running his thumb along the length of your white cotton panties. Prying your thighs apart, smashing them together. Coaxing your pussy to swallow the fabric in response to his kneading.
You had grappled the edge of the desk to anchor yourself there nice and steady while he had his way. His excruciating, aggravating slow way.
“You want my lips somewhere else, babe?” he asked after you huffed a wordless complaint and swayed your hips, not at all subtle in your longing to have his mouth on your wet heat. “Need your professor’s tongue to treat you well after failing your assignment?”
What a cruel man to fan flames of embarrassment to your already burning, panting state; bent over his desk and begging him to finally fuck you after he had the audacity to roll up his sleeves and taunt you with his obvious massive erection casting a mouth-watering shadow across his lap.
“Please.”
Your shaky utterance of that single word evoked something within him.
Quivering lips pressed to the arousal soaked cotton. Tender. Grazing but a moderate kiss over the fabric that riled his cock. Concealing what he coveted most.
Professor Uchiha’s teeming excitement exhibited itself in the way he kissed your cunt. Controlled kisses waning sloppy with the use of his tongue. Short flicks at first. Darting over his lips. Then full licks up your slit, tracing the outline and nudging the fabric stiffer over your bundle of nerves the more he opened his mouth and introduced you to his skill. His nose to your entrance and his tongue exploring down, down, down the slope, over the curve in pursuit of the reason you moaned his title so sultry and feebly it sent a throb from his balls to leak from his cock.
“Professor,” you sighed, fingernails denting semicircles in the underside of the polished edge of his desk. Rising to your tippy toes in order to elevated your hips and grant him access to feast where he desired.
And hungry he was. Starving. Weeks, months, years without a good meal to satisfy his cravings.
The tip of his tongue traced the bump of your clit held prisoner by your panties. Caged, locked away from him. He sealed his plush, full lips to it, gathered you in his mouth full of thick saliva, and suckled. The gratification was immediate. Your thighs clenched around his face. You shoved backwards in desperation. Stomped your foot. Your too-loud moan traveled down your spine to the deep hum vibrating from his throat to your clit.
When he spoke, he carefully enunciated each word, projected the plosive P’s. “Poor girl,” he jested, words muttered on your swollen need. “Can’t handle a few minutes of teasing after you’ve done the same to me? Pleading for my cock. Prancing around here begging for me to fuck you.”
A single finger slipped under your twisted panties. You went pliant.
“Bad girl,” he moaned, shoving them to the side.
“Bad girl,” he lauded, wheezing at your beautiful display of wanton lust glistening for him.
“Bad girl,” he praised with conviction, spanking your ass so hard your vision went cross and vestiges of stars danced in the foreground of the rows of tables and chairs.
“Fuck!” you groaned to the back of your hand, quieting yourself.
He performed a full body roll from his jutting cock to his supple tongue fawning over your clit up to savor your arousal, planting harsh kisses where he saw fit. Ragged breaths sending chills to the warmest intimacies of your body, gone vulnerable in his craze.
Your pussy was free from its cage.
He let himself go.
His arms weighed heavily on the dip of your back, hands rubbing soothing circles while he flexed his biceps; capturing you in his vise, hiking you hips, tilting them further. Ensuring your quaking thighs could no longer jerk you away from his benevolent mouth. He waited too long for this. Agonized as the seasons morphed and you reaped the benefits of his undivided attention. Took advantage of his fondness, only to deprive him of it when, at last, he almost gave in to his sins. He was so close. So close to taking you then. But he didn’t. And you made him pay dearly for it.
Now you had to endure his consequences.
The precious resource of his erudite tongue honed in on your undressed clit. Twitching the tip over it. Smoothing the whole muscle to cherish it. Pausing to swoon at what you spilled for him, lapping it up, and returning at once to adore you in kisses and sucking until you were gasping, writhing, squirming from his talent. Legs shaking past the point of holding your weight. Humid huffs panting over the wood desk where your cheek stuck to it.
You mustered what little voice you had left to stutter out a sigh of, “Sir.”
At your brink, he stopped.
Professor Uchiha commended you with an everlasting blissful lick before tormenting you in suspense, stopping just short of your peak, and instead offering you a lazy kiss as he adjusted his chair and pushed himself away--then crashed his knees into the hinge of yours, forcing you to flounder and fall into his lap.
His sudden switch in activities foretold his plan. You had a very long night ahead.
Orgasm delayed, you tried to tense your thighs to give yourself some scant amount of pleasure, enough to build the waves of impending release again, but his legs between yours was not an accident. His dark chuckle in your ear told you as much. He designed this from the start.
He nipped at your neck, heartbeat pounding pulses to your clit. “Does your professor’s cock feel good?”
You forced your focus from his overbearing hands ripping the buttons from your blouse and the palm curving over your mound to pull you along his robust length situated between your ass; the heel of his palm shaping just over where you wanted it most. His briefs stole your fluids that belonged to him, acting as a barrier from entry as he grinded you up and down, pussy lips straddling his cock.
“So good.” You dropped your head to his shoulder and kissed his strong jaw, both of you battling for control in moving hips and greedy lips. “I love my professor’s cock. It feels so fucking good.” You ground on his length, tipping your hips at the end to send his palm over your clit, arching to his fingers prodding under your bra. It spurred you on. You picked up speed. Delivered sultry gasps and moans to his neck. “It’s so big, Professor, please fill me. I need it.” You pouted your bottom lip and kissed the side of his sly mouth. “I’ve been bad. Punish me.”
“Oh, I’ll punish you-”
knock
Knock
KNOCK
“Under the desk.” He ushered you with a slap on your thigh like an unruly animal he had to herd, and damn you for liking it.
Like a leaf caught in a raging stream, you slid from his bouncing legs and landed on your knees. Crawling into the darkness obscured by the wood panel on his desk and spinning around to look up at his approving smile, provoking a matching one to carve your lips as you shared a bubbling chortle escalating into a smothered roguish laugh.
“Shh!” He held his finger to his lips, shoulders jerking, suppressing the child-like devilry taking over his body seeing you down there. In the pause between another thump on his door he rolled his chair in and you backed up, giving him room to open his legs around your body. Before he averted his eyes to the door, they beheld you in a promise: this interruption would be short lived. A brief respite. Then he’d make it up to you.
“Come in.”
The words reverberated off the enclosure of your hiding spot. Rang in your ears. The door knob squeaked. Turned downward. He sat flush with the desk, securing himself to the edge and blocking his lap from view in a large shadow.
How often did he sit like this while in class, hardly able to contain his erection from witnesses? You couldn’t keep the noise from escaping; you pressed your lips together and exhaled faintly through your nose, but he heard your moan.
He heard your disobedience and reprimanded you.
Professor Uchiha ordered you to be quiet once more by pinching your bottom lip between his thumb and index; his thick fingers sparking the most sensuous harm to your mouth--the same as he did to your hurting ass. Pleased by your mute respect, he let go after turning your fiery blood to ice in your numb lip and settled his large palm on his thigh. Trousers struggling to bear constricting muscles and briefs tenting a cock featured most prominently in your eyeline.
The door clicked open. Swung.
His body slumped. Though you couldn’t see why, his sudden change in mood resulted in his frame curling in, and his wonderful, painful hand with fingers you were seconds from sucking on abandoned his thigh to lean on his forearms and stare down the one who invaded his privacy.
Leisure footsteps descended this stairs.
He grabbed a pen from his top-heavy mug that spilled at the slightest bump and expelled energy by removing, replacing the cap. Clicking the end again and again.
Whoever it was, whatever they were here for; it affected your professor. Going from energetic and lively--if not unabashedly horny--to exhausted and hosting a quiet growl of misery when the trespasser ruined his self-indulgence one step at a time.
He needed to be consoled, and you knew the best way how.
You settled into position, knees spread, and you wrapped your hands around his ankles. He shifted at first, wondering what you were up to, but relaxed when you started massaging up his legs. Hard caresses of your thumb into his calves. Squeezing your fingers. Watching the tension seep from his body; the weight pulling his chest concave lifting as time went on and you tended to him.
“You left your copy of the paperwork on my kitchen table.”
Deflated.
Stomach dropped.
Professor Uchiha clicked the pen. My table, he sneered.
The voice belonged to a woman.
Her table.
He left something at a woman’s house?
You cupped his calf and brought his knee in, favoring it in many kisses. Quick pecks turned to gradual open mouthed hushed touches of your lips on his trousers. Claiming him. He responded to your affections. He filled his chest with fortitude and plunged his hand under the desk, blanketing yours which was rubbing along his firm thigh.
“It’s important,” she chastised. “Might want to keep track of it?” She landed in front of his desk. Feet from the sweat rolling down your back.
You kissed your professor’s inner thigh, using teeth when necessary to divert more of his focus to you; accumulate all of his attention and hoard it like a shiny treasure. This woman didn’t deserve it. When you spoke to him that way it was in jest and he reacted in a lighthearted way. When this woman berated him in her nasally voice, it was to put him down.
