#dog bless Ardent

[thewritetofreespeech]

Could I request Nathaniel Hawthorne having sex with his s/o in a church?

Bless him father, for he had sinned. He had strayed far from God’s embrace and into the arms of another. Driving him further & further from the Lord like he was driving his cock further & further into them.

Nathaniel wasn’t sure how this had happened. When this had happened. Their passion was a force that none of his prayers or temperance could fight against. Everyday he felt himself more consumed by the madness of this lust. ‘God save me. God forgive me.’

Even as his holy prayers comb through his mind, his partner’s prayers are less holy. “Oh God don’t stop! Oh God right there Nathan!” Clinging to his robes he had just lifted up to fuck them on this holy alter. Their juices spilling out over it like spilled communion wine.

Despite his pleas for salvation from his Lord, Nathaniel does not stop. His cock deep inside his unmarried lover, seconds from putting a bastard in them. His forked tongue that both spoke of God’s reverence and licked inside them deep in their mouth. His hands that held his rosary so tight now at their throat in this Folie à Deux.

“Uhhn! I’m cumming Nathan! Cum with me! Cum with me!” Nathaniel does, as if on common. Their words in this moment his god now as he finished inside them under the watchful eye of God and his stained-glass apostles. “That was amazing….”

He cannot agree. Though the sex had been incredible, the guilt of what they had just done was pooling in on him. He’d been led far from God before but this….what his partner had tempted him into….he felt no sin more ardent against the Lord since Eve and her apple.

“Oh come on. Don’t make that face.” His partner cooed. Not helpful. Not empathetic. Not remorseful in the least, but beguiling and already pushing the blame aside. “You know you liked it. Panting like a dog in heat. It’s not a big deal anyway. Besides, doesn’t God forgive all?” He did.

God forgives all who seek him. But those who seek him must be repentant, willing to change. So Nathaniel knew that God was not going to forgive him any time soon.

[exhausted-archivist]

ALT

Flora of Thedas Master List

Master list of all the flora in Thedas, mentioned or seen.

Additional notes on certain items will be listed at the bottom, for items marked with asterisks, see the key below for a brief explanation and the Game assets and Additional Notes and Trivia section at the bottom. Sources are listed at the very end and this time linked.

For other lists here are posts for: Real Plants in Thedas

Key: * - Name comes from the asset file name ** - Name not provided but identified based on the textures used on the asset. *** - See Additional Notes and Trivia.

General Flora: Flowers and Foliage

Acacia*: Black Wood*

Andraste's Grace

Ardent Blossom

Ash

Aspen

Banyan Tree*

Barbwood

Beech Tree

Belladonna

Birch: White Birch*

Blackthorn

Bluebell

Borage

Boswellia

Boxwood*

Buttercup

Cactus: Pear Cactus*

Cattail*

Cedar: Red Cedar

Chicory

Clover: Forest Clover*

Coleus**

Cosmos

Cotton

Crape Myrtle

Cypress: Italian Cypress*, Topiary Cypress*

Daffodil

Daisy: Marguerite

Dandelion

Dog-rose

Dogwood*

Elephant Ear*

Elm

Fade Berry*

Felicidus Aria

Fern: Red Fern*, Sword Fern*

Fir

Flax

Foxleaf*

Frangipani

Gorse

Harlot's Blush

Hawthorn

Hay

Hemp

Hensbane

Hero Tree*

Hollyhock

Honeysuckle

Iris

Ironbark

Ironwood***

Itchweed

Ivy

Jasmin

Larch

Lichen: Glowing Lichen

Lilac

Lily: Calla Lily**, Water Lily

Lotus

Maple

Marigold

Moss: Oakmoss, Redmoss, Tree-Moss

Nightshade

Northern Prickleweed

Oak: Serault Oak

Orchid

Palm Tree: Curly Palm*, Fan Palm*

Pansy

Peony

Pine: Chir Pine*, Stone Pine

Ponga Tree*

Poppy

Prickle-burrs

Redwood*

Rose: Climbing Rose

Rowan

Sandalwood

Seaweed

Snapdragon

Spruce

Sugar Cane

Sundew

Sunflower

Sylvanwood

Tahanis

Thistle

Trex*

Trullium

Vasanthum

Violet

Walnut: Black Walnut

Waterweed*

Wilds Flower

Willow

Witchhazel*

Wysteria

Yew

Fruits

Apple: Applewood Apple, Green Apple, Golden Apple, Red Apple

Apricot

Banana

Berries: Blackberry, Blueberry, Bramble Berry, Cranberry, Elderberry, Raspberry, Strawberry

Cherry

Citron

Coco, Chocolate

Coconut

Coffee

Currants: Black Currant

Fig

Grape

Lemon

Lime

Melon

Nuts: Almonds, Chestnut, Hognut, Peanuts

Olives

Orange: Sweet Orange

Palm Fruit: Date

Passion Fruit

Peach

Pear: Bradford Pear*

Plum

Pomegranate

Grains

Barley

Oats

Rice

Ryott

Wheat

Vegetables

Artichoke

Beans: Bush Bean, Green Bean, Pale Bean, White Bean

Beets

Bell Peppers: Red Bell Peppers

Cabbage

Capers

Carrot

Celery

Chive

Corn

Cucumber

Daikon Radish*

Eggplant

Fennel

Onion: Red Onion, Sweet Onion, White Onion

Pea

Peppers: Antivan Pepper, Green Pepper, Hot Pepper, Hot Red Pepper, Sweet Pepper

Potato

Radish

Spinach

Squash: Baby Pumpkin, Marrow Squash, Pumpkin, String Squash

Tomato

Turnip

Fungus of Thedas

Deep Mushrooms

Bleeding Russula

Blightcap

Blighted Morel

Brimstone Mushroom

Deep Mushroom

Destroying Spirit

Ghoul's Mushroom

Unnamed Mushroom Ortan Thaig

Surface Mushrooms

Beetle Spore

Drakevein

Field Mushroom

Gasbloom*

Sponge Root***

Toadstool

Truffle

Morel***

Unnamed Glowing Mushroom***

Unnamed Mushroom***

Spices

Allspice

Antivan Cord-Seed

Cardamom

Cinnamon

Clove

Cumin, Cumin Seed

Dill, Dill Seed

Juniper

Licorice

Mace

Mustard

Nutmeg

Pepper: Black Pepper

Peppercorn: Black Peppercorn

Saffron

Vanilla

ALT

Herbs of Thedas

Herbs count as anything that Dragon Age has classified as an herb (whether technically correct or not), plants that are used as herbs in real life. These do not include mushrooms, fungi, or deep mushrooms simply for ease of organization.

Amrita Vein

Andraste's Mantle

Arbor Blessing

Basil

Bay

Catsbane

Crystal Grace

Deathroot: Arcanist Deathroot, Lunatic's Deathroot

Dragonthorn

Elfroot/Canavaris: Bitter Elfroot, Gossamer Elfroot, Royal Elfroot

Embrium: Dark Embrium, Salubrious Embrium

Felandaris

Foxite

Garlic

Ghoul's Beard

Ginger

Heatherum

Lavender

Lotus: Black Lotus, Blood Lotus, Dawn Lotus

Madcap

Mint: Anderfel's Mint, Foxmint, Peppermint

Mintroot - Not a true mint based on its description and the fact that it grows on trees.

Oregano

Parsley

Prophet's Laurel

Rashvine

Rashvine Nettle

Redleaf

Rosemary

Sage

Spindleweed: Verdant Spindleweed

Stripweed

Thyme

Vandal Aria

Winterberry***

Witherstalk

Star Anise

Wormwood

Wormroot***

Game Assets Notes

These are plants shown in Dragon Age but aren't named in universe, just in their model files or through identification of the textures. Since most filler plant textures are just that of real world plants.

**NOTE:** When I mention they are not the known name of any plant, this comes with the caveat of being popular common names. Common names are highly variable and inconsistent. They depend on regional knowledge and association. Some travel farther than others. Common names are also not reliable identifiers.

Acacia: Black Wood ~ Note: Black Wood is a type of acacia. Both acacia and black wood are named assets.

Artichoke ~ Note: Identification comes from asset name, the artichoke flower is used as ornamentation of a box.

Banyan Tree

Boxwood ~ A type of shrub, identification comes from asset name.

Bradford Pear ~ Their fruits are edible, however their flowers are known to emit a smell akin to rotting meat. Identification comes from asset name.

Calla Lily ~ Note: Not named but identified by the texture used. It is seen in Val Royeaux planters.

Cattail ~ Note: Seen through out DAO and DAI, identification comes from asset name.

Coleus ~ Note: Not named but identified by the texture used. It is seen in Val Royeaux planters and in the Frostback Basin.

Crape Myrtle

Cypress: Italian Cypress, Topiary Cypress ~ Note: In terms of the Italian Cypress, in world it wouldl likely be called the "Antivan Cypress" given that Antiva is pulling from Italian culture, food, environments, and other inspirational elements. Cypress is a plant that is named in canon.

Daikon Radish ~ Note: Found on Dennet's farm, identification comes from asset name.

Dogwood

Elephant Ear ~ Note: Foliage found in the Frostback Basin, identification comes from asset name.

Fade Berry

Fern: Red Fern, Sword Fern ~ Note: The red fern isn't a real plant and therefore can be considered unique to Thedas. In contrast the sword fern is a real plant. Identification comes from the asset name for both of these ferns.

Forest Clover

Foxleaf ~ Note: This is another plant that is not real, no plant has this common name as far as I could find.

Gasbloom ~ Note: Seen in the Arbor Wilds, the Frostback Basin some elven ruins, and the elven ruins of multiplayer levels. Their identification comes from the asset name. There are two versions of the texture the "fixed" version is used in JoH dlc and thus explains the difference in appearance. This is not the name of a known mushroom.

Hero Tree

Palm: Curly Palm, Fan Palm ~ Note: Both palms are seen in the Frostback Basin, both are identified by their named assets.

Pear Cactus ~ Note: Found in the Frostback Basin, identification comes from the asset name.

Pine: Chir Pine

Ponga Tree ~ Note: Also known as the 'Tree Fern'. This is the tree you see in Val Royeaux garden as coming from Par Vollen, and throughout the Arbor Wilds.

Redwood ~ Note: Identified by the name of the file asset. Found in the Winter Palace, Exalted Plains, and on multiplayer maps.

Snapdragon

Trex

Waterweed ~ Note: In real life this is an entire genus not one particular plant. Though the six plants in this genus do share the common name of waterweed.

White Birch

Witchhazel

Additional Notes and Trivia

Ironwood - Unclear if this is an alternative name, the actual name of the plant, or both.

Morel - This mushroom is inferred due to the existence of Blighted Morel. However it is not explicitly specified there is a non-blighted morel.

Sponge Root - Though canonical as it is mentioned and shown in World of Thedas vol. 2 on pg. 138 with a collection of deep mushroom and surface mushroom illustrations. This mushroom was cut twice from Inquisition. It was cut from the base game as a craftable, it had a much different appearance from its final design, and then it was cut again from Trespasser. It does however still make an appearance in Inquisition as the inventory icon for Crystal Grace.

Unnamed Glowing Mushroom Is mentioned in multiplayer when there are two Lukas playing.

Unnamed Mushroom These brown mushrooms are seen in the Fallow Mire and the Frostback Basin. They are shown in two different sizes ranging from shorter than a dwarf to taller than one.

There is one unlisted mushroom, its assets is named "red mushroom" and thus is identified by textures. These is not a canon name but is included for completeness. Amanita Muscaria: More commonly know as fly agaric or fly amanita, the red top with white spots is an iconic in its imagery. You will find large swaths of these mushrooms in the Frostback Basin. Their assets is named "Red Mushroom".

Winterberry is a real plant. However, from what we see in DA2, it does not the same as the plant we have in the real world, just a shared common name.

Wormroot is another real plant name. However, due to the description in The Calling, it does not seem to be the same plant. In The Calling it is used to treat the venom of a giant spider. The real world plant is used to treat parasites in the gut and does not seem to hold any shared uses in folk lore, folk medicine, or western medicine practices.

