kabesa (kabesa) wrote in wmiller_fanfic,

The Miller diaries: Water Runs Deep

Rated NC-17 for explicit sexual content.

Proceed at your own risk. I'm not responsible for your heart palpitations and heat waves.


The following Wentasy involves actor Wentworth Miller. It is the product of imagination intended for pure fun and does not lay any claim to reality.


              You look weary as the car speeds along the bumpy road. Cattle disperse around as the vehicle dives into the lush mangrove area of secluded Pantanal. Finally, you decided to take that trip for which no rational explanation exists. You do it just for yourself, by yourself. That’s why you don’t go to a crowded beach, you don’t hit glistening casinos, you don’t dive into cultural semiotics. You just drift away into the pristine womb of nature in one of the most remote places the earth can offer.

            “Sozinha?” the elderly driver asks.

“Sim,” you reply wearily. This is the fourth time you have been asked that. First it was your family, then it was the immigration officer at the airport, then the lady with whom you shared the cab to São Paulo, and finally this man.

            The car stops at a ramshackle wooden hut perched on poles and the driver unloads your suitcase. After giving you a condescending glance, he leaves. You exhale preparing to finally enjoy your solitude, read books, watch the chirping birds and savor the rainy mist.

            The day passes by languidly as you unpack your belongings and attempt to create a homey atmosphere. Before you know it dusk settles in and the trees assume whimsical shapes in the vapor. The mangrove huddles down in its enticing slumber. Suddenly the sky opens up and torrential rain pours out. You regret your choice to come during the rainy season but decide to make the most of it.

Figuring out that you are already wet, you skip the getting dried precaution and instead dive into the forest to explore the freshly bathed vegetation. 

            Your recklessness is rewarded when you stumble upon a high cascade of water that tumbles down from a cliff into the wide bed of a languid river. The silvery waters illuminated by the crescent moon whisper sweet nothings to you and you are tempted to yield to their seduction. You take off your wet clothes and dive into the calm stream. Then enticed by the murmuring waterfall, you swim up right under the cascade. The refreshing stream of warm water awakens your senses. Around you, the forest watches frozen in its eternal stillness.

            You are smoothing down your hair behind when you notice a figure standing at the left bank of the stream watching you. You freeze mid-action rationalizing that reaching out to your clothes is out of the question.

            The man crouches down keeping his gaze on you. “Go on,” he says after a minute. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

            “You are already disturbing me,” you say with growing unease.

            “No,” he replies, his voice taking down a notch. “You are not disturbed by what I’m doing but by the thought of what I might do.”

            You still cannot see his face well in the evening haze but you recognize the smooth honeycombed voice. Back in another world you would jump, scream, ask for an autograph and offer to take a picture. Here you just sit. Back in another world, he’s is a famous face, the canvass of projected desires, here he’s just a stranger like you. You decide to live for that moment.

            “Don’t worry,” he says smiling faintly. “I’m a reflective aesthete, who gains sensuous delight not so much from the act of seduction but from engineering the possibility of seduction.”

            “Ah,” you let escape your lips.

            “Is the water warm?” he asks matter-of-factly.

“If I say no, would this stop you?” you ask coquetishly.

”No, only if it were scalding hot. You know, skin graphs are a pain in the ass.”

With these words the unbuttons his jeans and let them slide down. Then he takes off his shirt and tosses it close to your wet clothes. You notice his barefoot feet. Nature has revolted against the oppresions of society.

He dives in and swims downstream. You watch his fishlike movements transfixed.

Then you approach him with trepidation and excitement.

“Is your life boring?” you pretend to be aloof.

“Why?” he replies caught off guard.

“In the book “The Seducer's Diary” Johannes resorts to seduction to transform the quotidian dullness of his life into a richly poetic world,” you revel in your astuteness.

He squints his beautiful eyes and says: “Not only ennui, but also transformation. Kirkegaard wrote the book after he broke up his engagement to Regina.”

He reaches out touching your hairline. Your skin resonates at the contact. You know that it is a slow tortuous mind’s game in which he’s challenging you to make a mistake.

“I wonder how he reconciled it with his later works,” you say your thoguhts numbed by his touch.