His fingers swept over yours. His thumb slotted itself to your palm, infusing an otherworldly calmness into your temperament. Holding your hand when he was facing a point of contention in his life.
“Why’re you even here?” Disgust erupted from the pit of his diaphragm. “I gave you your keys weeks ago.”
Something was tossed onto the desk above your head.
Professor Uchiha’s hand left yours. Cold and lonely. Then scalding hot with desire when he pried your loving strokes from his thigh and guided your deft fingers to his lap. To the opening of his trousers, folded over and peeled away to reveal his greatest gift.
He enclosed your fingers over it. Tapped once. You understood.
“And you should’ve taken it with you then. I found it in the mess you left behind under a stack of schoolwork dated from last year. I shouldn’t be surprised you’re so disorganized after all this time, but you still manage to amaze me. I mean, just look at your desk.”
Eavesdropping shouldn’t excite you like this, but the sheer magnitude of pressing a gentle kiss to his tip over his briefs and watching his stomach jump, and draining the insecurity from his meek voice was its own unique reward. Especially when you just started and already, those strong hands of his were grasping his thighs in effort to stay collected under the woman’s narrowed eye scrutiny.
Stuffing your mouth, gorging, a total glutton for his covered length, you stretched your lips over his girth and sucked on his tip. Cradling the underside and praising it in delicate rolls from the back of your tongue, drawing back to drench his head in you and him--tasting his precum and swallowing to hoard it as well with his focus and attention.
“Rin,” he exhaled; a grand undertaking to make it sound bored and not at all like he was seconds from moaning his student’s name, “unless you have something important to say, leave.”
You wound your hand around the opening of his briefs and unveiled your present.
He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet to cover the jangle of his belt buckle falling to the side.
His cock. His glorious cock with its leaking reddened tip and impressive size tempted you as much as it daunted you. Warming him up to your humble tongue, you lapped the precum cultivated just for you to enjoy and honored him with a silent kiss before delving in. Wetting your lips. Stretching them over him. Slowly. In no rush to have your hollowed cheeks break suction and bring the wrong kind of attention upon yourself.
It was difficult enough as is swallowing more than the first three inches. You wanted it all. To slather him in appreciation. Not to admit defeat and pump your hand the rest of what your mouth couldn’t handle without risking a moan of pure euphoria when he twitched, filling you whole.
“Are you ever going to explain yourself? Apologize to me?”
“You were the one who decided this in the first place. I have nothing else to volunteer, nor disclose.”
She shifted her weight. Bounced her heel. Clack, clack, clack on the floor.
Professor Uchiha scooted to the edge of his seat, shoving his hips forward. It was a true miracle you didn’t gag on him and blow your cover then and there, but by the glory of his thumb sweeping over your sunken cheek you unhinged your jaw and accepted his tip at the back of your throat with all the patience of a Saint.
“You should leave,” he said, scribbling nonsensical shapes on the important document in front of him. “I’m a busy man, as you know.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Always here. Never home.” She tutted, whirling around to the direction she entered from, briskly crossing a few steps before stopping at the stairs. “Bye.” A tremor of hope laced her voice. He eviscerated it.
“Bye.” He flapped his hand in a childish wave, doing his best to keep the smugness from coming through, and failing. If she heard it, she ignored it and climbed the stairs for the door.
Professor Uchiha’s thumb dug into your cheek, his index on the otherwise prodded into your gums. Cupping your jaw. Cranking your mouth open to his whims. Using it as leverage to abide by his wish. Gaping, welcoming his untamed urge to relieve him of the stress this woman caused.
Her footsteps faded.
He became brave. Overcome in the moment to challenge her in an unknown race. Your mouth versus her stride.
Rutting like an animal, micro-thrusts of his pelvis at the edge of his chair. Quickening the pace the further she walked away from him and his life. He released his iron grip on your mouth and combed his fingers through your hair, ensnaring the sensitive strands above your nape.
His heaving chest should’ve been a warning.
“Mm!”
He shoved you down his cock. Driving you to the point where your hand stroking him in tandem was useless, instead using it to fist his trousers in your frightful clutches. You couldn’t hold back anymore.
You moaned. Cried, even. Tears building at the dam of your eyelashes.
“Lock the door on your way out,” he called to the woman.
She did as she was told. Depressed the lock. Clicked it shut behind her without a follow up question as to what caused the masturbatory gestures of his arm under his desk, what the sounds were of you choking on his cock, nor the high flush on his cheeks.
Professor Uchiha rolled his chair back and you followed his lead, stumbling forward on aching knees. Forever attached to his perfect cock.
He slouched, lulled his head to the side. Observing your face buried in his lap, your wet eyes meeting his. His kind hands brushing your hair out of your way with a sympathetic graze of his thumb on your temple while his other hand wiped away your tears. Guiding your head up and down, bobbing on his grand length, tongue pacifying his haughty nature after his spat with the woman. She was gone and you worked your charm on him.
“Such a naughty girl.” You locked gazes; his prideful and yours agreeingly submissive. “That was fun.”
Eager and vicious, you sucked from base to tip, swirled your tongue over his throbbing head and placed a kiss on the very tip, smearing his precum on your lips. Something that spoke to the primal best within him judging by the way he squirmed in his seat and his pupils bloomed black. Breathing heavy but silent.
“I love your cock so much, Professor, I’ve wanted you to fuck me with it for so long.” You laid his cock on your face so you could kiss the thick vein buzzing against your lips while begging, eyebrows pinched and overstating your pout by clasping your hands to your lap to prop up your cleavage. “Please fuck me with it.”
He pulled you up by your chin, doubling over at his waist to close the rest of the distance between you. He lifted your skirt, groped your ass, slid his palm over it, fingers exploring further to your sopping wet cunt, earnest in its need to be punished.
Two fingers slipped in. He tasted the sweat on your neck. Stretched you with a third. “You sure you’re ready for more, sweetheart?” he asked once he met resistance.
“I’ve been ready.”
His gruff voice, steeped in want, ordered you, “Then, bend over my desk.”
“Yes, sir.”
Returning to the position you were in before you were so rudely interrupted, you flattened your chest to his desk, wiggling your tantalizing ass at him. He wrested his cock from his briefs and shoved all fabric away from hampering him and threw his tie over his shoulder. Skirt flipped to expose you, his rough hands ran over your curves, eyes drifted in their stead, admiring how you offered yourself up so willingly. And how you crumbled under the tease of his thumb gliding the length of your needy cunt. He placated you in slippery circles over your clit craving the friction you deserved after servicing his cock.
Tempting each other to the edge of relief, but never letting them fall.
“I’ll be taking these.” He gave you no pause to guess what he was referring to. Your panties tugged over your round ass and fell to your ankles where you stepped out of them and they were safely tucked away in the top drawer of his desk.
“Fuck, babe,” Professor Uchiha groaned the compliment. His raging hot cock nestled along your entrance. Clapping your cheeks to enclose it there. Dragging your hips, rolling his. Slow, sensual. Relishing the connection, the bond of his cock and your enthusiasm; no longer settling for his hands with a bit of lotion.
Your mouth, your hands, your pussy. All crafted for his pleasure.
He should be commended for his ability to not bust with you giving him a blow job under his desk earlier. He should be exalted for not cumming on your back like he was near to do with just a few more unruly thrusts-
Whilst he was busy dwelling on the topic of Edging versus Self-Imposed Torture, you couldn’t help but notice the manila folder stuck under your boobs. White papers fanning out over the top. Racing your heart. Shouting at you to peep, take a gander. Who was that woman and what was she here for? You peeled back the edge of the folder.
Professor Uchiha panted out a string of tangled cherry picked syllables to arrange between the jumbled consonants spilling out and punctuated them with a moan of your name. “So fucking- So fucking good. You feel so fucking good.”
Cock lubed so slick it slipped down your cheeks, his tip prodded your entrance. A silent plea to allow him to fuck you. To come. Finally. Please let him come.
“You’re fucking me on your divorce papers?” you snorted. “That was your ex-wife?”
Scalp tingling. Hair snatched in his mighty grip. Cunt throbbing. Receiving but only half of him. Muscles frozen. Carved to accommodate him.
He pressed his chest to your back and shoved the file, flinging it to the floor. Raining white sheets of paper, scattered. Pens, clattered. Metal paper clips, pattered. His carnal heat warming your chilled skin was all that mattered.
Again, your jaw belonged to him. Your mouth? His. The drool pooling over the edge of your bottom lip? Also his. Your moan when he pitched his hips, slapping them to your ass, mouth gaped in surprise? Most definitely his.
His smirk blurred before your half-lidded eyes--stinging from the initial thrust of his cock. “Knew you couldn’t handle me; I’m not even in all the way,” he rasped in your ear, grazing his teeth over your pulse. Kissed you gently from ear to chin. Removed his hand-muzzle to place his lips at the junction of yours, forehead pressed to temple, eyes soft, but intense. “You’ve been a naughty girl, going through your professor’s belongings,” he murmured. “You need to be taught a lesson.”
The world spun on its axis.