Sources

Dragon Age Origins + DLCs Dragon Age 2 Dragon Age Last Court Dragon Age Inquisition + DLCs Dragon Age TTRPG Core Rulebook Dragon Age TTRPG Blood of Ferelden Dragon Age TTRPG: Creatures of Thedas: Wyvern

World of Thedas Vol. 1 and Vol. 2 Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne Dragon Age: The Calling Dragon Age: The Masked Empire Dragon Age: Last Flight Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights Short Story: Paying the Ferryman Short Story: Riddle in the Truth Short Story: The Wake

Origins Andraste's Grace Codex: The Bercillian Forest Codex: Falon'Din: Friend of the Dead, the Guide Codex: Feast Day Fish Codex: The History of Soldier's Peak: Chapter 3 Codex: Ironbark Codex: A Note from the Honnleath Village Council Codex: Sylaise: The Hearthkeeper Codex: Sylvan Codex: A Tattered Shopping List Item: Concentrator Agent Item: Deep Mushroom Item: Figurine Item: Madcap Bulb Item: Rare Antivan Brandy Item: Rashvine Nettle Item: Spirit Charm Item: Spirit Cord Item: Sugar Cake Item: Swift Salve Item: West Hill Brandy Item: Wilds Flower

DA 2 Ambrosia Bianca (Crossbow) Ironwood Clearing Codex: Deathroot Codex: Deep Mushroom Codex: Embrium Codex: Felandaris Codex: The Hedge Witch Codex: Spindleweed Item: Carved Ironwood Buttons Item: Harlot's Blush Quest: Hard to Stomach Quest: The Long Road Quest: Tranquility Weapon: The Celebrant Weapon: Ironwood Shield Weapon: Ironwood Warblade

Inquisition Codex: Amrita Vein Codex: Arbor Blessing Codex: Avvar Cuisine Codex: Black Lotus Codex: Blood Lotus Codex: Bottles of Thedas Codex: Crystal Grace Codex: Elfroot Codex: Ghoul's Beard Codex: The Girl in Red Crossing Codex: Hard in Hightown Chapter 7 Codex: Hard in Hightown Chapter 10 Codex: Mediations and Odes to Bees Codex: Notes on Palace Guests Codex: The Orlesian Civil War Codex: Prophet's Laurel Codex: Rashvine Codex: Rashvine Nettle Codex: Vandal Aria Codex: Vivienne's Alchemy Notes Codex: Waterlogged Diary Codex: Witherstalk Note: Betta's Traveling Journal Note: Carta Note on Security Note: Field Notes Note: The Gilded Horn's Drink List Note: Knight-Captain's Orders Note: Love Letter Note: A Note from Skyhold's Kitchens Note: A Note from Skyhold's Kitchens, Again War Table: The Dance with the Dowager: The Allemande Item: Ardent Blossom

Last Court The Abbess' Road The Anchoress Arrival of the Divine The Feast is Ending Fires Flames of Freedom Good Neighbors Heartwood Feast The Hounds The Lord of the Wood Comes a-Calling The Purveyor of Teas Road and River A Swift Stream Thieves! Unofficial Meeting

Want to support this blog? Check out my ko-fi!

[look-i-love-u]

A very 2023 tag game

Thanks for the tag @energievie and @surviving-maybe and @shinygalaxyperson and @mishervellous and @smokey-mickey

Hello my name is Vey

I live in Germany

In 2023 I'll be turning one year older. (Just 23 days to go, in fact... O.o)

Describe your 2022 in 3 words - since my 2022 has been vastly overshadowed by the last few months it's gotta be: challenging, exhausting, sad

3 words you hope will describe your 2023 - blessed, family, new

Something you're looking forward to this year seeing the sun rise

Something you want to accomplish this year putting myself out there

Somewhere you'd like to travel this year visiting my family

Something you'd like to do more of in 2023 more creative fun writing than work writing, try out new hobbies, taking my dog to the beach

And finally what's your 2023 mantra: Don't be scared.

I'm tagging: @suzy-queued, @vintagelacerosette, @ardent-fox, @imikhailotakeyouian, @mikhailoisbaby, @auds-and-evens, @lizelandre, @shameless-notashamed, @lalazeewrites

[mallahanmoxie]

bless last post i think the sentiment is earnest and i myself am a proponent of using the word fat as a descriptor just as you would any other in fact i find the mildly shocking tinge it still carries to be far more satisfying in narration for me personally (though i will say i am partial to the word plump and the imagery it carries, which does not entirely overlap with that of the word fat imo)

but i am also an ardent hater of posts that go 'fat people are sooo cute <3' i will admit a lot of it has got to do with the way they're worded im deathly allergic to uwu speak but honestly the vast majority of them strike me as both performative and condescending. it feels like they're speaking to me like they would to a dog—the affection may be true but the degree of distance implied is both evident and immutable. it's dehumanising to a certain degree, and if not so, at least dismissive. you can ask me well how am i meant to compliment all of you? well. you can't. we are all different people, see.

besides what's being fat got to do with being cute? those are two separate things. they're not even in the same category of adjectives. a skinny person is also not cute by virtue of being skinny. they can be skinny and cute, but those are two separate things entirely. you can be fat and not cute and also not ugly. or fat and sexy but not cute. you can be cute one moment and then sexy the other and be fat throughout it all. this cannot be revolutionary thought.

[writer59january13]

Rampant and endemic police brutality...

flourishes against United States citizens of color

going on three years

post George Floyd

short lived heightened awareness

when #blacklivesmatter

in conjunction with 1619 project

wrought upwelling of progressive surge

hinting at positive transformations.

Despite random throw of dice proffering gifting, blessing, et cetera

yours truly as Caucasian

agony, grief and particularly anger

roil these lovely bones

life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness

exempts those graced with darker skin tones.

Rather than raucously riot,

I craft emotions courtesy poetry

mine feeble attempt to agitate and protest

sublimated thru scathing poetic indictment

lame contrasted against violent protests.

Peaceable methodology,

(viz printed word) versus war

preferable mode to conflict resolution

opposed to explosive uproar

angry frenzied mob scenes as seen online, or

alternate mass communication medium

valiantly, yet vanely attempt to even out score.

Tipping point evincing breached injustices,

(whereby persons sporting greater melanin)

triggered spontaneous outbursts

(bedlam witnessed while safely sequestered

within Highland Manor apartment

unit B44 May 31st, 2020).

Innocent lives, particularly those who proudly identify themselves

purportedly black targeted merely because

genetics crafted them darker hued skin

unwittingly and unfairly

site them in crosshairs

where strong arm of the law

indiscriminately takes their life.

Despite genetics bequeathing me Caucasian

(predominantly Eastern European - Semitic features)

with one percent Neanderthal man

thrown in for good measure),

yours truly dispirited, dismantled, and disgruntled

née disenchanted linkedin with Homo sapiens.

Neither railing nor ranting can alleviate injustice

visited upon heads and torsos of innocent

Americans, whose genealogy traced to

Africa, Australia, Haiti, Melanesia, Papua

New Guinea and South Asia.

Because they and/or forebears

hailed from areas with highest ultraviolet radiation in the world,

subsequent generations automatically

serve as fodder stigmatized cradle to grave.

Prejudice, inferiority and abuse

maligned, hashtagged, and dogged

heels of peoples uprooted peoples

south of the equator, or elsewhere

whose epidermis strongly hinted

fifty plus shades of ebony.

They found themselves in debasement

within complex edifice housing

facade of equality

ofttimes receiving punishment

their sole supposed crime

accentuated, heightened, perpetrated

courtesy born swarthy complexion

even if prominent features

(think European) quite apparent.

Almost two hundred and sixty five months

into twenty first century

bias toward slave descendants

wracks western civilization in general,

and United States of America in particular

i.e. land of the free and the home of the brave

keynote doth ardently heard far and wide,

yet many nth generations removed since slavery abolished

still remain shackled, especially

when men/women in blue

subject random person of color

to physical assault

frequently culminating with death

of falsely accused

whereby police person acquitted.

Day after day, week after week, month after month... brutish and nasty

thuggish haughty uniformed cops

create deadly merciless altercations

begetting livid rage among populations

anonymous brethren beaten, shot, strangled...

ensuing hatred particularly endemic

within lower income poorer neighborhoods

where bedlam runs amok!

[saruvanthewhite]

I’m at week’s end. This is a fresh half ounce of decarbed flower. Am I to have all of this myself? Hmmm! In what dish should I put it? Megaburgers? Cheese? Firecrackers? On my cereal?

[dailyadventureprompts]

Rival: Zamaados Amida, Curator of the Burning Archives

Sometimes even the greatest of magi must be reminded of a lesson that we all learn as children, that there are things not meant for us, despite the lure of their beauty and power. It is my role to instruct them of this lesson, as many times as they might require.

Setup: As folk who routinely overrule the laws of reality, most magic users are at some level used to getting their way. As such it takes a special sort of person to not only tell them “no”, but rip the forbidden tome/cursed artifact/world changing theorem from their hands and put it out of reach on a high shelf until they/society at large have proved they’ve earned it. Enter Curator Amida, dutiful and ardent servant to the goddess of love, death, and  witchcraft, who grew up seeing the worst abuses that unchecked magic could wreak and now controls an organization dedicated to ensuring its proper use.

While too easy to write off as the “magical no fun police”, Amida and other acolytes of the Burning Archive do invaluable work safeguarding dangerous knowledge and training stray magical talents in how best to use their gifts. However, while attempting to provide stability to an all too chaotic realm, the archive and its curator may act as roadblocks to a party attempting to steer that chaos in the right direction.

Hooks

On the trail of a rogue warmage with a large bodycount and even larger bounty, the party find their steps dogged by a band of warriors in crimson armour who are apparently after the same target. Having to race against this group of acolytes both overland and for clues to their quarry’s location, the party may end up having to wrest the warmage from their clutches, or have to run with him overland in order to avoid their pursuers from doing the same.

 In need of some vital information kept in the archive’s possession and stonewalled at the front desk the party must heist their way in and pluck the required volume from its resting place. While infiltrating a temple full of mage-librarians is difficult enough, the real hurdle is the anti-theft method that gives the archives its name: Every volume stored in the archive’s deeper shelves is enchanted to burn continuously, never harming the document but making it hell to study the information without scorching your hand. Supposedly the blessing of Wee-Jas can circumvent this ward, but the party are unlikely to be able to obtain that given they’re in the process of stealing form her.

Though cautious and patronizing in equal amounts, a party that conducts themselves in a professional manner may be able to earn Zamaados’s trust, assisting rather than competing with Burning Archives agents and handing over dangerous artifacts no matter the lure of their power. Choosing this harder road will grant the party an ally and potential mentor who’s well versed in the secrets of the unseen world, one who can provide great insight and magic of debatable forbiddenness when situations get dire. 

[vagasbonds]

TRACKING , HUNTING , AND CAPTURING IS NOW NATURAL TO HER . yet laying in wait for for whatever creature had been massacring the unsuspecting town was as uncomfortable as ever . bianca would have almost preferred setting up endless amounts of traps than watching and waiting . though , she knows that would defeat the purpose of putting any up at all ; too many would surely be noticed and do the exact opposite of what lady artemis had sent her to do .

the most frustrating part is not being able to really do  anything while waiting . even with her senses blessed with keen awareness , bianca knows she has to keep an eye on her defenses . the trap itself is made of two components : carefully placed crossbows to shoot arrows and a covered up net that would catch her target after being pushed the way from the arrows . she would have to act FAST once caught . OF COURSE , it is not meant to hold forever . even with enchanted netting surely wouldn’t hold a beast of the alleged brutality she’s seen -- it would at least do until she could get some answers .

the huntress herself lays in waiting quite literally , pressed down to the forest floor beneath the brush of a wildberry bush . keen eyes are trained ardently on where the net lays hidden . she wishes at least she could read a book , braid her hair , or listen to some music . but she’s all too aware she can’t risk it . it’s been maybe two hours . just before she can grumble out another irritated string of curses , THERE’S A RUSH OF WIND . 

EXCEPT -- it isn’t  wind . sounds of the crossbow’s trips being triggered and the swoop of her net ring out through the forest like ALARM BELLS , soon followed by a string of angry curses . not quite  what she expected . but she sure as hell isn’t going to wait in astonishment . bianca springs forward from her spot and deftly approaches the being she’s caught . to her surprise once more , it looks like JUST A MAN ( well , a rather rugged one that seems to be the picture of every man her mother once warned her about ) . a wolf in stray dog’s clothing , maybe .

SILVER , ENCHANTED BOW GLINTS IN THE MOONLIGHT WITH ARROW AT THE READY . brows furrowed into what she hopes is an unreadable look of seriousness , she blazes a look up at him . ❝ kicking around like that won’t help . it’ll just keep getting tighter around you , ❞ bianca states with all the confidence she can muster , ❝ WHAT are you and WHY are you killing these girls ?  your answers’ll decide what happens next , so i’d choose my words pretty carefully . ❞ 

&& . @15-44​ / PLOTTED .

[latte-fairytaekwoon]

𝐻𝑜𝑤 𝐴𝑡𝑒𝑒𝑧 𝑊𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝐴𝑠𝑘 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑂𝑢𝑡: 𝑁𝑜𝑛! 𝐼𝑑𝑜𝑙 𝐴𝑈

❥𝐴𝑟𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐶𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑠 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑜𝑦𝑒𝑒: 𝐾𝑖𝑚 𝐻𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑗𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔

As a college student, you usually end up having to do a lot of projects that require creativity and lots of paint.

That's how you ended up in an arts and crafts store.