He smiles unapologetically: “In one of his last works he admitted that ‘Human existence requires real passion as well as thought.’ It is exactly this passion that he means, “ his fingers slide along your jawbone to your mouth prying your lips apart,  “…when he says that ‘to poeticize oneself into a young girl is an art; to poeticize oneself out of her is a masterpiece.’”

He lowers his face towards you and his lips gently brush your cheeks. Then his tongue lingers over your mouth tracing the curve of your lips but doesn’t kiss you. You open your mouth in an attempt to draw him in but he pulls back. There is a triumphant and slightly mocking expression on his face.

You feel the ground is slipping under you. “Exactly,” you try to concentrate your thoughts. “His protagonist, or him for the record, doesn’t care much about people. He later goes on to justify Isaac’s sacrifice.”

“He doesn’t justify it, he just offers an explanation of it,” his fingers trail down your shoulders and décolletage until they reach the fleshy part of your breasts. He tilts his head gently kissing your neck and you close your eyes at the sensation.

“But he posits that humans are expandable,” in a flash, you try to get the upper handle.

“You are referring to the ‘theological suspension of the ethical’,” he speaks between nibbling on your shoulder. His hand circles your nipple sending shivers along your spine. Around you, the tranquil pearlescent waters gently tide against your hips.

You reach out and slip a hand over his shoulders pulling him closer.

He lifts his head facing you solemnly, water dripping from his chin: “He admitted that Abraham knew that sacrificing his son was bad, he just said that he chose to yield to a higher power. In that sense, Abraham recognizes a duty to something higher than both his social duty not to kill an innocent person and his personal commitment to his beloved son, his duty to obey God's commands.”

His hand roams around your stomach as you try to remain coherent. “But, still, this is not an excuse,” you struggle with your words. He gently turns you away from him as he draws a wet trail from your shoulder to your back. His hands slip down your pelvic area and lightly touch the inner part of your thighs. You let out a soft moan.

Undaunted, he continues: “That’s where Hegel didn’t agree either. He was distrustful of all claims or aspirations to the ‘God's-eye view.’ “ You admire his ability to retain reasoning in the heat of the moment.

You wrap your hand around his neck and turn towards him reaching out for his lips. Thousands of droplets mist your forehad as you face the cataract sucking his lips. He lifts your butt and carries you to a projected suface carved itno the rock behind the waterfall and gently places you on the wet slimy surface.

“According to Hegel,” he continues his relentless exposition, his eyes coolly fixed upon you, his face dead-serious and unflinching while his hands genly pull your legs apart, “the mind of God becomes actual only via the minds of his creatures, who serve as its vehicle. It is as distributed bearers of this developing self-consciousness of God that those finitely-embodied inhabitants of the universe - we humans - can be such ‘finite-infinites.’”

“You can’t...” you mumble as his hand slips into the warm wetness of your tights. “..go there.”

“Go where?” he pauses and deadpans staring at you intensely.

“There…to extrapolate that….that we’re the vehicles of God’s projection. It’s a... slimy surface.”

“The one your ass is perched on?” he asks with a mischievous twinke in his eyes.

“The assumption part,” you take a deep breath and close your eyes. “Don’t stop,” you say in a trance as he caresses your throbbing flesh. Then you slowly recline back speading your legs for him.

He bends over you and kisses your stomach drawing fanciful shapes with his tongue around your bellybutton. Your face twitches into a spasm as you wrap your legs around his waist pulling him towards you.

“Yes, but we are the embodiment of the self-consciousness and self-actualisation of God,” he whispers as his mouth heads south. “Leibnitz’s Monads, Pascal’s reasoning human…it’s all an example of how not the finiteness of people but their cognitive abilites alleviate them to that status...”

“Listen,” you raise on your elbows exasperated, “Augistine, Kant, Socrates… and a bunch of other dead folks also shared their thoughts on the matter but we don’t need to walk through the whole philosophy subject now.  Please, whatever you are doing, do it faster! And shut up! I can’t take it anymore!” You drop on your back overcome with emotion and desire as he reaches your sacred spot .<\lj-cut>

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