Empty between the thighs. Back on something solid. Legs stuck up in the air and being manipulated not of your own accord. Disoriented, you willed the yourself to zero in on his face: wild, erotic, and so blatantly aroused at your captivated self, legs wide open, and addicted to his touch.
He loomed between your legs encircling his waist. A tower of suspense reached the end of its rope, snapped. His cock a pillar of pent up urges leading to the end of his marriage.
And you and your soft body. Laying under him. Yearning for him to use it, ruin it, and have you coming back for more. Someone who wanted him as he was. Who returned his passion. Returned the new-relationship lust he so missed; starting something new and preserving the flames, not letting them snuff out, leaving him bereft, alone in the dark.
Your eyes were shining, longing, staring up at him. Subdued, he watched you want him more.
One by one, you unbuttoned the rest of your blouse. Finishing the job meticulously and pointlessly, considering the rest of the buttons were ripped off and lost to the shadows on the floor. The shirt fell away in stark halves. Shameless naked skin. Chest rising, stomach falling. Rolling onto your elbows to unclasp your bra.
Shirt and bra thrown to the litter of paper, pens, and metal paper clips, and your face heated under his adoring gaze, flattered.
Professor Uchiha’s thumb worked itself in consoling swipes on the curvature of your thigh to ass. Perhaps as an apology for pulling your hair. Perhaps communicating that this moment meant more to him than he let you believe. Perhaps to stall for time so this wasn’t over in a matter of seconds.
You waited.
His unwavering gaze took you in piece by piece. Observing features previously hidden, though he felt like he knew them by heart from your promiscuous photos. Now he could study his favorite subject in all its glory. Memorize the dip above your clavicle until he could stand it no longer and switch to fathoming the contours flowing from your breasts, down your stomach, over your bunched skirt, and to his hand lurking near the sharp peak of your sex kissing his.
He etched you in his mind palace for the future.
Goosebumps skittered in the wake of his docile trail over your pelvis. Eventually, he woke from his reverie and became aware of your thinning patience, and the ever present Siren’s song of your tits calling to him. A striking downfall.
“Going to stand there and drool over me, or are you going to fuck me?” You grinned, an eyebrow raised in a challenge. “I thought you were hellbent on punishing me, Sir.”
Fuck your tits. He could have you contorting under the pleasure of his tongue any other day. Tonight was about him. And about you paying him back for all the favors you owed him.
Vengeful hands guided their way up your writhing body, fitting sensitive areas to his palms. Chasing the heady high he evoked in the simplest brushes of skin on skin contact. Your body opened up, greeted his, arms embracing him. Hands grasping. Fingernails tracing his spine to cradle the back of his head to your neck.
He drew his hips back. Cock sliding over your clit to rest the lipped edge of his tip perfectly where you requested. Thighs squeezing around his middle. Back arched. Hard nipples on his wrinkled work shirt.
“Sweetheart.” He petted your hair away from your face with a trembling hand, licking his lips, a rush of recklessness overcoming him. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll get straight A’s for the rest of the year.”
He kissed your cheek. Maybe an apology. Maybe something more. Maybe to give you a dose of wide-eyed preparation before reality split you in half.
“Fuck!” you cursed him, all muscles seizing onto the man who wrecked you like a spiteful God. Expelling expletives, you gasped at his evil, smitten laugh shaking your core so violently. “Professor,” you whined.
He bottomed out. One powerful pound of his hips to your pillowy ass. The desk drawer rattled. The computer monitor swayed ominously. His tie swung from his shoulder in the sudden exertion. He threw it back flippantly.
This was his everything. His shaft hugged you. His tip leaked to your very depths. Sore cunt stretched to its limits.
“Call me by my first name when you’re under me.”
There it was; that dangerous edge of gleaming tenderness in his gaze beholding you in the threat of his command. How dare he press a kiss to your temple like a lover when you were wrought with pain.
“Obito.” The feral moan after you whispered his name transferred from his chest to yours, mingled in the knot of nerves in your belly.
“Obito,” you repeated, more confident. “I’ve been craving your cock. Show me why that’s a bad thing. Show me why I’m a bad student for seducing her teacher for gain.”
He used his strained muscles to push himself off you. Laggard, prolonging the magnificent sensation of your fingers latching themselves in his hair, tugging it. But they fell away. Dropped your hold on him, your arms to the desk, like fine silk amongst trash he should’ve tossed ages ago. You surrendered to him. He rolled from his forearms to his hands on either side of you, flexing under the duress of not moving his lower half. Steeling the primal voice in his head that shouted at him to take it all. Take it now. Fast. Hard!
Soon, he would, soon. But he had more foreplay in store.
Insatiable fingers skimmed the peach fuzz standing erect on your ribs, up to your breasts. Walking each digit to the spot you hypnotized him with on days he forgot to turn on the heater during the winter, or on Fridays when you forgot to wear a bra and knew you bombed your exam.
He traced your nipple. One finger, two. Pinched it lightly. Pinched in harder. Fluttered his eyelids closed at the way you struggled to clench around his cock.
His other immoral hand sought lower. One finger, two. Rubbed down your clit, up. Side to side. Circles. Whatever the fuck made you squirm. Tense your thighs painfully tight. Clutch the air straight from his lungs. Open his eyes. Massage your inner muscles along his swollen cockhead.
Both of you too far, not far enough. On the precipice. Toes hanging off the cliff side. Not jumping.
“You’re enjoying this?” His hoarse voice cut through your moans. Breaths twisted in the space between you in their own heated tango.
“Yes, God, yes!”
He watched you. Head tilted to the side. Face neutral. Flushed pink from his cheeks to under his collar. “Hm.”
He retreated his hips, unsheathed his glistening tip, admired how wet it was with your want, and rammed it in; shivering in the near-orgasmic haze of your gasp of his name. Once, twice. Unyielding to the water in your eyes. Finding it adorable how your fingers hooked around his like a tourniquet, not used to accommodating his size.
Water leaked from your eyes, his tip. It slicked your palm, a sheen on your forehead.
Obito cranked his head back one pant at a time; the ceiling being the last thing he saw through the black curls of his lashes. Relentless thrusts burned the smouldering coals in his core. Long has it been since he experienced this fire with another person. One who lusted for him so obviously. Each smack of skin on skin and slip of his cock welcomed by your warm cunt reminded him of what he so thoroughly missed: Contact. A bond. Fulfillment.
When you opened your palm he inserted his fingers, lacing them with yours. Easy. Automatic.
Intimate.
He opened his eyes. Looked down.
His rhythm skipped a beat.
Attentive eyes beamed up at him; bright with passion, yet half-closed in ecstasy. Plump lips spouted encouragement to go faster, go slower, whatever the bundle of nerves stuck under his fingers ordered in between moans of his name and cries of pain-mixed-pleasure. Only now did it occur to him that he stopped rubbing your clit altogether--the drastic diminish of blood supply to his brain was affecting him.
It was hard to admit, but as much as he wanted this to be about him enacting a fantasy you wove for him since the start of school, to use you like an object to get off to before returning to your roles of student and teacher, the arching of your back and tightening on his hand holding yours swept him up into a whole host of confusing emotions he didn’t have time to comprehend.
It was all so appealing. And unattainable. Inappropriate.
His eyelids fell to slits, sure that your bouncing tits at his punishing pace would be enough to come while drowning out those pesky feelings. He increased his speed. Pressed his fingertips to your clit. Let the vigor of his pounding send them coasting over it.
Every buck of his hips sent the desk moving. Rocking items in the wake of his eagerness. Each one a witness to a teacher fucking his student because she owed him.
Black landscape. Eyes screwed shut. Only the sound of his guttural panting and your high-pitched moan-whines.
And his tie choking him.
And his shirt going tight.
And his torso being hurled forward.
He faced his reality inches from your nose.
His tie was snatched in your grasp. Your calves clamped over his hunk of ass, shoving his length to your pussy. Grinding on his cock. Rolling your hips in time with his now that you shocked him to a slower tempo. Much slower.. Physically close, mentally vulnerable. Your chest was curled to his, using his weight as a counterbalance to ride him though he was the one in the dominant position.
Names held power. You moaned his so freely and he uttered yours in full-body shudders.
His fingers said it in how they massaged your clit. His hand said it in how significant yours fit to it. His cock said it in a twitch against the place he wished to revisist over and over again. His muscles said it in how they held his orgasm ransom, not letting loose until he fell victim to the darkest reaches of his heart.
And he said it especially loud when his lips landed on yours.
Shouted it, even, when your back collided with the desk and he followed suit, possessive over your mouth; absolutely enthralled with the knowledge of what your lips felt like parting for his cock and, more recently, his tongue.
Your joined hands crashed to the solid oak, slid them up to your wild spread of hair. Jutting elbows set off a chaotic series of toppling folders, knocking the mouse over the edge, shoving the keyboard, leveling a stack of index cards, tumbling the mug of pens to an early grave, shattered.