You found Hongjoong behind the counter, finishing up his task of arranging the ribbons on the shelf.

He smiled at you and immediately put his task down.

"How may I help you this evening?"

Knows exactly what you'll need better than you.

Often recommends other materials or throws in a few creative suggestions of his own.

He's always asking you what they're for, he's genuinely curious about your assignments..and even more curious about you.

Sometimes you end up doing some of your posters with him right there on days where there's nobody else.

You purposefully began buying things you didn't even need just to have an excuse to see the blueberry haired male.

He doesn't mind, he likes your company, even if it's strange you keep buying the same red glitter everyday.

One day you came in, and he was excited to show you the new Valentine's Day cards that just arrived.

In particular, this really cute one that played a song you've never heard before but that asked in the end "Will you go out with me?"

You giggled. "It's so cute. Who thought of it?"

Hongjoong smiled even more, holding the card out to you. "I did......it's for you....so what do you say?"

❥𝐹𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑡: 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑆𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑔ℎ𝑤𝑎

You really love to gift flowers to your loved ones, feeling that it's a sweet way of saying you're thinking of them.

You frequented a lot of flower shops, but something about this particular one made you want to keep coming back...

And it wasn't just the hot employee behind the counter. Or his super sweet and flirty personality.

It was that and much much more.

You loved the cozy and intricate way the arrangements were always lined up.

They made it a point to change them every week, sort of giving the shop a fresh look each Sunday.

Seonghwa also knew specifically what type of flowers to suggest depending on what it was for.

White tulips for when you wanted to apologize to someone, Hydrangeas to show gratitude, and even Sunflowers to show love to your best friend.

It was always fascinating to hear him speak about what each flower represented.

Just as fascinating as watching him delicately put them together in beautiful bouquets and tie them with a ribbon.

One time you came in and he was very excited to show you a new bouquet he made.

"Ta da!" He pulled out a bouquet with lavender roses as the main focus.

"They're so beautiful Seonghwa! What do they mean?"

"They represented enchantment and love at first sight...ideal for a blossoming romance..."

He grinned as he held them out. "From me, to you."

❥𝑃𝑒𝑡 𝐺𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑟: 𝐽𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑌𝑢𝑛ℎ𝑜

Getting a chow chow puppy as a pet was no easy task.

Especially when their hair is extremely fluffy and in constant need of maintenance.

Fortunately for you, a nearby pet grooming shop opened up recently.

So you walked, pooch in your arms as you looked at the cozy scene in front of you.

"Hello, I'm Yunho and I'll be assisting you today. And whom do we have here?"

Your puppy instantly took a liking to him, which was rare since he was a big scaredy cat for a dog.

"If my baby trusts him, I guess I have nothing to worry about. "

You really didn't. Yunho was so friendly and knew how to handle dogs perfectly fine.

He was just as playful as them and was very careful when trimming their hair or nails.

So you felt absolutely at ease leaving your child for a few hours with him while you ran some errands or went grocery shopping.

"Hi baby. Were you a good boy today?" You came to pick up your pooch one day.

"Oh they were an absolute gem as always."

You were about to leave when Yunho said. "Hey Y/N...I actually have a dog of my own at home....and they could use a friend.."

"Oh? So you want to arrange a play date for them?" You asked.

He blushed and smiled shyly as he admitted. "Date for them and maybe....us too?"

❥𝐵𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑆ℎ𝑜𝑝 𝐸𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑜𝑦𝑒𝑒: 𝐾𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑌𝑒𝑜𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑔

Truthfully, Yeosang frightened you the first time you walked into the shop.

He just stared at you with a cold stare as he warned you to keep quiet in the place.

You definitely didn't want to get on his bad side.

So you just stuck to browsing the shelves, picking out the books you wanted and buying them.

Then after getting more brave, you took advantage of the tables and desks they had inside to either catch up on homework or read what you just purchased.

You just loved reading, especially poetry or sonnets.

You always got so lost in your book, you only realized what time it was because Yeosang tapped your shoulder.

"It's 5 minutes to closing. You should probably go home now."

It became a routine of coming to the shop right after school, curling up on the chair in a back, your nose stuck in a book.

Unbeknownst to you, Yeosang always watched you, took notice of the genres you were fond of. He'd be lying if he said he didn't find you cute and attractive.

You were just as mysterious and quiet as he was, and he was intrigued to get to know who you were.

One day, you came in as usual, waving to Yeosang who just sat by the register.

You sat in your usual spot and noticed a tiny folded letter on the corner. You opened it up and read its contents, a quote from one of your favorite novels:

"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."- Pride and Prejudice.

You looked up to find Yeosang peering at you from his own book, for the first time, a smile on his sculpture like face as he waited for your reaction.

❥ 𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎: 𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑖 𝑆𝑎𝑛

Being the coffee addict you were, of course you had to try out the new shop that opened up.

The fresh scent of espresso filled your nostrils the moment you walked in and it was heavenly.

And the barista at the counter was pure eye candy.

And you soon found out he was sweeter than any cinnamon roll or cream Danish they sold there.

"May I interest you in any of our specialty drinks?"

But you were a simple person, you just wanted straight black coffee.

He seemed taken aback and somewhat disappointed at your choice.

But at least you weren't a picky customer that tried his patience.

So you just regularly came to get your straight espresso.

One day he asked "Can I please just try something?"

You couldn't say no to his little pout, so you let him.

You watched as he did your regular espresso shots and looked to be adding some type of cream.

He giddily went back to the counter and held it out to you.

There on the very top, he had created a heart out of latte foam...

And on the cup, he had written his phone number and added the words "call me ;) "

❥𝐷𝑎𝑦𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝐴𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑡: 𝑆𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑀𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖

You had always been more than willing to help babysit your cousin during summer break.

You adored that child like none other.

But you had recently gotten a job and couldn't watch him all the time

So you opted for the nearby daycare center to help you when you had to work.

The first sight that greeted you was a tall young man who had tussled hair and paint staining his apron.

"Hello. I'm assistant Mingi. How can I help you today?" He greeted you both and then let out an 'ouch' when something hit him from the back.

Feeling safe with the environment, you began taking your cousin every other day to the center and picking him up after your shift ended.

You always saw Mingi there.

He usually helped your cousin with the homework assigned to him over break.

Or he was simply goofing around with him, it was quite endearing to see.

You were content to see the little boy make friends and break out of his little shell.

You came to pick him up as usual. "How was it today? Learned anything exciting?"

"I learned that Mingi thinks you're cute and has a crush on you." He snickered as he pointed to Mingi.

"Hey! Shhhh!! You promised not to say anything!" Mingi laughed nervously as he looked at you rather worrisome.

You blushed and smiled. "It's ok. They think you're cute too Mingi." Your cousin interjected, now exposing you and prompting you two to confess your feelings.

❥𝑃𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑒𝑟: 𝐽𝑢𝑛𝑔 𝑊𝑜𝑜𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑔

Having the world's biggest sweet tooth was a blessing and a curse.

And right now the biggest issue was finding a new pastry that you had not tried before.

But you had practically gone through all the bakeries in town, knew what they had to offer.

So you decided to stop by a very old bakery that you had not gone to in forever.

And you weren't joking when you said forever, the place had changed so much, you hardly recognized it.

You also didn't recognize any of the people working there, having been a regular before.

You looked through the assorted pastries on displays, hoping to find something to catch your interest.

"Hello there pretty one."

You were startled by the loud voice behind you. You turned to see a cute guy smiling at you.

"Were you looking for something in particular?"

You explained that you were looking for something new or special and his eyes instantly lit up.

He ushered you to follow him to the counter, where he pulled out a tray of peach shaped pastries.

"These are Italian peach cookies, meant to look like actual peaches. Try one and tell me they're not the best thing you've ever tried."

You ate one and your whole mouth was engaged. They were absolutely amazing. "They're so good. I love how sweet they are."

Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Wooyoung smirked. "If you like sweet things, how about going on a date with me?"

❥𝐴𝑟𝑐𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝐴𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑎𝑛𝑡: 𝐶ℎ𝑜𝑖 𝐽𝑜𝑛𝑔ℎ𝑜

Jongho was no strange face to you and you were no stranger to him.

He often worked part time at the local arcade during summer break.

You and your friends hung out there a lot after you guys got done with your respective jobs.

"Hey." "Hi." You both always shyly greeted each other like that for 3 years now, sometimes starting small conversations.

Your friends often rolled their eyes at you, telling you to work up the courage to ask him out.

His friends, and coworkers, were also trying to do the same to him.

"They're totally into you." But Jongho would only blush and brush it off as pure fiction.

One night, he noticed how someone came up to you and tried to hit on you.

You looked visibly uncomfortable and seemed to be wanting a way out of the situation.

When they leaned in too close for your liking, and his, he marched right over there.

"Is there a problem here?" He made it a point to flex his arm muscles, making the person apologize and just scurry off.

"Are you ok?" He asked, wanting to make sure you were fine, which you said you were.

He was gonna go back to the counter, but he had to ask."Y/N...would you like to go out on a date sometime-"

"Yes!" You immediately answered, not letting him finish, suddenly feeling awkward for sounding so desperate.

But Jongho only smiled. "Don't worry, I would have done the same if you had asked me out."

Gifs not mine. Credit goes to their respective owners.

[mamabearcat]

Proposal fic + hair (braiding/brushing) InuKag

Ooh thanks Nonny 😘

Okay, I'm gonna revive an AU I've never actually written but it's been loitering around in the back of my head forever. I may even write it one day if I feel like doing a longer AU full of comedy fluff. The first bit was posted on Tumblr forever ago, but now it gets to be continued!

Inuyasha wasn’t quite sure how he fell into it; who would have thought you could make a career out of being a model for romance covers for fuck’s sake?! Apparently his half-demon heritage that had blessed him with his father's long thick white hair, amber eyes that glowed in the darkness and pointed dog ears gave him an edgy look, whatever that meant. His ability to retain a lean muscular build no matter what he ate didn't hurt either.

But, the money was very good, even if he had to fight off the occasional stalker, and hide from screaming female fans trying to stuff underwear in his pockets when he went out to buy milk.

His manager Miroku was a total letch, and Sango had been slacking on security - waking up to find a strange woman in his kitchen making coffee in nothing but an apron was more than a little surprising. He actually had more than a sneaking suspicion that something was going on between those two.

But the best part of being a model was Kagome. His photographer, his best friend. He'd known her for years now, and there was no one he trusted more.

Their first photo shoot three years ago had been memorable. He’d accidentally called her Kikyo, and she'd exploded at him. How was he to know? They looked kinda the same, and they were both photographers. It did kinda suck that her cousin Kikyo had possibly ruined her chances of having a serious career in photo journalism, but this gig she was doin’ paid the bills right?

Why did she have to be so serious anyway? He’d abandoned any thoughts of self respect long ago. When you knew what it was like at the very bottom, didn’t know where your next meal was coming from, you understood that self respect was a luxury.

Ah, but Kagome. He couldn't help but love her. Even though this wasn't what she wanted to be doing, she put her whole heart and soul into her work, wanting it to be the best. He knew all her little mannerisms by heart - the way she blew upwards into her fringe when she was feeling frustrated, the way she jiggled her legs under the table when she was feeling fidgety, the way her eyes lit up when she got a good idea for a shot.

He'd always said he'd do anything for her, would gladly take a bullet for her. He'd already blocked a knife attack for her, that had to count for something, right? He'd never been more terrified when she'd been threatened, and the thought of what might had happened if he'd left just a little earlier still broke him out in a cold sweat sometimes.

They'd been closer after her life was threatened, so much closer. He'd been hopeful, but pretty sure she still only saw him as a friend. I mean, how cliche was it for a model to fall for a photographer? He was pretty sure she'd think he was joking, and laugh right in his face. And then on the steps after the trial against that stalker she'd kissed him. And it had been like the heavens had opened and angels had sung.

Kagome had always wanted to be a photo journalist. She'd dreamed of it since high school, starting her career with the local paper, gaining notice when she won a world renowned travel photography competition. That was the chance that should have got her a job with a top magazine, the chance that should have made her career. But it had been stolen by her cousin Kikyo.

Kikyo, who had been her flatmate when they finished high school, so they could share their passion for photography and help support each other in their move to New York as they tried to achieve their dreams. Kikyo, who had taken the message about the year long internship she had been offered after they saw her winning photo. Kikyo, whose features were similar enough to her own that they were often mistaken for each other, if you didn't know both of them that well. Kikyo, who had turned up for that internship and somehow convinced them that she'd used a different name for the competition.

Her cousin had milked that experience for everything it was worth. And now she was the one working for a world renowned magazine, and Kagome was paying rent doing cover photos for romance novels. She may be the best one in her field, but it wasn't quite what she'd dreamed of. It's not like she'd wished upon a star when she was five and asked if she could be the one to discover the next Fabio.

The best thing about her work was spending time with Inuyasha. She'd been so angry at him the first day they'd met all those years ago. Fresh from a weekend at a family event where she'd had to hear once again that Kikyo couldn't make it because she was overseas, doing some big story, and they were all so proud of her. And he'd called her Kikyo, because he'd seen some article recently and mistakenly thought she was her cousin. After she'd calmed down, she couldn't really fault him. They had the same last name, same initial, even looked similar enough.

But he'd grown on her. And it wasn't just his good looks - he had those in abundance, but he didn't really seem to care about that. He was rough around the edges, a little rude, definitely obnoxious, but very funny, charming, brave, and also... kind of sweet?

That day she'd had that terrible cold but had still come to work because they'd had a deadline, he'd given her his jacket and then rushed out to the supermarket at lunch time so he could make her a sure fire cold remedy his mother had taught him. It had tasted absolutely feral, but surprisingly, she'd felt a lot better the next day.

Just a few weeks ago, they had finalised the court case with Inuyasha's stalker. For some reason, Jakotsu, one of Inuyasha's most ardent fans, had bizarrely seen Kagome as a threat, even though it was obvious they were only friends.

At first it was just strange letters delivered to her workplace, which she'd ignored totally. She'd only begun to be worried when weird notes appeared in her own letter box at her apartment. And then the late night phone calls had started.

She'd managed to keep it from Inuyasha until Jakotsu had slashed her tyres, and then he'd been furious. Angry at her for not telling him what was happening, and incandescent with rage at the stalker.

After that he'd been there for her whenever she'd been afraid, so protective and caring. When Jakotsu had snuck up on her late one night in the parking lot, he'd blocked the attack, stepping in front of her in the nick of time, taking a slash to his arm that was originally aimed at her face, then knocking out Jakotsu and holding him until the police arrived.

He'd been the one injured, with nearly 20 stitches in his forearm, but he'd been worried about her. Thank goodness for swift youkai healing. She'd been devastated that he'd been injured, but he'd just shrugged it off, telling her he was glad it was him and not her.

After that, she'd finally admitted to herself that her feelings for him were more than just friendly. Had been for such a long time now. He was gorgeous, but she wasn't the kind of girl that slept around. She needed to be friends first, be comfortable, and there was no one she was more comfortable around than Inuyasha. He was her first thought in the morning and her last at night. But wasn't that a little cliche, a photographer falling for a model? She'd thought he'd probably think she was joking and laugh in her face.

But that moment after the trial and they'd been standing out in the sunlight, she hadn't been able to help herself. She was just so happy, so grateful that he hadn't been injured worse. So she'd practically crash tackled him and kissed him. No tentative pecks. No warning. She couldn't bear to let another day pass without him knowing how she felt. And when he'd kissed her back, with Miroku and Sango cat calling in the background, yelling at them to get a room, it had felt like heaven.

"Where's Yura this morning?" asked Inuyasha, glancing around the make up room, as if she would suddenly appear out of nowhere with her ever present combs and scissors.

"She's called in sick, so you've got me on double duty today. Aren't you lucky?" Kagome teased, poking her tongue out at him.

"So, you gonna model with me too?" he grinned, wrapping his arm around her waist and holding her close to rub his nose softly againt hers. "Who's gonna take the happy snaps?"

"You wish. It's a new model today, Tuva, we haven't met her before. This is for the viking one, so we needed someone with fair hair and pale skin. The photos in her online portfolio are gorgeous. And the agency recommended her, so she should be fine."

Kagome gave him a quick peck on the cheek, laughing at his pouting face, then patted the chair in front of the mirror. "Sit down already will you? I called her earlier to let her know what was going on and she offered to get her own hair and makeup done at the studio there, so now I've just got to do you."

Inuyasha couldn't help the flutter down low in his stomach at her statement, even though he knew she'd meant it innocently enough. She began by brushing his long hair and he closed his eyes, feeling the regular pull of the brush on his scalp, her fingers gently protecting his ears from the rough bristles.

Damn that felt good. If he were a cat he'd be purring, and it took every inch of self control to not let out a deep rumbling growl of pleasure when she ran her hands through his hair, pulling the top back and securing it in a rough pompadour with a ponytail behind his head.

Then her nimble fingers were making small cornrow braids near his temples, adding little leather thongs and silver charms. The gentle tugging of his scalp felt so good. He squirmed in his seat a little, keeping his eyes closed.

"Sorry, am I pulling too hard?"

"Nah, feels so damn good. You're a natural at this. Wanna change careers and become my hairdresser?"

She pretended to think a moment, then giggled.

"Maybe. You're hair is fun to play with. It's much prettier than mine."

He opened his eyes, watching her as her deft fingers twisted his hair together.

"Nope. Untrue. Have you ever seen your hair in the sunlight Kagome? The way it shimmers almost blue? It's beautiful."

Her cheeks pinked, and she glanced at the mirror, her eyes fluttering downwards again when he caught her eyes.

"Stop. You're the one that's the freaking model, Inuyasha. Let me concentrate on this or we'll be behind schedule."

"So Ms. Higurashi can take a compliment about her photography skills but not her person? That's kinda weird don't you think? Especially when you're so pretty."

"Inuuuu..."

"C'mere", he said, tugging on her arm to move her into his lap, ignoring her squawk of protest. "Why can't my pretty girl take a compliment from me, huh?"

"I can! But we're at work right now Inuyasha!"

"Alright, prove it. Look in the mirror and say what I say, and then I'll let you go." She squirmed but he tightened his arm around her waist, pinning him close to her. "Gotta do what I say Higurashi. Gotta keep the talent happy!" She smacked his arm, still trying to wriggle out of his hold, doing her best to hold in her smile, but failing miserably.

"So, how should I keep the talent happy Inuyasha?" she smirked. "You were pretty happy when I left your apartment last night."

He moved his head to rest on her shoulder, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

"Ah, but that's where you're very wrong pretty girl." Kagome's face fell.

"You didn't enjoy last night?"

"Oh I did. Very much", he grinned, bucking his hips underneath her, then kissing a path down the arch of her neck onto her shoulder. "But then you left. And I was in that big empty bed all alone, with no one to keep me company."

"Oh, poor you. You know why I left Inuyasha. You needed to have a good night's sleep before the shoot today, and you know what would have happened if I'd stayed longer. There wouldn't have been much sleeping going on."

He nuzzled into her neck. "Maybe not, but this talent would have been much much happier. I don't want you to leave anymore." Kagome froze.

"You... you want me to move in with you?"

"I want you to move in", he said, his teasing face now serious. "I want you to be with me always. I know we've only been going out for a month Kagome, but I love you. I've loved you for years. And that's not going to change."

She turned on his lap so they were now facing each other, cradling his cheeks in her palms. "I love you too", she whispered. "So much."

"Would it be crazy if... if I said I wanted even more than that?" he asked softly, his eyes searching hers. "Would it be crazy if I said I want to be more than just your boyfriend, that I want more than you moving in. That I want us to belong to each other? And tell the whole world about it?"

Kagome's eyes widened, and her heart began beating wildly in her chest.

"That sounds an awful lot like a marriage proposal Inuyasha."

"That's because, maybe it is. We wasted so much time Kagome. I don't wanna waste another second. Please say yes."

"How could I say no to those puppy dog eyes of yours?" she giggled wetly, her eyes filling with happy tears.

[tobacconist]

ill put it here since its hard to have a proper discussion through replies

@solomonjones 

God’s will is mysterious, and we as humans cannot know it. i dont pretend to, but i can aspire to atleast attempt to understand it. regardless of your religion; either you believe: God ordains all events throughout history as part of his greater unknowable plan, and that it is He who causes the rise and fall of nations, peoples, ideologies, etc or, you believe: when good things happen to you God is blessing you but when good things happen to your enemies it is satan who blesses them. if that is the case, you do not worship the One True God. you worship an imposter deity who presumes to call itself “θεός”, or “Бог” or “ الله ”;  who is caught in deep rivalry with all the other pretenders to the throne of God Almighty.

this is what the story of the old testament is fundamentally about. even though the israelites were God’s chosen people, they were continually overtaken and oppressed by pagans. as it is written, the LORD hardened the pharaohs heart. in my opinion, it is impossible to understand the wider context of the bible (old and new testament) without understanding it in relation to pagan history and mythology (and in relation to the modern world) they didnt include, say, the odyssy in the holy canon of course because the pagan peoples being converted already knew these stories intimately. they did include the scriptures of the jews however (even though they were in many ways just as spiritually flawed as the pagans) because people were less familiar with them and the scriptures of the jews are very important to understanding the significance of the life of Jesus Christ (as he fulfilled prophecies of both the pagans and the jews)

when i say i have deep respect for the orthodox churches, please understand that i am being completely earnest. but i see it for what it is, an imperial religion of temporal power, like any other. this is going to sound quite harsh, and im writing this from an antagonistic perpective because, i presume, as someone who is quite devout; you do not need to be convinced of the deep need for religion in the world (now more than ever) that said... throughout history, kings and theologians have torn the Body of Christ, the church herself, into pieces. like DOGS they have torn the body of christ to pieces! like some horribly blasphemous tug of war. catholics pulling the head and protestants pulling the legs. baptists pulling out the intestines, the orthodox snarling and territorially guarding the heart, and the gnostics scooping up the spilled brains. and yet they are all convinced they know best, that they are the ones with grace, that they are the only true pure and correct church. this is what i mean about spiritual pride, and everyone knows it. especially when their actions and morals are in so many ways clearly at odds with what Christ actually taught. the only reason atheism exists is because of centuries of corrupt religious leaders; you can blame no one else for this godless world.

you claim the tsar held grace by his ceremonial anointment; but God hears the cry of the oppressed. thousands dead for your cause seems very reasonable compared to thousands dead for your enemies cause. but God gave people a rational mind, and although we are all misguided, he gave us wisdom enough to (eventually) see through deceit - whos author is the devil. it took centuries, but he taught us the ignorance of idolatry. the foolishness of worshipping kings. many more centuries it took until we abolished slavery. when the LORD let loose his hand and upturned the entire order of civilisation; throwing the chess pieces everywhere. fortuna’s wheel made such a global revolution; scarcely ever seen before. the nobility of the world, once so proud, learned through the bitterest chastisement the desserts of one who believes he can do no wrong.  i cannot question the judgement of the LORD, but i do wish history had been different. less bloodshed, less mess; but God knows best.

on the topic of miracles, you can believe whatever you like, my friend. jesus said blessed are those who believe what they cannot see; but in my opinion you are as naive as one who believes hindu swamis can manifest gold rings out of thin air.  all religions are guilty of this chicanery, but the spell only holds as long as people still want to believe. God gave us the power of reason, and His essence is truth. a great spiritual mystery; that (atleast for the past hundred years) Gods chosen people have been the atheists who knew him not! contemplate it! deny it if you want! there is great wisdom to be found there. not that they are blameless. the very opposite. i do not deny the horrors of communism which i assume you as an orthodox christian will know intimately well; but communist movements (and growing secularisation in general) cannot be thought surprising when one considers history. but has not the LORD advanced their science? has He not given them the power to perform many miraculous (and diabolic) deeds? babylon, rome, and america all play their part in His great plan. Blessed are the Naive, for they will not be punished as severely as those who should have known better. you can bring up some (rather weak) scientific validation of miraculous events to prove that God is on your side, but every single religion does this. and if you look at who is actually out there curing the blind, deaf and lame, who is it?

do you feel a deep spiritual calling in your heart which demands your soul to cleave unto the orthodox church? good. listen to it. that is God talking to you. that is God telling you what role you must play here in your lifetime. in some peoples hearts, that voice tells them to cleave to islam, or to buddhism, or to fucking wicca some people it tells them to ardently support nothing but science and secularism and to reject any fairytale from the past that they cannot prove. to some it tells them not to worry about any complicated theological or scientific shit that they would never understand anyway; and instead to simply follow what they know and try to be a good person by whatever ethical system they follow.

to some of us, it says we must always, always strive to be wise. that it is our sacred duty to solve every great paradox and to unveil every mystery that while the rest of the world argues in the dark, we must take our small spark of light and study deeply what we see within its radiance; and combine our little lights whenever we can. that we will be punished for our failings, as we will never be truly wise. no man can be omniscient. we will be punished for everything that we know, and for everything that we dont know, and that we must accept this. for being lukewarm and middling, for being passionate and taking a side. but we must do it anyway. that it is our duty. because ignorance is a condition which feels disgusting. that voice, it tells me that this is the task, the monumental task that all mankind undertook when we chose to eat of the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, when we had been warned not to; to become like gods. and God himself, the LORD almighty said to us: okay.  but you will die. you will die thousands of times. thousands upon thousands, upon thousands of times. and each time, you will become just a little bit wiser until maybe, just maybe, you will become like i. my “only begotten son” who will reign with me in paradise when you finally realise what a profound responsibility it is to be God.

[carryforthtradition]

Story time!