Excruciating sprints of thrusts turned short and sloppy. And sweet. Your swollen clit was caressed in quick strokes. His thumb swept the glimmering trail where a tear journeyed from the corner of your eye to your hairline in a jagged line. Kisses became too burdensome on your lungs. Alternating between open mouth pants and held breath reserved for when you made eye contact.
You had let go of his tie. You had let go of his tie to cup his cheek slashed with scars from an accident in his youth. You held him there and slipped out a moan of his name while staring lovingly at him.
“Obito,” you sighed. “I’m almost-” You were interrupted by a jerk of his hips to change the angle, allowing him more room to swirl his fingers. “Ah! Oh, fuck, Prof- Obito!” He tried harder. He tried faster. Your head lulled to the side and he nuzzled. No teeth. No marking. No punishment. Just a simple rub of the bridge of his nose along your jaw.
You tensed around his fingers. Inner thighs quivered against his waist.
“Come for me,” he pleaded. He was at your mercy. Everything in your vicinity was up for grabs. You clung to him, his hair, the mousepad. Curved your body to his. Captured him. Consumed him. Stuffed his knuckles in your mouth, ran your tongue over them, drying the trail of spit with huffs of breath praising him.
“Haa- Mmm!” You shook. Unfurled. Unraveled.
“Good girl,” he mumbled into the crook of your neck.
He guided you through the convulsions. Brought his hand from between your legs and cradled your head, rocked you back and forth as your limbs regained consciousness and the pulses in your cunt milked the last of his anticipation.
“Hold onto me, babe.” You followed his instructions; clasping his shoulder with the hand previously yanking at his scalp. Your other hand was still taken by his, his thumb ever vigilant in its conquest to stroke any part he could reach beside your face. He placed a firm hand on your hip, planting it there to keep you still.
You kissed his temple. All you could muster seeing as his face was confined to its hiding spot where it could escape the raw defenselessness of his gaze that showed all.
He picked his head up.
Looked you in the eye.
You gave a curt nod signaling you were ready for the horizontal dance he had in store. He offered a lopsided grin telling you he couldn’t last for another song.
It began in quick steps; brisk slaps of his hips, short strides to the finish line. Your ebbing orgasm squeezed him in sporadic pulses. Cheering him on. Smiling at him. From under him.
Steps developed to loping leaps, bounding canters of his cock dragging along your walls, base to throbbing head. He leaned on you for support. His forehead on yours. Nose nudging yours. Lips a hairsbreadth apart.
You endured the mad dash to his climax. Gushing on his cock. His name on your lips. His lips hovering above yours. His eyes invoking more than lust.
Sweat dampened his shirt. The desk scraped the floor. Something clanged in the drawer. The monitor tipped.
Obito caught it from crashing to the floor without taking his eyes off you. To do so, he let go of the hand he was using to hold yours. The monitor was placed safely on the desk. His hand was free. So was yours. Your wide eyes flashed in non-verbal communication, agreeing on the same thing.
Desperately, you confined the other’s face. Tracing, stroking, outlining scars, petting messy hair away, rubbing, caressing, and kissing. Oh God, so much kissing. Frenzied, unrestrained kisses. Disorderly, imperfect kisses where your mouths hardly aligned. Passionate, caring kisses fueled by moans.
A hard thrust. Another kiss. A short pump. He took your bottom lip in between his. Rutted his cockhead deep. Ran his tongue over the bruised flesh. Rolled his hips upward. Bit your lip as the sweet spot hugging his cock clenched.
“Ow.”
“Sorry-” he panted.
One last plunge. Buried there to pour his soul. Spill his secrets.
Spasming muscles weakened his knees. Tightness relieved itself from his core. The thick vein throbbed as it filled you with cum. His cock had never been happier.
“Babe,” he whined. He closed the gap of inappropriate yearning keeping your lips from one another. You hummed an affirmation, gripping him in all the right places.
For not the first time, he could truly convince himself this was an act between two people without unfair implications. Not a favor done unto him. Not him failing to upkeep his morals as a teacher. Just two people having sex and being able to kiss during the height of it without emotional strings attached.
Laying there for some time, his kisses drifted to your chin, your neck. His hands crafted intricate patterns kneading themselves on your thighs, cupping your legs and stripping their warmth away. You remained draped over his desk like his tie of your naked chest. Lower bodies joined. Nothing wanting to part your faces further than your lips could reach. Still, you had studying to do. Sleep to catch. And he had an apartment that was in need of unpacking.
Regretfully, he pulled back his hips knowing he wasn’t going to use the momentum to push his spent cock back in.
He grasped your hands to lift you up and you grimaced. “As soon as I sit up everything will come out of me. Where’s my underwear?”
“Hm,” he drew out the sound and feigned a search. “Who knows.”
Your glare seared the side of his face very obviously not looking at you. “Sure, right. I guess I’ll just freakin’ waddle.”
“I’ll walk you to your dorm.”
You returned to your role of sassy student who got on his nerves. Obito, however, had trouble submitting to his. The kiss you shared at the end felt so right. So perfect. Validating how he felt when you spent time together, manifesting from an emotional to a physical connection. And all the harm it would cause the both of you if someone found out.
Difficult as it were, you put on a mask for him and denied your feelings before he could sense them.
“Oh, thanks. What a gentleman.” You made the effort to roll your eyes and hop off the desk using his help. A profound groan exhaled your nose in a mighty gust at the inevitable slicking your thighs.
Yet his hands remained holding yours, a playful smile ticking at the corner of his lips. And you tried so hard not to read into it.
“I should, uh..” He gestured to his pants and briefs around his ankles, but his words died out in a horrified survey of his desk and the floor in front of it. He let go of you to simultaneously pull his trousers up and reel in his keyboard and mouse you so expertly plugged in for him the other month. “This place is a mess.”
“Yup,” you agreed. You waddled around the desk at the sound of his zipper and jangle of his belt buckle going secure around his waist. He grumbled, checked his watch and you couldn’t stop the offer before it left your tongue, tumbling out like your heap of discarded clothing on the floor, “I can come in early tomorrow and help you clean up. If you want to go home now, I mean. Or I can help you now. Uh-”
“You don’t have to do favors like that for me anymore. We don’t.. We don’t have to do this again. I’ll just fix your grades, and-”
It was your turn to cut him off, avoiding his nervous stare and wringing of his hand on the back of his neck. You distracted yourself by putting your bra on. “You don’t have to give me A’s. I know it’ll look suspicious. I’ll just.. write better papers.”
You both sighed at the ceiling. This whole arrangement was a bad idea.
Obito hated himself, as he should have. It had been years since his ex-wife gave him the time of day for sex. Much less the allowance to please her, give her an orgasm. She found excuses to reject him. He found excuses to stay late at work. She found reasons to text other men. He found reasons to leave the house early.
Done with admonishing your recent awkwardness around your professor, you went to pick up your blouse, but there he was holding it out for you. In silence, you thanked him and dressed yourself. Feet shuffling. Fingers twisting around arms. Wincing.
“So..” you started.
“So..” he finished.
You ducked away and grabbed your bag from your chair in the front row. Patted around. Checked underneath the table. Turned around. There he was. Holding your coat open for you to slide your arms into. You did, and thanked him without words.
The absence of words and eye contact grew as stale as the sweat drying on your back. Obito rocked on his heels, glancing at his desk. Imagining what happened on top of it. You fiddled with the edge of your skirt and then just fucking went for it.
You reached out. Two hands snug around his tie. Wiggling it back and forth. Squeezing, cinching it up. You fixed it for him, smoothed it flat against his chest. Brushed invisible dust off his shoulder.
His shaky inhale was your only warning. Not that you required one.
Eyes locked onto yours, hand embracing your tilted head, arms crushing you to his chest; you jerked him by the tie and your lips joined in a blaze. Bodies lunging, snapping tight. Cozied together in one bundle of limbs threaded through entangled limbs. Secure. Content.
Giggling, kissing, wet smooches on his forehead, you climbed the stairs backwards to the door, never taking your eyes off each other. Exchanging flirtatious smiles.
Behind you, you grabbed the knob. Cold metal in place of his warm back you were clawing at moments ago. The knob swiveled down, clicked. The door was left in purgatory. Neither open, nor shut.
“Can we do this again?”
He asked, or maybe you asked. Air, breath, words, thoughts, ideas, wants, needs, desires, futures, hopes, and dreams were all muddled in one.
“Yes.”
He answered, or maybe you answered.
~~~
Wintry ice melted. Spring petals stuck to the bottom of shoes carried by mud to dirty the floors of Professor Uchiha’s classroom.
Class was dismissed hours ago.
Your fingers ached from devoting exhaustive energy into your dissertation. So many hours spent staring at your laptop’s screen, brain stimulated by the copious amounts of disposable coffee cups flung around your dorm. Abhorrent, really, to put a student through this grueling work.
So why, oh why, did your Professor insist on you typing up his emails when you could be at your dorm shoving a pencil through your eye?
“Spread,” he commanded after your thighs encroached too far for his liking. His fingers started circling again once he was satisfied by the amount of prying open you did for him; making your complaints known at the top of your husky voice as he sucked on the flesh of your throat, eyeing the white box on screen to confirm you were still responding to a student about his question on the lecture he missed yesterday.