We are really pleased that Cardinale Montano will be joining Carry Forth Tradition and bringing her wonderful storytelling experience too! We have a new section ‘Tales of Wonder and Wisdom’ and hope you will enjoy reading the stories we will share on there. The stories will be written or adapted by us, and also we will do the accompanying artwork and illustrations. Home made as they say.

Most especially satisfying is that feeling of balance that clicks in, when the heart and mind connect in the act of creating something by hand.  

I am deeply grateful to Becky for offering this platform where makers of all kinds can share their creativity, and inspire those who visit it.

I am Cardinale Montano. I am a maker, and a free-lance writer, and celebrate daily the blessings of nature in the beautiful Berkshires of Western Massachusetts, USA, where I live.

I feel fortunate to have had a childhood surrounded by people who made things by hand. Growing up, we were a lively household; three adults and four children, a shepherd dog, a cat, a canary or two, and a couple of tanks of fish. A rather large station wagon and a pick-up truck to transport the whole lot, never a dull moment, and at times, temperamental in the best of ways, given the combination of our parents ancestral roots.

My German mother and our Omi fostered in us their love of music, dance, and art. They sewed, knitted, embroidered, cooked, baked, and preserved. My Italian father’s aunt and uncle were seamstress and tailor. On Sundays, their large cutting/dining table would be covered in layers of handmade pasta drying on linen cloths, sewing machines lined up along the edges of the room on standby for Monday. Tomatoes, grown along the south wall of the garage were cooked up for sauce, wine made from grapes grown on vines in their modest backyard, served with dinner.

My father was not afraid to paint, build, and fix, and he loved to make our home aesthetically beautiful and cozy. In short, if something was needed it was a hands-on, dive-in-and-tackle experience; learning as you went along, and improvising when necessary with what you had on hand.  

All this inspired me to become an ardent creator, with craft tools of looms, vintage sewing machines, found objects, hammer, and nails. Other tools include wood-burning stoves, garden tools, cookbooks, and canning jars. 

To this day, creating and making things is an integral part of my life – a day is not complete if I have not made something. Through times of less abundance, I grew to enjoy the creative process that comes with the challenges of making use of what is available.

[the-reverse-mermaid]

Feel Again: a whump fic

Hey buddies! I’m working on my WIPs currently and i am so grateful for ur patience but i’ve also had this thing sitting in my docs for several months and I wanted to share it at last, but just a clip because..well...in whole, it’s kinda darker than my usual stuff so the whole thing may or may not be posted in the future. This is a gift for the wondrous @parkrstark​ who had a birthday recently and who is a beautiful person and talented writer <3 Enjoy, my love~

FIC INFO: around 5k words, IronDad and SpiderSon, hurt/comfort, warnings for nightmares, panic/anxiety attacks, past dehumanization; also it’s implied that Tony is Peter’s guardian bc May died...sry, i was too coward to write her ^^;

...

It’s been seven days, ten hours and fifteen minutes. 

Peter watches, blank-faced and empty-eyed, as bowl and spoon are placed in his hands. It makes Tony feel like he’s dealing with a robot, but even his robots are more lively than this. Taking Peter’s spoon, the man presses the Cheerios under the milk so that every piece of cereal will be soggy, just the way Peter likes. In times past Tony had made fun of him for the preference, and Peter had ardently defended it as the only right way to eat cereal. 

Now the memory of Old Peter echoes in the back of his mind like a glimpse of an alternate reality.

“Think you can finish all of that, buddy?” Tony asks, leaning down so he’s in Peter’s line of sight. Dulled brown eyes trail up to him, then back to the bowl and he nods, picking up the spoon. Tony breathes a sigh of relief as the kid starts to eat, chewing slowly.

He checks his phone and feels a nervous thrill at the notification there: I’m about to come down. Still want to do this? He glances at Peter before typing and sending a quick, Yes, ty.

“Hey, bud, remember that time you, me and Pep spent Saturday morning watching dumb cartoons and eating breakfast food til noon?” he begins, picking at his own cereal to seem casual about it. “I thought we could do that today, since she’s got no meetings til this afternoon. Whaddaya say?”

Peter pauses. He lifts one shoulder indifferently, but Tony can see anxiety hidden in the movement. Apathy and fear; whatever happened in the last four months stripped Peter-- lively, expressive Peter-- of all but these two emotions. They might as well have stolen Tony’s entire fortune; that loss would’ve hurt less.

Before Tony can think how to reassure him or possibly backtrack, there are footsteps in the hall and Pepper is rounding the corner with a bright smile on her face.

“Hey, guys!” she greets, pausing in the entrance of the kitchen to look them over. She’s comfortably dressed in pajama bottoms and her ‘I lost an electron’ shirt that she and Peter both own, her hair down and feet socked. It’s 10 times less intimidating than her usual business suits and high heels but still Peter squirms closer to Tony’s side and eyes her warily, choosing to look at her feet rather than her face. Pepper wilts a bit at the reception.

“Morning, hon,” Tony calls. He pushes a pleading ‘we can do this, just act normal’ into his gaze, and Pepper, bless her, seems to get the message. “We’ve got cereal over here, help yourself.”

Pepper grabs a bowl off the counter and crosses the room, her movements deliberate and nonthreatening. There’s no change from Peter, whose own bowl is sitting in his lap like something hardly worth his interest.

“Hmm,” she hums. “Cheerios are good, but mind if I add to the spread? I think we’ve got some frozen quiches around here somewhere, that sounds good to me.”

Tony smiles. “Go for it.” As soon as she walks away he nudges Peter and says quietly, “You’re okay, Pete. Nothing to be stressed about, yeah? Pep is just like me: she wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

For what it’s worth, the kid does relax minutely. In the interim of Pepper opening packages and using the microwave, Tony picks up the remote and turns on the TV, browsing around for something safe and feel-good before settling on Nickelodeon, which is showing some animated movie. Peter’s eyes flick up to the screen.

“Alright, I got mini-quiches and even some blueberry muffins, ” Pepper announces upon her return, both hands holding trays of said items. “Totally gourmet... And by gourmet, I mean Costco brand.”

“The best,” Tony agrees, snatching one of each as soon as she sets them down. “Which would you rather have, bud?” He turns to Peter, who is done with his cereal and is now looking at the new food. At Tony’s invitation he hesitates but points at a muffin and Tony tries not to get too excited about it as he hands one over and watches the kid begin nibbling the top. So far things seem to be going well.

Now he’s just gotta go through with the next step.

Around ten minutes in, the movie cuts to a commercial break. Tony shifts in preparation to stand up and Peter immediately follows suit, not even questioning, but carefully Tony takes the boy’s hands and holds them at arm’s length. Peter looks at him questioningly, a rare moment of eye contact.

“I’m just gonna take a bathroom break, okay, bud?” he explains. “You stay here with Pep.” He tucks Peter’s hands to his lap and stands.

Peter keens and sits up straighter, wide eyes kindling anew with anxiety. Tony feels like the worst human being on the planet, but he knows he needs to do this. He needs to help Peter do this.

“It’s just a few minutes apart,” he promises. “I’ll go straight there and back.”

“And I’ll be here with you the whole time,” Pepper chimes in. She scoots closer from the other side of the couch and puts a soothing hand on Peter’s back, easing him back into the cushions as Tony leaves the room. The man tries not to look back as he hears her quieting and comforting the boy’s whimpers. Pepper is a better people person than Tony will ever be and he knows she’ll take good care of him, but Tony’s fingers still itch with the urge to turn right back around.

As soon as he gets to the bathroom, Tony pulls up a feed of the living room on his phone via FRIDAY’s cams to watch the room he just left. On the couch, Peter is decidedly not coping as well with Pepper as he does Tony, but he isn’t having a meltdown; in fact, he’s allowing her to sit close and keep an arm wrapped around his shoulders, though his forehead remains creased in apprehension. The poor kid looks like he’s fighting with himself to be patient; his gaze is torn between watching the TV and checking the doorway for Tony’s return.

Biting his lip, Tony puts his screen away and sighs. He paces the small space, checking his watch impatiently until at last five minutes have passed.

On his way back he hears it.

The yelling.

“Peter? Peter, honey, you’re okay! Please calm down, you’re home, you’re safe-” Pepper.

His walk turns into a sprint as he rounds the corner, heart in his throat, and takes in the worrying scene before him.

Peter is curled up in a fetal position on the couch, Pepper kneeling in front of him with helplessness on her face as she tries to get his attention. Peter’s hands are pressed over his ears, his eyes clenched shut, his whole body shuddering as he rocks and cries inconsolably.

“What happened?” Tony demands.

Pepper hurries backwards so Tony can take her spot. “I don’t know what- what agitated him,” she says in a rush. There are tears in her eyes. “He just suddenly started panicking and hyperventilating and- and he won’t let me touch him, he screams if I try-”

“Don’t scream!” Peter says suddenly. Both adults’ attention snaps to him. His eyes have opened but they’re unseeing as he croaks, “Don’t scream, they- they’ll hear! Be good, be good, be good, I- I’m good- please, I’m--”

“Peter, hey,” Tony tries, carefully putting his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

At the touch, Peter flinches, his head smacking against the couch. His whispering gets more frantic. “I’ll be better! I will! I-”

“Peter, please, stop!” The man takes Peter’s face between his hands. “You’re safe. Nobody’s gonna hurt you. Can you hear me, buddy? It’s your- it’s Tony.”

Peter goes still.

“Tony,” he repeats. His face crumples slowly, lip trembling. “I miss Tony...”

The man of iron feels his heart splinter. I miss you, too, Pete. Come back to me.

“You’ve got him,” he says. “Tony’s here now. He’s got you. He’s gonna keep you safe.”

In the stillness that follows, all is quiet save the sound of Peter’s rapid breathing, but even that is slowing and evening out. His blinks several times as the storm clouds in his eyes dissipate, light returning gradually as the seconds pass. Tony’s thumb strokes away a tear still rolling down the boy’s cheek, and at last Peter focuses and looks at rather than through him.

They stare at one another for a long moment. The teen swallows and opens his mouth with a shaky inhale, a fresh sheen of tears filling his eyes.

“S-sorry… my bad,” he rasps.

Tony’s brain short-circuits for a moment, and all he can think is how unbelievable it is that the most of Peter he’s seen in so long could come as the result of such an episode. He doesn’t know whether it makes him want to laugh or cry.

He pulls himself onto the couch and gathers his kid into his arms, one hand bracing Peter’s back, the other nestling in his still-overgrown curls. Peter responds by clinging around his middle and pressing his ear to Tony’s chest, no doubt timing his breaths by the heartbeats there.

It’s only after Pepper leaves to find them a blanket that Tony sees the TV screen and the image it’s paused on. It’s an infomercial… an infomercial for obedience training. The closed captioning advertises “Don Sullivan’s Secrets To Training The Perfect Dog: order the DVD set now and get a complimentary Command Collar”.

Tony had never had strong feelings about infomercials in general but at that moment he wants nothing more than to buy every single TV station and destroy them all. Screw Don Sullivan.

He’s surprised when Peter suddenly huffs a humorless sound. “I’m pretty broken, aren’t I,” he states quietly, voice wrecked.

Tony pushes his fingers through the scruff on the back of Peter’s neck, wishing so hard that he could turn back time. “No,” he refutes. “No, you’re not.”

Peter is quiet for a long time, so long that Tony wonders if he’s given in to the pull of post-panic-attack exhaustion and fallen asleep. But in a tired voice weighted by more sadness than any man, woman or child should ever know comes a tiny reply:

“Yes, I am.”

...

Peter has scars. A lot of them.

It’s been fifteen days since and he’s barely improved, still clinging and hesitant to speak or make eye contact with anyone other than Tony. He lets himself talk in small bursts but it’s nothing like he used to be; he can also manage up to fifteen minutes alone without having a panic attack if Tony has to shower or use the restroom. He does the same so long as Tony waits for him outside the door (within range of hearing his heartbeat).

After the disastrous separation experiment, Tony isn’t eager to push much more than that.

(Peter has scars.)

Some are thicker than others, especially on his wrists and his back; the white lines criss crossing over his form tell tale of screams long since silenced. Just seeing the marks makes Tony’s knees weak with a concoction of feelings he can’t describe-- prominently there’s horror, because he remembers how every injury was discovered and treated on that first night back and it was like Tony himself was taking a beating… and then there’s regret-guilt-anger-helplessness, because the cuts are healed now-- Peter’s healing capabilities took over soon after he got the proper nutrition and medical attention-- but poison memories are sealed inside.

If he hugs the kid a little longer than necessary after watching him get his boot cast removed and seeing the scar tissue that mars him there too, Peter doesn’t seem to mind. The kid leans into his touch more now than he ever did before.

“Alright, little shadow,” Tony says brightly as he pulls away, using the nickname that had never been more appropriate in their relationship; having a kid clinging closer than a literal shadow at all times did that to you. He glances one more time at the newly-healed foot and gets an idea. “What do you say we celebrate this cast coming off? Wanna take a walk around the compound, get some fresh air?”

Peter looks up at him through his ragged, unstyled hair, doe eyes wide but empty. Tony smooths his bangs back and the kid blinks once as if to focus. Tony can see him trying to be there, trying to care. Trying and trying and trying.

“...’kay,” he whispers, fragile. He lets Tony take his hands and help him stand.

Once he’s got them bundled up in jackets to withstand cold winds that roll off the water, Tony hiding a wrist gauntlet on the hand in his pocket (because yes, he’s that paranoid), the two of them (as one figure) step outside for the first time in-- in a while. Definitely a while.

A cool breeze follows them on their walk and Tony allows a deep breath of actual fresh air to clean out his lungs and settle in his veins. It’s not very often he gets to enjoy the benefits of living outside the city.

They end up walking along a trail that follows the Hudson and Tony decides that this actually was a good idea: the nature-y sights and sounds seem to help bring Peter to life. There’s a glimmer of contentedness in his face as he looks out over the trees and water and sky. He loosens his grip on Tony’s arm and settles for a gentle handhold. Tony looks at him sideways, feeling a swell of hope rise in his chest, right behind where his arc reactor used to be.

“It’s nice to get out, huh,” he says softly. The edges of Peter’s eyes crinkle in what might be the world’s tiniest beginning of a smile.

Other than occasionally checking that Peter’s leg isn’t hurting, Tony shuts his mouth and lets the white noise around them do its thing. He’s been talking too much lately anyway, trying to overcompensate.

They’ve been walking for almost an hour and stopped to admire a small waterfall when Peter suddenly bristles and presses himself close to Tony’s side. In paranoia, the man pulls his gauntlet hand out of his pocket and is all but ready to activate it, when all that comes around the path toward them is a wobbling toddler in a puffy coat.

They stare at him. He stares back, a gap-tooth grin on his face. “‘Ah-dy!” he says in greeting.

No, nope, I’ve definitely got my hands full being just ONE kid’s Daddy, Tony thinks worriedly, when behind the toddler appears a man who moves to scoop the boy up in his arms. The man holds the boy, who’s probably about 18-24 months old, by his feet and the kid shrieks in delight, wiggling around upside-down.

“Leaving me behind, guys?” a woman’s voice calls before a third person appears, putting her arm on her husband’s shoulder and glancing curiously at Tony and Peter. Peter hides himself behind Tony, eyes on the dirt, and Tony manages to cast them a weak smile to be polite whilst squeezing his kid’s arm reassuringly.

The man sets their kid down and he immediately spins around, looking at the waterfall. “Wa-er!” As he tottles away, Tony catches sight of the symbol on the back of his coat and does a double-take.

“Nice jacket,” he says without thinking.

He glances down at Peter. The kid has noticed too-- his eyes are locked on the symbol, expression unreadable.

The man turns around from where he and his wife are watching their toddler. He follows their gaze and laughs. It’s a tiny Spider-Man themed coat.

“Thanks! Spidey’s our family’s favorite. He saved Shannon’s life when she was pregnant with this dude,” he says, indicating his family members respectively. “The guy may not be around lately, or moved, or- whatever, there’s lot’s of theories- but... he isn’t forgotten, not for us.”

“-ah-DEE!” the little guy calls from where he and the woman have wandered, and this time he seems to be referring to his actual daddy so the man gives them an awkward little wave before walking off to catch up.

The strangers gone, Peter sags into Tony’s side. His face is still unreadable. Tony can’t think of anything to do other than wordlessly steer them down the path toward home, wondering at the heavy thought bubbles building over his kid’s head.

…

Sixteen-and-a-half days.

A strangled-sounding scream cuts through the dark and into Tony’s heart like a knife.

Tony’s startled but he isn’t surprised; startled because of the rude awakening from being asleep at the kid’s side, and the ever-terrifying possibility that something might be wrong, but not surprised in the conventional way because he’s aware that this has happened every night since the kid came off the heavy meds.

Peter is whimpering strings of ‘please’ and ‘no’, and Tony turns on the bedside lamp to see him huddled in a ball, eyes closed and budding with tears, one fist stuffed in his mouth to stifle the noise. He winces when Tony puts a hand on the side of his head.

“Peter,” Tony whispers, so tired. “Peter, bud, you’re okay. It’s just a bad dream. Open those eyes for me?”

Peter whines, but his eyes do crack open to anguished slits. He’s shaking beneath Tony’s palm, and biting down so hard on his hand that the man sees a trail of blood running down his knuckles. Tony’s other hand gently pries the fist out away from his mouth. Peter lets him.

“Hey bud,” the man greets softly, catching the kid’s gaze. Peter stills as his surrogate father rubs a thumb along his temple soothingly.

Tony smiles sadly. “What did I tell those nightmares last night, huh? My kid is off-limits; only good dreams allowed. Iron Man decrees it.”

Peter stares at him, breathing erratic as his awareness returns. He inhales sharply, an attempt to calm down, but his breath catches on a sob on the exhale. He covers his face with both hands and dissolves into fresh cries, leaning into Tony as the man takes the back of his head and pulls him close.

“Shhh,” Tony murmurs, fingers carding through the curls at Peter’s nape. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. Go ahead and cry, I’m here.”

It takes some time for Peter to cry himself out. Tony doesn’t stop whispering reassurances the whole time. He can tell by the pace of the breaths beneath him that Peter’s still awake.

“You can tell me anything, Pete,” he offers gently, as he has every night. “I’m here for you.”

Peter has yet to tell Tony about what happened to him, or about the nightmares that haunt him so badly. As he comforts, Tony traces his thumb across the hollow under Peter’s eye, wiping away wetness there and remembering how the straps of a muzzle had traced the same spot in a perverse fashion not so long ago, before Iron Man had removed and destroyed the thing in disgust.

Some scars can’t be bandaged as easily as others, but for the first time in all such nights, Peter does respond.

“Mr. Stark,” he says so softly that Tony holds his breath so as to not miss anything, “Mr. Stark, I- I don’t- I just don’t understand.”

It’s in these moments, somehow, that Peter is most himself. The storms drag Peter out of his hiding place. “What don’t you understand,” the man prompts. He pulls back to see the teen’s face. His young brow is furrowed in- confusion? concentration?

Peter chews his lip for a moment before going on. “It’s like, when I was there… all I could- all I dreamed about was home. But now I’m here and I, I can’t- I’m st-still there, you know?” He meets Tony’s eyes. “What if I can’t ever really come home?” he concludes hopelessly.

Tony does unfortunately, painfully know what he’s asking about, because he has a similar trauma and it’s called Afghanistan.

“You just need time, buddy,” he says. “I know what you mean, trust me, I do. It just gets better with time.”

“Is it worth it?” Peter presses suddenly. “Am I-” His eyes trail sideways to the sheets and he swallows. “Am I even worth it?”

Tony’s jaw hardens. “That’s not even a question.”

“I-I did bad things… And, and I’m not the same.”

“You didn’t have a choice, kid. And being different? That’s not as bad as you think.”

“I’m ruining your life.”

“Peter, you are not-”

“I’m inhuman and I’m a waste of space.”

It’s the way he says it, like it’s a known fact, something he’s been drilled with and long since accepted, that really gets under Tony’s skin. He’s been pretty good at holding himself together so far, all things considered, but can’t help that he feels his own eyes stinging with tears at the sound of his kid reiterating the garbage he’s been brainwashed with.

He sits up so suddenly that Peter startles.

“I’m not really tired anymore,” he says briskly, throwing the covers off himself and trying to discreetly wipe at his eyes.

Peter pushes himself up too, eyes wide and concerned. “Mr. Stark?”

“I’m feeling like a trip to the lab, maybe a snack on the way. How ‘bout you, kid? Wanna join your old man for some late night wandering?”

Peter presses his lips together in confusion, but he nods. Tony pushes the covers back more so that the kid can get his feet on the ground before stepping out himself, the both of them slipping into their usual bracing of one another.

Apparently speaking, and now getting up, is too much deviation from the routine for Peter because in his eyes he’s slipping back into himself, expression closing off. Tony hopes he doesn’t feel embarrassed; Before-Peter would’ve been, but Now-Peter is hard to read.

FRIDAY turns on lights as they pad down the hall, already long since attuned to Tony’s nocturnal habits. A quick stop at the kitchen supplies them with a bowl of Chex mix, and then the lab doors are whooshing open and Tony’s realizing he doesn’t actually feel like tinkering. He just needed a reprieve to collect his thoughts but now he’s got Peter out of bed for no reason and it’s not healthy, he’s gonna ruin his kid, he’s a terrible guardian-

He shakes his head. One thing at a time.

“Come sit with me,” he says unnecessarily, leading a compliant Peter to the couch and settling him down with the bowl of Chex in his lap. Neither of them move to eat any of it. Tony takes a seat beside him and drums his fingers on the knee of his worn sweatpants for a long moment, looking around for something to do now that he’s brought them here.

His eyes fall on a forgotten Target bag sitting stuffed in one corner and the metaphorical light bulb goes on.

As quickly as he sat, Tony’s back on his feet. Peter’s gaze follows him as he crosses to a nearby screen, booting it on and then retrieving the items he needs from the shopping bag. He shields his activities from Peter and whispers instructions to FRIDAY before finally whirling around to look at his kid with a crazy grin. It probably seems like he’s gone crazy at this point.

“Buddy, I have one question for ya,” he states, hands raising and pausing for dramatic effect. “Have you ever played… Just Dance?”

Peter stares at him the way one might stare at a fascinating tornado. He slowly shakes his head.

Tony laughs nervously. “Uhh... me neither. But listen, after you moved in, I kind of-” ...panicked... “-sent Happy to the store to find things you might like to have around the house? Like video games? I don’t know what kids like. Happy doesn’t either. He must’ve checked the internet or something because he came home with this, and kid, can you imagine Harold Hogan in the store buying a dancing game? Now that’s an image I treasure. On behalf of his efforts, I think we should give it a go, right here, right now.”

By the time the rambling stops, Dum-E, U and Butterfingers have made their way to this corner of the lab like curious cats trying to interpret their boss’ strange behavior. Noticing their presence, Tony throws his arm out to point at Dum-E. The other two bots startle comically.

“You,” Tony declares. “You can hold a wii remote, right? You and me. Let’s dance. Pete, you’re on the tambourine. I don’t actually have a tambourine. Just keep time by knocking, like this.”

The man leans forward and raps his knuckles twice against the side of the chex mix bowl. It’s not like it’s loud, or even necessary, but it’s something to get the kid involved. Peter looks a little lost, but not in the dissociative way- more like he’s trying to figure out if he’s actually awake or if this is a weird dream he’s having. Still, Tony’s on a roll and he feels dangerously confident. Not quite confident enough to ask Peter to dance, but enough to make a fool of himself in the hopes of bringing comic relief to one of their awful nights.

Within a few minutes, FRIDAY has configured the game on Tony’s screen and the main menu music is playing through the speakers. One newly-unwrapped wii-remote is clutched in Dum-E’s claw, safety strap secured, and Tony’s using the other to flip through the menu and create player profiles.

“Okay, so…” he mutters, finally arriving at the song selection screen. “What do we have here... Gotta make sure we choose an easy one. Not for me, of course; I’m worried about dum-dum over there.”

His eye catches on a song title, and he pauses to let the sample play. At first it was just because the song is marked “Beginner Level”, but he recognizes the clip as a tune he’d once caught Peter humming as he worked on some homework. Being the privacy-respecting parental figure he is, Tony had proceeded to tease him relentlessly because One Direction? Wow, Pete, gotta say I didn’t peg you as a pre-teen girl from 2012.

Still, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter perk just slightly, the little dork-- and it’s enough that Tony’s pressing the ‘play’ button without further mental argument.

The screen changes to four dancers, two of which are labeled for his and Dum-E’s remotes. As the opening measures of guitar riff begin, Tony mimics the pose of the avatar on screen and peeks over his shoulder.

“I need my tambourine player,” he reminds, and though Peter’s face is twisted in an expression of intrigue, he quickly readies his knuckle against the side of the Chex bowl and starts tapping it in time with the music.

And Tony dances.

“You’re insecure… Don’t know what for. You’re turnin’ heads as you walk through the do-o-or.”

“How the crap?” Tony mutters, watching Dum-E hit every move perfectly whilst his own avatar misses several points. “How-“

“Don’t need make-up… to cover up. Bein’ the way that you are in en-uh-uh-ough.”

The graphics go crazy for the beginning of the chorus and Tony cringes, though that changes when behind him he hears a small laugh that makes his heart stutter. He doesn’t look just yet, just tries harder to wave his remote hand in time with the song with exaggerated movements.