“Obi-to,” you whined some more. You stabbed the backspace button, typed, retyped the same line again. The bruises he left on your neck would be more obvious this time. You started wearing jeans and collared shirts to help hide them because the absolute terror on your face when a woman standing in line behind you pointed out the teeth-shaped marks on the back of your thighs mortified you to an early grave. “Can you please give me a second to finish this?”
He rolled your nipple between his fingers. Rubbed calloused fingers over your soft, needy clit. Bounced his leg. Clenched his ass to rock you up and down his lap. His rising chest pressing to your shuddering back.
Too late. You pressed enter.
“Now?” your tone turned insolent.
“Fine, hop off my cock, sweetheart.” He slapped your thigh as punishment.
He widened his legs. You slid yours between them and stood slowly, missing the way he filled you, but knowing he wouldn’t let you orgasm like this anyway.
Obito shivered at the sensation of his cock leaving you. Glistening in the light. A prelude to the evening. Warmed and waiting. “We’ll finish at my place,” he said, grabbing his keys from the top drawer of his desk. “I’ll make you dinner afterwards.”
You smoothed down your skirt and pulled on your opaque black tights, toeing on your shoes with a disapproving slant of your mouth. “You’re only saying that so I’ll answer the rest of your emails later.”
He laughed. A hearty chuckle at your demise.
Sauntering up to you, his smug grin taunted you. The outline protruding from behind his trouser’s zipper even more so. He cradled your aching hand. Pulled you to him. Depressed his thumb in your palm to open it. Curled your fingers to his throbbing cock, running them down its length as he moaned.
“Keep your hands and mouth busy and I won’t make you.”
“Fine.” You bent at the waist, forcing him to drop his hand from grabbing your ass to run through your hair, tugging it when you pressed hard kisses to his twitching cock, jolting you away and his hips back lest he finish prematurely after hours of teasing. “But you make the bed in the morning.”
“Fine,” he croaked, agreeing to anything you said. Wrapped around your finger. And you around his when he suggested you start staying the night. Accommodated by the deal, you stood and threw your arms around his neck, demanding kiss after kiss. “Let’s go before we have another incident like last time.”
You turned to the cracked monitor sitting beside his desk. Screen black and barren.
“Yeah, let’s go.” You walked, hand in hand to the door. Grinning. Taking sneaky glances at each other. Whispering dirty things you were going to do tonight all the way to his car. All the way to his front door. Using your key to get in. Sharing a kiss in the doorway. Shutting it behind you. Turning the lock.
Falling into the other’s arms. Completing the circle. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.
Bending the rules of student and teacher relationships.
#obito x reader#obito x you#obito smut#obito x y/n#obito#obito uchiha#naruto#naruto fanfic#uchiha obito#obito x oc
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am begging you on my knees to make aro call someone amo at least once. Possibly everyone all the time goodnight
Oof, you bring out my language nerd with that. But it must be said.
Unless you mean another language than Italian, then it wouldn't make sense for Aro to call anybody that. "Amo" is the first person present tense conjugation of the verb "amare", so he'd just be looking at Carlisle saying "I love" while Carlisle frowns, wondering if he's going to finish that sentence. I think you might have meant "Amore", "love (noun)", but that's a very intense word to use, you reserve that one for private conversation with a lover.
Generally, be leery with nicknames in other languages. A dictionary won't tell you everything, and with something like nicknames there are going to be a million little connotations that us foreigners don't know about - ragazza (girl) is not the same as bambina (girl) even though they translate to the same word, and if you're going to have Aro refer to someone as "my (blank)" then you better know your Italian possessive adjectives because he's not going to say "mio preferito", he's going to say "il mio preferito".
Point being, Italian is a fun language to learn but as with every other language, there are a million pitfalls. I don't sprinkle Aro's dialogue with Italian, and it's not just because he's Mycenaean, Italian is not his native language and I might as well give him French or German sprinklings, but also because Italian can be very tricky.
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Does Karl speak Romanian? 🙂
No. He knows a few words here or there from hearing Lady Dimitrescu speak it, but not enough to follow full sentences.
He speaks fluent English and is very rusty with German. When he was young he could speak it fluently but now he has to think it out if he wants full coherent sentence. He mostly just sprinkles German words in as to not fully loose that part of himself
He’s a fan of American radio, even if it’s full of static for him
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sometimes newt just makes up words while he's talking. his brain will either mash two similar or related words together, or just string together random sounds in the middle of his sentence, and sometimes he notices and stops to try and find the actual word, but a lot of the time he doesn't even realise and just keeps talking. Sometimes, particularly when he hasn't slept or seen the sun in a while, Hermann will start sprinkling German or Yiddish words into largely English sentences, just using whatever word best fits his purpose regardless of what language it's from. The reason they don't even question their drift compatibility when it comes down to it is because (even though Newt doesn't know a lot of German or Yiddish) they always understand eachother perfectly.
#its 1am and the doctors havent left the lab in two days. you're a j-tech going back to your quarters and you just wanna check if theyre like#still alive. you step in and Hermann is sitting at his desk while Newt sits on top of it and theyre discussing. something. it doesn't#sound like science but honestly? you cant recognise like 40% of the words theyre using and the ones you can are either english or#german cognates. is Newt speaking klingon? some other fake nerd language? its sounds. Kind of like english. what the fuck#they're speaking fluently in whatever theyre speaking. occasionally one of them will stop the other and ask about one word but mostly#theyre just. talking like this. you knew those guys were like. on another level but you havent seen this sort of thing from anything but#pilots or at least trainees. you leave and go to bed. theyre definitely still alive and youve third wheeled around drift partners enough#to know that this isnt something you really. want to need to or should watch#this post inspired by my bf using made up words and expecting me yo not understand but they literally make perfect sense 99% of the time#mine#dr newton geiszler core#newmann#dr hermann gottlieb core#newmann vibes
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🗯️ Benefits of watching movies in your target language with subtitles
- Helps with language comprehension
- It helps build familiarity with vocabulary and the sounds of the language – especially helpful if you want to understand how German sentences are built/how German people think
- You hear how people talk in real life, not in a fabricated way (think listening exercises, textbook examples of conversations)
- Improves word recognition
- Helps with understanding the use of expressions, figures of speech
[figures of speech: A figure of speech is a word or phrase that possesses a separate meaning from its literal definition. E.g.: alliteration, metaphor, simile etc.
💻 Life changing subtitle app
Buuut, should I put on subtitles in my native language or in my target language?
Wouldn’t it be awesome if I could have both at the same time?
Yes, it would be awesome and it is possible!
There is an app for it, and it completely changed my language learning : it is a chrome extension for Netflix which shows subtitles for the movie and the translation in your native language beneath it + you can save the expressions/sentences that you think could be useful. It is called ‘Language learning with Netflix’ and you can find it in the google chrome store. It is completely free to use and it is a GAME CHANGERRR!!
Chrome extension > click <
👁️ Is it enough to just watch?
The answer is yes aaand no. You have to figure out what works the best for you. You might want to try keeping a notebook or a word document open while watching and write down expressions/words that could be helpful for you. However it does take away from the experience, it is not that enjoyable to stop every 2-3 minutes but if you are very committed: DO IT. If after a couple of times doing this you see no benefits & just paying close attention to what’s happening on screen is more effective for you: maybe consider just writing down the words that repeat the most, a few expressions here and there that you are 100% sure that you will use.
If you do download the chrome extension you can star parts of a conversation and write them down after you finished watching. This method is the most productive in my opinion.
🤔 Can I rely only on this method to learn a language?
It is a great way to get exposed to the language, to incorporate it into your life and to get to know the culture as well. However to see its full benefits - in my opinion - you have to do more that this. Read, sprinkle some grammar here and there, speak, write, listen to music, follow people who speak the lang. etc.
But I would say it is absolutely possible to learn to speak the language by only doing this, but it is not for everybody. It depends on how hard your target language is, how fast you learn, what type of learner you are, what prior knowledge you have and on many other things.
[ I personally learned to speak English by watching my favorite youtubers - and the grammar part was never the priority for me, I was only interested in absorbing the language as much as possible and my overall goal was to speak it without translating words, without thinking too much. ]
This post is based mainly on my personal experience, I am not an expert on the subject whatsoever , I just thought I’d share it in the hopes of helping others, because learning a new language can be very frustrating sometimes & finding the method that works for me helped me the most.
Resources used:
https://www.rev.com/blog/learn-new-language-subtitles
https://examples.yourdictionary.com/figure-of-speech-examples.html
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"#please don't tell me you can read in my fics that I am a native German" well... yes, sometimes. Like sometimes you use a word or phrase a sentence in a way that makes me go "oh wait, that's how I'd structure that in German" and honestly, it's so nice to see people's native language shine through in their non-native writing 💖✨ it's like "here's a story in my non-native language, and here's some sprinkles of the language I know best and am instinctively drawing my ways of writing from" 🎇
When I read the first part I got a bit worried because I was a fraid it was a bad thing but the rest of your message is so lovely that I don't mind it being that way.