“Baby, you light up my world like nobody else. The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed-“

This is definitely written for preteen girls, he sighs internally. Still... it’s undeniably catchy. To add to the show, he starts mumble-singing out the words aloud as they scroll on-screen:

“The way you smile at the ground, it ain’t hard to tell, you don’t kno-o-ow, you don’t know you’re beautiful-”

That’s when the ‘tambourine’ beats stop. When Tony looks behind him he sees the kid shaking with silent laughter, an open-mouthed smile on his face.

He meets Tony’s eyes and for once there’s no weight of the world there. He’s just-- Peter.

It’s a sight too beautiful to describe.

“Oooh, keep trying!” the game prompts when Tony forgets to keep up. Their eyes flicker to the screen and Tony huffs.

“I’m not cut out for this follow-along stuff,” he says airily, giving up on it completely. “Tony Stark follows no one’s rules but his own.”

And with that, he slings his remote strap around U’s claw and breaks into his own freestyle moves, the ones he usually reserves for dancing in private, when he’s sleep-deprived and a little loopy. Be that as it may, Tony Stark knows he is a good dancer; he never imagined it would come in handy for a moment such as this, but heck, there’s not much he wouldn’t do if it got Peter doubling over in peels of giggles like he is right now.

When the song hits the chorus a second time, Tony grabs a screwdriver off the shelf, turning it upside-down as an impromptu microphone, and he sings the next words directly to his beaming kid:

“Peter, you light up my world like no-bo-dy else. The way that you- have- hair? Na-na-nanana-- The way you smile at the ground, it ain’t hard to tell, you don’t kno-o-ow--”

Peter goes still, a lingering smile on his face as he listens to Tony’s altered lyrics.

“-If only you saw what I can see, you'd understand why I LOVE you so PERFECTLY-- Right now I'm looking at you and I can't believe you don't know, oh oh- You don't know you're beautiful! Oh, oh-oh, Pe-ter you’re so beau-ti-ful!”

Tony breathes out, surprisingly choked up. He repeats the message as emphatically as he can, for however many times the song repeats it, his movements getting more silly and more sloppy until the music finally ends, bots trilling excitedly in the background about Dum-E’s somehow-perfect score.

He lowers himself to the ground in front of Peter, panting from exertion. The hum of menu music plays behind them but the game is forgotten.

“Peter Benjamin Parker,” Tony breathes. “You are worth… everything. The whole world. You were, you are, and you always will be.”

Peter’s eyes shine like stars. He melts into Tony’s hold when the man leans forward.

…

Peter has scars, but Peter is not his scars.

[tenaciouscupcaketaco]

1989-2020 Poetic Work Of Mario William Vitale

1989-2020 Poetic Work Of Mario William Vitale (Manuscript of Poet Mario William Vitale) From 1993-1997 - Attended State University in Connecticut,Attempted plays : Tartuffe, Miracle Of St. Anthony and Balm in Gieade,( His poetic aspirations had in 1989 from submitting his first poem entitled, "Remembrance Of A Loved One"- (Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum)Next from 1989-1997 ( Wrote primarily for Poetry.com and The International Library Of Poetry),* Received editors choice award in 1997 for poem, " A Beacon Of Light ",(1998) Sent poetic manuscript to N.Y. Time Magazine and Chief Editor " John Hyland".Back with rave reviews !* ( From 1999-2008:Had adapted a real keen sense of style for writing poetry: ( 1999- Sent Editorial to:New Man Magazine for the Passion of Christ Movie;Sent followup letter to company with poetry platform information attached,* 2000-2007 : Magazine : ( Catholic) Maries Rose Ferron Magazine submitted poem" Beacon Of Light", which had excellent editorial reviews as the outset !2008- Wrote poem entitled: ( The Heavy Cross) to Poetry.com* Achieved Poetry status of work of Excellence in writing from the Academy Of American Poetry in which still having received rank and status as a member of Academy;* ( The Connecticut Poetry Society)* Short story submitted entitled, "China Dog Ray" submitted to Virginia WritersQuarterly, West Virginia, Also having member status on their board of Poetry.* ( Attribute Poetry to an ever increasing love of God and his unconditional love that he has for us in return,Thankfulness toward family and friends.( To our past ancestors who fought to uphold freedom that far too many of us take for granted ?One needs a pure heart that's fixed on truth,This is in order to withstand the true great test of time !Life is way too short,Press toward the goal or mark of our high calling that is in Christ Jesus The Lord !~My contempoarry artists include that of ellan Bryant Voight, Kay Ryan and carl Phillips.Which all three are Participants in the Academy Of American Poetry.* Having been a member since 2006,My work reflects the likes of past poets such as C.S.Lewis, Hawthorne and edgar Allen Poe.Most of my work reflects with the values of religious beliefs intact,( In my personal view it is essential in demonstrating a real heart of creativepassion !The reader I believe will benefit by my artistic style of development in a verypositive light.)To further the need for poetry to become more main stream, Mario Vitale was born in Bristol , Ct Has developed a skill for writing poetry in the free verse form. has been featured on Hubpages.com, Starlitecafe.com & Poetry soup. Vitale lives with his elderly mother Ann Soulier in Wolcott, Ct. Currently has written well over 1,000 poems & 2 short story's toward credit platform. Vitale has taken the poetic world by storm being featured on Google, Yahoo & MSN. Looks up to contemporaries in the poetry industry such as John Ashbery & Major Jackson. Has been a favorite featured poet reader at Barnes & Noble in Waterbury, Ct. Also featured on such sites as Poetry soup, Writer's café & Neo Poet. Mario William Vitale 1 Winfield Drive Wolcott, ct 06716 A Beacon Of Light Written by: Mario Vitale A beacon of light to a much hurting world in need ! Can't help but to claim.., Some sense of identity, Stregnth and encouragement only come from above ! Amidst in the distance, the trapped seagull.., Lieth frightened but still yet adrift ! In a most vengeful fashion striking the passing fish, A true source of hope, Yet a most triumphal beam ! This beacon of light shineth forth, Passerby's can err' escape the helping hand.., To the most sparkling of radiance ! (2)Thanksgiving Dinner by Mario Vitale Home for the holiday from New Orleans, with Mother and Father at the tiny drop leaf, brown rosewood, mahogany table with the gold, grinning claw feet; Father, choler- red-in the-face, short- sleeved white shirt and cane, says the blessing as Mother brings in the turkey and cranberry. Then Mother asks, “Won’t you have more?” and father : “Do you think Moll Flanders was a *****?” (I have suffered and bleached my hair blond.) I am silent before their replies. Mother sighs. “I can scarce speak to her.” And Father, too, quotes Shakespeare. (I am thin as paper and the rose- colored bowl of blown glass sitting on the silver stand, half- filled with water.) “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless daughter” (3) Song of Spring Today I heard a robin sing heralding the coming spring A song of exultation to the sky an ode to earth's awakening I saw a willow on the hill It's branches greening in the sun and all the earth seemed hushed & still sleeping streams began to run I heard a softly rising breeze whispering through the grass singing through the still bare trees waiting winter's chill to pass I saw the sun, so bright and warm warming the earth after the rain the buds and leaves, no frost to harm at least, at last, it's spring again. (4) The Ancients It's my last day with the old giants In mourning I hike the lost trails, sniffing the aroma of the bark, that cinnamon of the forest Under tepees of wood in a membrane of shadows, I stalk the earth, its mammal traces, its elusive tracks, to sit on a fallen log where spiders macramé, moss sloping to my knees unaware of invisibles within, grubbing in their tunnels A lizard taps my foot, responding, I muse to its touch, my thoughts like Indian visions, And when daylight mushrooms into night, and an owl hoots from cedar, I still sit with a lizard on my shoe Huddled with the ancients of the woods (5) Epiphany Written by: Mario Vitale It clings to the cliffed shore, to the wintered face of the thistle path, to the fingers of the old man's glove as he waves his memory homeward In that breath between come and go she moves up from the bay; gold turns her stride, the line of her dress, the soft sea pulling at her feet When he reaches out and the frail birds fly and the sun and the sky have married deep into the sea, it clings Even as his shadow threads retreat, it clings, even now as it dissolves to mist (6) A Return Home, Only Time Will Tell Written by: Mario Vitale Oh blessed hope ! Both hardly a believable dream, Sweltering heat with bloodshed in the street... Send the troops home ! There is no clear reason for them to roam.., These are desolate times ! For we have chosen ill faded rhymes.., The casualties are enormous ? For a stated cause that clearly atrocious.., A mother's cry as the door chime rings, A vanishing salute to freedom as the church choir sings ! Let us look above to all the heavenly love.., Merciful one, take this chip off my shoulder.., Stop the senseless fighting before our dear nation grows a bit colder, Suddenly, seeds were dropped out of a farmers bag, In time roots spring up fresh out of the fertile soil... As the sun heats up, Time will tell when this harvest will soon boil... In the vast game of life, One's time is so very brief ! The soul yearns for its' heavenly relief.., Share with others who may want to turn over a brand new leaf.., Time will tell of the true importance of helping one another, To never give into the finish line.., Nor harsh criticism that our society puts out ! Like a famous fighter in his final bout ! Time will tell of the return home, To the open arms of a loved one ! (7) A Valiant Knight Written by: Mario Vitale A Valiant Knight Death springs a new day basking in the breeze In solemn moments lets pause to think of a place A far off castle in the mountains away from it all A valiant knight lived in the structure of it's dwelling Those days of old where mere men had a noble demise A beautiful maiden was in waiting for her knight He would often fight for the cause of stregnth and dignity The draw bridge where the castle stood had a very unique aura A mystery of sort sought up in the vast array of crowned nobility For the king on his thrown was humble yet greedy Always would take care of himself caring nothing for the needy A valiant knight was concerned about the kings trust Often they would disagree on who it was to serve A joker came in front of the king one day with a magic wand Waving the wand in the air then there floated ivy everywhere For the court jester was a fool in the making of his legacy The maiden would often come forth and see For she treasured a red rose that was plucked sometime before Cherished the calling of her stature to the glory of the throne A valiant knight would often sing sweet songs in the night Had a following of village people that would sit before his feet Having a way of words that he would often share The castle was filled with dragons and warlocks searching for love A cause to be brave amidst uncertainty of the kingdom The legacy of golden capulets filled ardent vestibules Let us toast to the valiant knight who keeps a watch on all that is good (8) Hampton Beach The smell of fresh fry doe Time had elapsed playing at the casino Fresh lobster with a side order of fries Those spacious wonderful sky's Down at the shell the continental were playing A walk by the lady of a statue in waiting Flip flops and the sound of laughter A playground for kids in the middle The boardwalk with seagulls flocking over head Fire works in the midnight air with a cheer (9) God's World It is raining again. Summer will be over before it ever gets here Thunder rolls far away, drops hit the windshield, the sky turns gray The Sunflower, the blue Delpinium, the white Stinkwood drink the moisture greedily. The green and silver leaves of the Aspens sparkle as the rain hits them, and the wind turns them round and round The creek flows on, oblivious to the change in the weather. A break in the clouds allows a bit of sun to hit the side of a towering mountain Three cows slowly wend their way homeward. It is dusk. The gray clouds lift and the sun bursts through, before sliding behind the hills for the night It is God's World. He gives it to us to enjoy and to share with each other (10) Jake's House There was a man whose name was Jake Who had a house upon the lake Every morning he would wake And for breakfast have a piece of cake He had a private fishing hole; He always used a long cane pole He fried his fish on red hot coal And served it in a great big bowl For a pet, he had a cat (11) In The Zone Written by: Mario Vitale In The Zone whispers... through the dark deranged portals you evoke fear filled with angelic fervor on it's textual base yet we dig much deep then ever before cries in the dark will light the spark of what we need to know still we stand idle as the average novice introduces its spell along again then the sadness evokes a newer feeling dwindling through the vain extraction of the never world we visually see a flash then a new day approaches on the lawn two lovers having passionate *** the screams of vile extreme explodes throughout perhaps this is the place where Nero tread yet again I sit alone in my house now huddled in the corner the twilight sun has tainted my inner vision the howls of Satanic laughter gives a piercing shriek through a candle was lit by the edge of my bed One can remain lax in the quietness of the moment yet again the setting of the sun a new day has begun as we embark on the moment Does death hurt you the most or is it fear You can equate logic through a firm grasp of the hand whispers again... then a faint cry, we construct living pyramids to honor the dead A stroke of luck an the impulse ensues onto so much more but for what are we grasping for straws what are we searching for ? quietness again this time I'm in the zone as if zombie creatures with viscous long fangs that bite dripping blood off side we run away to hide no one questions anymore no one has a voice alone one last time yet feelings of grandeur awake to the message of hope that spills from the sky a challenge to be free is a question of time eyes with spots digging holes in a pool of blood Satan laughing again spreads his wings Suddenly I awake but to what ? (12) An End Of The Age Of Innocence Part III Written by: Mario Vitale In our fast paced twentieth century world.., We oft' have neglected to stop to smell the roses, Oft' we used to bow our heads silently to pray, As we reflect back to the sixties is had launched a pad to rebellion ! With a vast amount of liberal bias and thinking, No wonder why our nation is sinking.., Sinking amidst a cuss pool of mere morality.., For now it is a quite different time, A very unique but different type of day.., An end of the age of innocence, One hath been enlightened.., From seeking truth, Some fresh out of a garbage can.., Yet for Gods' sake, He hath such an amazing plan ! Hence, to shun the broad road, Yet to seek to venture in the narrow.., Such as a distant bird in flight ! You might see this creature venture out at night ? Of the Eagle nor the Sparrow.., It used to mean something to have a sense of common courteous.., To hold open the door for your neighbor ? Yet for the time being we relent and waiver.., Would you prefer another taste of a certain ice cream flavor ? To ponder we must be content with who we are in the inside.., Nor, a mere fancy suit or blazing sport's car, Life is a roller coaster.., In what you do while busy making other plans.., Finding solace among the height of nature., Such to think at what is quite simple, As a young child reflects on his or her poster board, Playing with their magic crayons.., For in eternity it is such a very long time ! Take heed in what you do, Now is the expectant hour ! What will one choose to do ? There can be no place nor need for any compromise, Within it's vast perpetual spectrum ! One just can't put a price tag on a genuine but unique heart ! Hence, with honest integrity.., The time for change is today ! (13) He Was There by Mario William Vitale From the inner silence of the lamb he was there In welcoming to the world to share Within the multiple of words the mouth speaks As a heart beats through the passage of time To every poem that was ever written To every burden ever lifted To rivers crossing where people living Sometimes loving other moments giving In storms that were outside brewing What is the significance of this love In painted pictures from above To every soldier in a battle To every cow amidst the cattle Not a second glance at any real romance A field of dreams throughout our head From both fire and ice will make you think twice Perhaps another chance at a roll of the dice When every kingdom comes thy will be done Shadows in the shining morn if there's a rose it bears a thorn, He was there in every circumstance When they tried to throw stones at her He was there drawing a line with his finger in the sand It is my hope that some day all will understand A glance at the past will tell us of our future Amidst the inner pain & uncertainty Through shadows in a field of dreams In moments of solace amidst the pain A light moved out upon the street outside A day that wasn't meant to be Thorn crown was pulled upon his head Those shouts of intense anger from the mob There was only one who would help him back on his feet, A light that brought only a few to greet Let us not run away & hide Each one of our sins was placed on that cross To lose the battle now would end in tragic loss Father please forgive them for they know not what they do He said the prayer now the rest is up to you That cross that broke a sinful world apart With his blood-soaked crown with spear in side To show the whole world he had nothing to hide The summoned cry brought about healing in the sky Watch the free angelic dove fly! (14) Momma Of Pearls by Mario William Vitale Since there's nothing I could find That was worth giving you, I sat down to think a while And write a line or two If I had a magic wand I'd wave it just for you, And give you anything you'd like No matter how many or few If I could give you back the years You so willingly gave to me I'm sure that you spend them over again The same as they used to be Remember when those days and nights Instead of going to the fair I'd always say tell me again The story of the three little bears I tried to get a strawberry pie But they were out of season Then I thought of gold Mario William Vitale Written by Mario William Vitale 48/M/Wolcott, Ct 310 Please log in to view and add comments on poems