Also you can always point those things out to me because I totally won't get them otherwise. I do often google how German idioms get translated into English but often the result is so unsatisfying because they don't convey what I truly want to say and I guess sometimes I just don't care and use German phrases😅
But it would actually interest me what exactly in my writing is unusual for English and just me putting my native language in there.
Now I only need to know how people that don't know any German perceive my writing.
#also it's cool you can see when an author is russian#I read the thing with the articles somewhere and always wonder if the author is russian when they are often missing#some nice beautiful and colourful sprinkles of language#answered#itsfandomsgalore
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A Basic Guide to M9 Dialogue
Caleb: open your SAT prepbook. delete the contractions. add the verb “mumbled.” stir in german and self-loathing to taste.
Jester: she! is very excited!! about everything!! About anything!! About nothing at all!!! occasionally sprinkle in some friendly wisdom. her cheer is a mask of deep-seated pain but that’s alright because this town has a bakery.
Beau: AY, are you talkin’ to me? I said, are you talkin’ to me? Are you ready, motherfucker? Are you ready to throw down?? I will piss on your ashes, I don’t give a fuck. I hate my parents. I love my friends.
Molly: i am an idiot who never learned to read. My accent might as well be irish, and all my bullshit is well-intentioned. Fuck a bagel. Love yourself. Would you like to hear a fortune? I am contractually obligated to end on the word “dear”
Nott: hey, have you met my son? My wonderful, talented, incredible son? Oh, what’s that? Your parents aren’t around? Hey, how would you like to be my son? I know I’m not much, just a little goblin, but I can teach you all about crime.
Yasha: imagine all of scandinavia. make her sentences unbelievably vague. End abruptly. Stir in allusions to a horrifying past and a generous helping of I Loved My Dead Wife
Fjord: y'all'd've'f'I'd've
Caduceus: i know not what i am, nor what i have done. the earth will consume our bones at the world’s dawn, and the souls of lost angels shall weep in the quiet light. who wants ketchup on their tofu squares.
#critical role#critrole#critfic#the mighty nein#m9#cr2#am i joking about any of this#only kind of#jay speaks#text
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Duilintinn’s Languages: Duil Sign Language
Most of the lore in the upcoming series will be edited compilations of dozens of posts from the last two years. While there are some minor new details sprinkled throughout, I’ve attempted to post significant new information in a “Watch AU Fun Fact” post so you don’t have to read all of these HUGE posts to find them.
Other Posts in this Series:
Introduction • Common Tongue • Feadhainn Language • Duil Sign Language
In this Post
Summary
History
Watch Usage
Fluency
Summary
Duil Sign Language is a standardized form of nonverbal communication used throughout the kingdom of Duilintinn.
History
Duilintinn has had a universal sign language for as long as the kingdom has existed. King Sean and his band of adventurers all learned sign language in order to communicate with young Entertainer Jameson during the quest. As soon as Duilintinn was founded, a standardized system of nonverbal communication was almost immediately created. When King Sean founded House Jameson, the use of sign language became even more prevalent.
Watch Usage
Due to the widespread use of sign language throughout Duilintinn, The Watch uses sign language to communicate silently in the field. As a result, almost all Watchers know a little bit of sign language. Their vocabulary mostly consists of words like “go,” “fall back,” and other relevant military terms, but there are many opportunities in and out of The Watch to learn how to sign proficiently.
In addition, there are many signs that originated in The Watch and have slowly spread into the rest of Duilintinn. Colorful terms for The Enemy are very common, and different outposts and garrisons will have different signs for the same thing (like “pop” and “soda” in English), to the mixed frustration and amusement of everyone involved. Nothing is quite as entertaining as seeing a red-faced Watcher start signing what seems like angry gibberish, only to see the other Watchers from their outpost nodding seriously while hiding smiles behind their cloaks.
Fluency
Sign language, while very common within Duilintinn, is often learned in a very haphazard manner that doesn’t lead to actual fluency without extra study.
This is especially true within The Watch, where almost everyone uses some sign language but doesn't need it outside of stealth operations. To elaborate, I’m going to quote tumblr user @theshapeshifter100:
“With the signing, I figured it would be like, er… to use an example: I know French and German, but I am not fluent by any means. So, I could teach you the ‘important’ bits. Hello, goodbye, yes, no, please, thank you, where is the toilet? Stuff like that. Grammar and proper sentence structure? Forget it, I can’t help you. It would be the same in the garrison. People would know bits and pieces of sign language, enough to make themselves understood, but wouldn’t know it fluently, which wouldn’t help a young child to learn it to communicate properly.
I would guess young children would pick up sign language quickly, since it’s like any other language, just not verbal. It’s just that without a proper teacher the learning would also be haphazard, and as you say, probably wouldn’t cover things normally said.”
Honestly, I couldn’t put it any better myself.
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A DIFFERENT LOOK AT THE INQUISITION --GEORGE L. FAULL, REL. D.
IN ZURICH SWITZERLAND, ON JANUARY 18TH, 1525 AN ORDER WAS GIVEN BY THE ZURICH COUNCIL THAT ALL INFANTS MUST BE BAPTIZED WITHIN 8 DAYS OF BIRTH. THOSE NOT COMPLIANT TO THIS RULING WOULD BE BANISHED FROM ZURICH. ON JANUARY 21ST, ALL OPPONENTS OF THIS DECREE WERE NOT ALLOWED TO MEET OR SPEAK IN PUBLIC.
THIS LED TO MARTYRDOM AND MANY OF THOSE WHO WERE MARTYRED WERE ANABAPTIST. AN ANABAPTIST IS NOT SPEAKING OF THOSE CALLED BAPTISTS TODAY. THEY WERE A PEOPLE WHO WERE NICKNAMED “ANABAPTIST”. THIS COMES FROM THE GREEK WHICH MEANS “OVER AGAIN” AND “BAPTISM”. SO AN ANABAPTIST IS “ONE WHO BAPTIZES AGAIN!” THEY DID NOT CONSIDER INFANT BAPTISM OR SPRINKLING A RECOGNIZED BAPTISM, SO THEY DID NOT CONSIDER BELIEVER-BAPTISM A REBAPTISM SO THEY REJECTED THE NICKNAME.
IN MARCH OF 1525, THIS ORDER WAS GIVEN: “YOU KNOW WITHOUT DOUBT, AND HAVE HEARD FROM MANY THAT FOR A LONG TIME, SOME PECULIAR MEN, WHO IMAGINE THAT THEY ARE LEARNED, HAVE COME FORWARD ASTONISHINGLY, AND WITHOUT ANY EVIDENCE OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES, GIVEN AS A PRETEXT BY SIMPLE AND PIOUS MEN, HAVE PREACHED, AND WITHOUT THE PERMISSION AND CONSENT OF THE CHURCH, HAVE PROCLAIMED THAT INFANT BAPTISM DID NOT PROCEED FROM GOD, BUT FROM THE DEVIL, AND, THEREFORE, OUGHT NOT TO BE PRACTICED… WE, THEREFORE, ORDAIN AND REQUIRE THAT HEREAFTER ALL MEN, WOMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS FORSAKE REBAPTISM, AND SHALL NOT MAKE USE OF IT HEREAFTER, AND SHALL LET INFANTS BE BAPTIZED; WHOEVER SHALL ACT CONTRARY TO THIS PUBLIC EDICT SHALL BE FINED FOR EVERY OFFENSE, ONE MARK; AND IF ANY BE DISOBEDIENT AND STUBBORN THEY SHALL BE TREATED WITH SEVERITY; FOR, THE OBEDIENT WE WILL PROTECT; THE DISOBEDIENT WE WILL PUNISH ACCORDING TO HIS DESERTS, WITHOUT FAIL; BY THIS ALL ARE TO CONDUCT THEMSELVES. ALL THIS WE CONFIRM BY THIS PUBLIC DOCUMENT, STAMPED WITH THE SEAL OF OUR CITY, AND GIVEN ON ST. ANDREW’S DAY, A. D., 1525.”
RESULTS: FELIX MANZ, HENRY REIMAN, JACOB FALK WERE DROWNED. DECEMBER 1527 THEY WERE TOLD, “HE WHO IMMERSED SHALL BE IMMERSED”. A TOWNSMAN SAID, “THEY LIKE IMMERSION, SO LET US IMMERSE THEM”.
BALTHASAR HOBMAIER SAID, “THE COMMAND IS TO BAPTIZE THOSE WHO BELIEVE, TO BAPTIZE THOSE WHO DO NOT BELIEVE, THEREFORE IS FORBIDDEN. HE WAS IMPRISONED AND LATER WHEN HE WAS SUPPOSED TO RECANT INSTEAD HE SHOUTED, “INFANT BAPTISM IS NOT OF GOD AND MEN MUST BE BAPTIZED BY FAITH IN CHRIST. I HAVE NEVER TAUGHT ANABAPTISM…BUT THE RIGHT BAPTISM OF CHRIST, WHICH IS PRECEDED BY TEACHING AND ORAL CONFESSION OF FAITH, I TEACH, AND SAY THAT INFANT BAPTISM IS A ROBBERY OF THE RIGHT BAPTISM OF CHRIST.” ON MARCH 10TH, 1528 IN VIENNA, HE WAS BURNED AT THE STAKE AND 8 DAYS LATER, HIS WIFE WAS DROWNED.
NOT ONLY IN ZURICH AND VIENNA WAS THIS PERSECUTION AGAINST THOSE WHO WERE FOR IMMERSION AND AGAINST INFANT BAPTISM PRACTICED BUT AT ST. GALL, SWITZERLAND THEY ISSUED THIS DECREE – SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1527: “IN ORDER THAT THE DANGEROUS, WICKED, TURBULENT AND SEDITIOUS SECT OF THE BAPTISTS MAY BE ERADICATED, WE HAVE THUS DECREED: IF ANYONE IS SUSPECTED OF REBAPTISM, HE IS TO BE WARNED BY THE MAGISTRACY TO LEAVE THE TERRITORY UNDER PENALTY OF THE DESIGNATED PUNISHMENT [TO BE DROWNED]. EVERY PERSON IS OBLIGED TO REPORT THOSE FAVORABLE TO REBAPTISM. WHOEVER SHALL NOT COMPLY WITH THIS ORDINANCE IS LIABLE TO PUNISHMENT ACCORDING TO THE SENTENCE OF THE MAGISTRACY. TEACHERS OF REBAPTISM, BAPTIZING PREACHERS, AND LEADERS OF HEDGE MEETINGS ARE TO BE DROWNED. THOSE PREVIOUSLY RELEASED FROM PRISON WHO HAVE SWORN TO DESIST FROM SUCH THINGS, SHALL INCUR THE SAME PENALTY. FOREIGN BAPTISTS ARE TO BE DRIVEN OUT; IF THEY RETURN THEY SHALL BE DROWNED. NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO SECEDE FROM THE [ZWINGLIAN] CHURCH AND TO ABSENT HIMSELF FROM THE HOLY SUPPER.”
THE DECREE ON MARCH 26TH , 1530, WAS EVEN MORE SEVERE: “ALL WHO ADHERE TO OR FAVOR THE FALSE SECT OF THE BAPTISTS, AND WHO ATTEND HEDGE-MEETINGS, SHALL SUFFER THE MOST SEVERE PUNISHMENTS. BAPTIST LEADERS, THEIR FOLLOWERS, AND PROTECTORS SHALL BE DROWNED WITHOUT MERCY. THOSE, HOWEVER, WHO "FROM THE COWARDICE THAT SHRINKS FROM NEW TRUTH, FROM THE LAZINESS THAT IS CONTENT WITH HALFTRUTHS, FROM THE ARROGANCE THAT THINKS IT KNOWS ALL TRUTH, O, GOD OF TRUTH, DELIVER US." ULRICH ZWINGLI 2 THE GOSPEL UNASHAMED JULY 2015 ASSIST THEM, OR FAIL TO REPORT OR TO ARREST THEM SHALL BE PUNISHED OTHERWISE ON BODY AND GOODS AS INJURIOUS AND FAITHLESS SUBJECTS.”
LIKEWISE, THE GENEVA’S SWITZERLAND COUNCIL IN 1632, HUNG AND BURNED MEN FOR DENYING THE TRINITY. THE SAME PERSECUTION WAS IN DASIL AND BERNE.
IN GERMANY, LUTHER TAUGHT IMMERSION EVEN TRANSLATING “BAPTIZE” AS “DIP”. HE WROTE THESE WORDS IN 1518: “THE SIGNIFICATION OF BAPTISM DEMANDS, FOR IT SIGNIFIES THAT THE OLD MAN AND SINFUL BIRTH FROM THE FLESH AND BLOOD SHALL BE COMPLETELY DROWNED THROUGH THE GRACE OF GOD.
THEREFORE, A MAN SHOULD SUFFICIENTLY PERFORM THE SIGNIFICATION AND A RIGHT PERFECT SIGN. THE SIGN RESTS, IN THIS, THAT A MAN PLUNGE A PERSON IN WATER IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER, ETC., BUT DOES NOT LEAVE HIM THEREIN BUT LIFTS HIM OUT AGAIN; THEREFORE IT IS CALLED BEING LIFTED OUT OF THE FONT OR DEPTHS. AND SO MUST ALL OF BOTH OF THESE THINGS BE THE SIGN; THE DIPPING AND THE LIFTING OUT. THIRDLY, THE SIGNIFICATION IS A SAVING DEATH OF THE SINS AND OF THE RESURRECTION OF THE GRACE OF GOD. THE BAPTISM IS A BATH OF THE NEW BIRTH. ALSO A DROWNING OF THE SINS IN THE BAPTISM” (LUTHER, OPERA LUTHERI, I. 319. FOLIO EDITION).
HE ALSO WROTE: “THE TERM BAPTISM IS A GREEK WORD; IT MAY BE RENDERED INTO LATIN BY “MERSIO”: WHEN WE IMMERSE ANYTHING IN WATER, THAT IT MAY BE ENTIRELY COVERED WITH WATER. AND THOUGH THAT CUSTOM BE QUITE ABOLISHED AMONG THE GENERALITY, (FOR NEITHER DO THEY ENTIRELY DIP CHILDREN, BUT ONLY SPRINKLE THEM WITH A LITTLE WATER,) NEVERTHELESS THEY OUGHT TO BE WHOLLY IMMERSED, AND IMMEDIATELY TO BE DRAWN OUT AGAIN, FOR THE ETYMOLOGY OF THE WORD SEEMS TO REQUIRE IT. THE GERMANS CALL BAPTISM “TAUF”, FROM DEPTH, WHICH THEY CALL “TIEF” IN THEIR LANGUAGE; AS IF IT WERE PROPER THOSE SHOULD BE DEEPLY IMMERSED, WHO ARE BAPTIZED. AND TRULY, IF YOU CONSIDER WHAT BAPTISM SIGNIFIES THAT THE OLD MAN AND OUR NATIVE CHARACTER THAT IS FULL OF SIN, ENTIRELY OF FLESH AND BLOOD AS IT IS, MAY BE OVERWHELMED BY DIVINE GRACE. THE MANNER OF BAPTISM, THEREFORE OUGHT TO ANSWER TO THE SIGNIFICATION OF BAPTISM, SO THAT IT MAY SHOW FORTH A SIGN THAT IS CERTAIN AND FULL.” – OPERA
“WHEN THE WASHING AWAY OF SIN IS ATTRIBUTED TO BAPTISM, IT IS RIGHTLY SO ATTRIBUTED; BUT THE MEANING OF THE PHRASE IS TOO SLIGHT AND WEAK TO FULLY EXPRESS BAPTISM, WHICH IS RATHER A SYMBOL OF DEATH AND RESURRECTION. FOR THIS REASON I COULD WISH THAT THE BAPTIZED SHOULD BE TOTALLY IMMERSED, ACCORDING TO THE MEANING OF THE WORD AND SIGNIFICATION OF THE MYSTERY; NOT THAT I THINK IT NECESSARY TO DO SO, BUT THAT IT WOULD BE WELL THAT SO COMPLETE AND PERFECT THING AS BAPTISM SHOULD HAVE ITS SIGN ALSO IN COMPLETENESS AND PERFECTION, EVEN AS IT WAS DOUBTLESS INSTITUTED BY CHRIST.” – PRIMARY WORKS, P. 192.
LATER, LUTHER BEGAN TO OPPOSE IMMERSION AND THOSE WHO OPPOSED INFANT BAPTISM. THOUGH HE WAS OPPOSED TO EXECUTING THEM HE WISHED THEM ALL TO BE BANISHED FOR DISAGREEING WITH HIS DOCTRINES. AGAIN, HE CHANGED HIS MIND AND ENCOURAGED THE DESTRUCTION OF PEASANTS WHO REVOLTED FROM THE LORDS SEEKING THEIR FREEDOM.
HE WROTE: “THE PEASANTS WOULD NOT LISTEN; THEY WOULD NOT LET ANYONE TELL THEM ANYTHING; THEIR EARS MUST BE UNBUTTONED WITH BULLETS, TILL THEIR HEADS JUMP OFF THEIR SHOULDERS. ... ON THE OBSTINATE, HARDENED, BLINDED PEASANTS, LET NO ONE HAVE MERCY, BUT LET EVERYONE, AS HE IS ABLE, HEW, STAB, SLAY, LAY ABOUT HIM AS THOUGH AMONG MAD DOGS, . . . . SO THAT PEACE AND SAFETY MAY BE MAINTAINED...” [MARTIN LUTHER, WERKE, ERLANGEN EDITION, VOL. 24, P. 294; VOL.15, P. 276]
(OVER 100,000 PEASANTS DIED. DO I ACCUSE FALSELY? - GLF)
HE WROTE: “IT WAS I, MARTIN LUTHER, WHO SLEW ALL THE PEASANTS IN THE INSURRECTION, FOR I COMMANDED THEM TO BE SLAUGHTERED. ALL THEIR BLOOD IS UPON MY SHOULDERS. BUT I CAST IT ON OUR LORD GOD WHO COMMANDED ME TO SPEAK IN THIS WAY.” [MARTIN LUTHER, WERKE, ERLANGEN EDITION, VOL. 59, P. 284]
SO LUTHER SOUGHT THE DEATH OF THOSE OPPOSING INFANT BAPTISM AND FAVORED BELIEVERS’ IMMERSION. IN 1529, THE DIET OF SPEIRS ALL ANABAPTISTS WERE CONDEMNED TO DEATH. MR. HALLEY POINTS OUT 400 SPECIAL POLICE WERE HIRED TO HUNT DOWN THOSE BELIEVERS AND EXECUTE THEM ON THE SPOT. THOUSANDS WERE BURNED ACROSS EUROPE FOR THEIR FAITH. SO THE LUTHERANS KILLED MANY OF THE IMMERSED BELIEVERS.
URBANUS RHEGIUS WAS A LUTHERAN WHO WROTE A BOOK IN 1528 SHOWING A RIVER RUNNING INTO THE OCEAN OF WATER THAT WAS ON FIRE. THIS WAS THE VIEW OF SWITZERLAND AND GERMANY THAT IMMERSION LED TO HELL.
BANISHMENT, DEATH, BURNINGS, HANGINGS, TORTURING, BRANDING, AND IMPRISONMENT WAS THEIR FATE.
LIKEWISE, CALVIN WAS A PERSECUTOR AND A MURDERER. “SO ENTIRELY WAS HE IN FAVOUR OF PERSECUTING MEASURES, THAT HE WROTE A TREATISE IN DEFENCE OF THEM, MAINTAINING THE LAWFULNESS OF PUTTING HERETICS TO DEATH; AND HE REDUCED THESE RIGID THEORIES TO PRACTICE, IN HIS CONDUCT TOWARDS CASTELLIO, JEROM BOLSEE, AND SERVETUS, WHOSE FATES ARE TOO GENERALLY KNOWN TO REQUIRE BEING HERE REPEATED. AT THE COUNCIL OF GENEVA, 1632, NICHOLAS ANTHOINE WAS CONDEMNED TO BE FIRST HANGED AND THEN BURNED FOR OPPOSING THE DOCTRINE OF THE TRINITY...” (J.J. STOCKDALE, THE HISTORY OF THE INQUISITIONS, 1810, P. XXVIII). MARTIN LUTHER JOHN CALVIN JULY 2015 THE GOSPEL UNASHAMED 3 IN THE DAYS OF KING EDWARD VI OF ENGLAND, CALVIN WROTE A LETTER TO LORD PROTECTOR SOMERSET AND URGED HIM TO PUT ANABAPTISTS TO DEATH: “THESE ALTOGETHER DESERVE TO BE WELL PUNISHED BY THE SWORD, SEEING THAT THEY DO CONSPIRE AGAINST GOD, WHO HAD SET HIM IN HIS ROYAL SEAT” (JOHN CHRISTIAN, A HISTORY OF THE BAPTISTS, VOL. 1, CHAP. 15).
HISTORIAN JOHN CHRISTIAN OBSERVES THAT CALVIN “WAS RESPONSIBLE IN A LARGE MEASURE FOR THE DEMON OF HATE AND FIERCE HOSTILITY WHICH THE BAPTISTS OF ENGLAND HAD TO ENCOUNTER.”
IN OCTOBER 1563, CALVIN HAD SERVETUS KILLED, BURNED AT THE STAKE FOR DISAGREEING ON THE TRINITY. IT WAS APPROVED BY BOTH MELANCHTHON OF GERMANY AND BULLINGER OF GENEVA AND OTHER LEADING REFORMERS. SOME OF THE WORST PERSECUTIONS WERE DONE BY THE CALVINISTS AGAINST THE ARMINIANS.
SOME WERE BEHEADED, IMPRISONED, OR BANISHED. LIKEWISE, THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND UNDER KING HENRY VIII, AS WELL AS KING EDWARD VI AND KING JAMES, PERSECUTED IMMERSIONISTS. THEY ORGANIZED BURNINGS. THESE INCLUDED BOTH MEN AND WOMEN. MANY OF THEIR NAMES ARE RECORDED IN HISTORY BUT ALL IN GOD’S BOOK OF MARTYRS. HANGINGS WERE COMMON AS WELL PERSECUTIONS AND IMPRISONMENTS WHICH CONTINUED OVER SEVERAL CENTURIES.
WHY DO I PRINT THIS? IT SHOWS THAT IT IS NOT ONLY THE MUSLIMS AND CATHOLICS THAT KILL THEIR OPPONENTS. THE REFORMERS ALSO PERSECUTED THOSE WHO INSISTED ON IMMERSION AND OTHER BIBLE TRUTHS. THE VERY FOUNDERS OF PROTESTANTISM WERE ALSO BUTCHERS FILLED WITH MURDEROUS PRACTICES ON THOSE WHO DISAGREED WITH THEIR DOCTRINES.
THE LEGACY OF ZWINGLI TODAY - HE WAS THE ONE RESPONSIBLE FOR CALLING BAPTISM A WORK AND ESTABLISH THE “FAITH ONLY” DOCTRINE WE CONTEND WITH TO THIS DAY.
AS FOR JOHN CALVIN, THE FOUNDER OF CALVINISM, PREDESTINATION IS STILL TAUGHT IN MANY MAINLINE CHURCHES AND WAS THE CAUSE OF THE DEATH OF MANY BELIEVERS IN CHRIST. YET HE DID NOT PREDESTINATE THE MURDERS.
MARTIN LUTHER BY HIS OWN MOUTH CAUSED THE DEATHS OF MANY IN GERMANY AND PRUSSIA. HIS HATRED AND PERSECUTION OF JEWS IS ALSO RENOWNED. THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND LIKEWISE TOOK THEIR TOLL ON RELIGIOUS FREEDOM.
IRONICALLY, THESE MEN HAD BEEN GREATLY PERSECUTED BY THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH. HOWEVER, WHERE THEY ESTABLISHED THEMSELVES ELSEWHERE IN SWITZERLAND, GERMANY, ENGLAND, ETC., THEY MOTIVATED OTHER COUNTRIES TO PROSECUTE AND PERSECUTE. THE PERSECUTED BECAME THE PERSECUTORS. ROMANS 11:16 SAYS, “IF THE ROOT IS HOLY, SO ARE THE BRANCHES.” IS NOT THE OPPOSITE TRUE? “IF THE ROOT IS UNHOLY, CAN THE BRANCHES BE HOLY?”
ISN’T IT STRANGE AND IRONIC THAT THE ADHERENTS TO THESE MEN’S HERITAGE NOW ARE SAYING THAT THE MODE, PURPOSE, AND CANDIDATES FOR BAPTISM IS SIMPLY IMMATERIAL? THE ROTTING CORPSES OF HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS WHOM THEIR ANCESTORS TORTURED AND SLEW OVER THESE QUESTIONS GAVE THEIR LIVES FOR BELIEVERS’ IMMERSION. CHRIST NEVER INTENDED HIS KINGDOM TO BE SPREAD BY FORCE. THOSE WHO DO SO PROVE THEY ARE NONE OF HIS. IT WAS AT THE PRICE OF THE MARTYRS’ BLOOD THAT WE HAVE THE FREEDOM TODAY TO PREACH BELIEVERS BAPTISM. TRULY MANY OF OUR OWN BRETHREN LACK THE COURAGE IN THIS FREE SOCIETY TO PREACH THE NECESSITY OF BELIEVER’S BAPTISM.
TODAY, IF WE TEACH WHAT THE RESTORATION FATHERS TAUGHT IN REJECTING THE REFORMER’S TEACHINGS, BOTH WOULD BE COUNTED WORTHY OF MARTYRDOM BY THE FOUNDING REFORMERS. THE TOLERANCE MANY BROTHERS SHOW TOWARD THE DOCTRINE OF THE FOUNDING REFORMERS TO ME IS ASTOUNDING. TO TEACH THE FAITH-ONLY DOCTRINE OF ZWINGLI, THE DOCTRINE OF ELECTION OF CALVIN, AND THE NON-NECESSITY OF IMMERSION OF LUTHER AS PRACTICED NOW BY MANY IN THE CHURCH OF CHRIST, DENIES NOT ONLY THE TEACHING OF JESUS CHRIST BUT IS A REJECTION OF OUR HERITAGE. IT CHEAPENS AND TRAMPLES THE BLOOD OF CHRIST AND THE BLOOD OF THE MARTYRS. IT MAKES THE MARTYRS RADICAL LEGALISTS WHO SIMPLY DIED ON THE WRONG HILL.
(This article was collected from many sources. We especially are thankful for the writings of David Cloud.)
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