[ohblackdiamond]

just like streetcars (ace/gene, nc-17)

Just a show, except it wasn’t a show at all. It wasn’t a show at all unless he made it one. During an evening at the debauched Studio 54, Ace gives Gene a dancing lesson.

Notes: Christmas gift for @planet-neun (who also gets ample credit for her input on the basement scene and makeup choices, all of which really helped me out while I was stuck!)!  Thank you for being a wonderful, lovely friend. I’m really blessed and grateful to know you, each and every day. 

“just like streetcars”

by Ruriruri

“D’you dance, Gene?”

“Not really.”

“D’you wanna learn?”

“Huh?”

Gene couldn’t understand him over Studio 54’s usual obnoxious din. He tilted his head slightly, raised a hand to his ear just in case Ace hadn’t heard him, either. Not unlikely around here.

“I said, d’you wanna learn?” Ace’s tone still managed to be lazily affable even when he had to raise his voice. Ace didn’t push much. No, that was an understatement. Ace didn’t push at all. Not with Gene. He had seen Ace cajole Bobby occasionally, but it was always over inconsequential things, things they’d be doing anyway. Asking him for a kiss before a show, or while he was teasing his hair for a photoshoot (“you’re good luck for me, Bobby, you always are”). Gene would watch, shake his head a little bit at the antics.

It wasn’t even just with Bobby. No, Ace made out with Peter often enough, too, whether out of fascination or boredom. Gene didn’t get it. Maybe it was just some strange hedonistic impulse. They’d all indulged, to one extent or another. Regular sex with the groupies had gotten monotonous just because it was so inevitable. They were so easy, so bizarrely willing. Not even blinking at the fetishes and roleplays Gene would sometimes ask out of them. Five, six, seven girls in his bed—he couldn’t even fuck them all in one night, but he’d still bring them in. He wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to prove. Maybe just that he could get them.

Maybe that was what motivated Ace. Kissing his best friend just because he could, like a modern-day Roman emperor high on his own power. Maybe that motivated Ace and Peter both, really. A middle finger to the establishment, just like Bowie’s bisexual claims. Except unlike Bowie, they were backing them up at every single turn. Falling right in line with seven-inch leather heels and dog collars, and distinctly out of line with schoolkid lunchboxes and thermoses. Stooping down until they ran out of depravities to commit.

Gene might believe it if Ace ever looked like he was committing a depravity, but he never did. He’d kiss Bobby or Pete just as warmly, just as ardently as he’d kiss Jeanette. No discussion, but no shame, either. Gene didn’t see how Ace could—keep on like that, not differentiate, and not have it haunt him. Paul couldn’t. It bothered the hell out of the poor guy to—

“Learn?” It took Gene a second or two too long to repeat the question. Ace tilted his head, leaning in more than he needed to. Practically peering. Less sense of personal space than a wandering toddler.

Not that that was unusual, around here. Studio 54, even on the VIP floor, even in the corner of the lounge area they were tucked into, was nothing but bodies smashed against bodies. The din was overwhelming. Worse than a concert. Floor always shaking, the insistent, pulsating bass blaring from the speakers. Topless girls everywhere. Drag queens dressed in tutus. Sodom and Gomorrah with a hearty splash of cocaine.

There was something so self-indulgently unfocused about the whole place, like he was trying to see through glazed windows every time he cut through the velvet-roped line and stepped inside. Paul liked it well enough; Peter wasn’t exactly immune, and Ace ate the damn discotheque up, but it just wasn’t Gene’s preferred scene, not really—not enough attention on him when guys like Rod Stewart and Mick Jagger would put in appearances.

“Yeah, learn.” Ace shrugged. “Why show up here if you’re not gonna dance and you’re not gonna drink?”

“It’s good promotion.”

“Promotion, my ass. You just wanna get a real easy lay.” Ace was grinning. His grasp on his oddly-untouched glass of champagne was flimsy at best, wobbling before he set it down. He stood, reaching out a hand. “C’mon. I’ll teach you.”

Gene took his hand, letting Ace pull him up and out of the booth. Whatever. Just another weird, wild hair on Ace’s part. Not worth arguing, not worth worrying about. Two guys dancing wouldn’t even get you blinked at here. Two guys fucking wouldn’t even get you blinked at here. VIP or no. But it wasn’t just not seeing the harm in it that made Gene relent. No, there was something strange and almost-serious in Ace’s expression. Something that might have passed for sobriety.

This close, he could see the pockmarks and scars across Ace’s cheeks that all the dermabrasion sessions hadn’t managed to clear. Ace wasn’t as good with regular makeup as he was with the greasepaint, but he was enthusiastic. Slightly-smudged eyeliner, foundation, maybe even mascara. A little lipstick, just a shade or two deeper than Ace’s actual color. Femme, sure, but nothing really over the top. Ace didn’t look as much like a chick as he used to a few years ago, before the alcohol had started softening up his gut. But in the flickering light of the disco, he was still pretty and still androgynous. Ace cared more about looking good than Gene did, though he’d always had more to work with. Better features. Just worse skin. Gene let go of Ace’s hand once he was up, only for Ace to take it again, tugging him onto the floor.

“Okay, get your other hand—uh-uh, Gene, your hand’s gonna be on my shoulder. There you go.” Ace’s other hand was already on Gene’s back, pads of his fingers only a vague insinuation against his shirt. A far lighter touch than Gene had ever expected.

“You’re leading?”

“No shit,” Ace said, and laughed, softer than usual. “Don’t worry, I’ll treat you like a lady.”

Gene glanced past Ace and into the crowd on brief automatic. Not that it mattered when the press rarely got into this section of the disco. Most of the juicier photos only ended up in private collections, and most of the big names weren’t even out tonight. Even if they were, it would’ve been fine. Just fine. No one gave a damn around here. No one gave a damn who they’d fooled around with until the morning after, once the Quaaludes and cocaine highs wore off and all they were left with was themselves. A hell of a fate, really. Just a hell of a fate.

Ace squeezed his hand and Gene refocused, just in time to see Ace take a tentative, leaning step forward just as the next song came blaring through. The Stones in all their crackling fury, slamming in with their own seedy disco take. “Miss You,” with its saxophone and insistent underbelly of a bass line, and Jagger spewing out all his hollow denials. Brilliant stuff. Playing to the trends without losing sight of the band’s edge and swagger. KISS could do that. KISS should do that.

“C’mon, Gene, loosen up,” Ace urged as Gene took an awkward step back in response. “Don’t be so stiff, you ain’t in heels right now.”

“Might make this more convincing,” Gene said. Ace didn’t say anything at first, just sort of smiled. “I don’t know if this has the right tempo—”

“Bullshit. Four-four time’s all we need.” Ace crooked his head to the side. A step forward, a step back. “Can’t believe Paul never helped you out any. Mirror me and you’re not gonna go wrong, yeah? ’S just like the shows.”

Just like the shows. Gene couldn’t help but snort at that. Just like the shows where the two of them would end up gyrating against each other in a synchronized simulation. Thighs locked between thighs. Barely any breathing space for the guitars.

He didn’t really remember when he’d started taking it further. Didn’t even remember his rationale for it. One night, Ace had tilted his head back the way he usually did, mouth pinched in a tight circle, and Gene had leaned in, leaned in, kept leaning until he could taste the sweat and paint dripping down from Ace’s face, and then he was tasting it with every lap of his tongue against his neck. He’d watched Ace’s eyes go wide and his posture tense up, but he hadn’t missed a single note. By the time Gene pulled back, Ace’s expression was back to that glazed version of normal. By the time they were taking their bows, an hour later, he’d felt Ace grip his hand a little tighter, yank a bit, making Gene glance his way. Ace had been close enough then to whisper in his ear, just a few words even the crowd’s howls couldn’t steal away.

“Could you do that again? I dug it.”

He hadn’t specified. He hadn’t needed to. After that, Gene had kept licking his neck nearly every concert. It was funny, really. Ace and Peter fooled around openly, Paul on what he seemed to think was the sly, but the only time Gene ever really did anything vaguely queer was onstage. It wasn’t real there, any more than the fire-breathing or the blood-spewing. There was that comfortable distance, where they were and weren’t themselves anymore, just performers, just characters stomping and lurching around while the smoke bombs went off around them.

That comfortable distance was gone now as he danced with Ace. Forward and back, still stiff. Remarkably, Ace managed to keep from bumping into anybody. Gene kept looking him in the face at first, trying to figure out his expression. It was odd. Almost tense, his lips, fuller than Gene had realized, pursed in quick little moments. Ace wouldn’t hold his gaze for more than a second at a time, either, and so Gene gave up after awhile, started looking past his shoulder. A couple feet away, he saw two guys messing around—guys from some newer band he couldn’t remember—and there on the floor was a brunette Playmate in nothing but her underwear, sitting on a guy’s face, her lacy panties brushing up against his chin and tongue. Gene’s breath hitched. Forward and back, and he tilted his head, watching the chick as her hips pushed up and the guy lapped against the lingerie at first, then pressed his tongue beneath the cloth. Her head bent towards the ceiling, but not before she threw Gene a smile.

“What’re you looking at?” Ace’s voice in his ear, that uneven warble.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Ace was grinning at him. The hand on his back pressed just a bit harder, tugging him forward. “Maybe I wanna see.”

“Ace—” Gene started, but Ace was turning them both around already, leaving him stumbling out of step, their places swapped. Now the only sight over Ace’s shoulder was a passed-out guy in just his socks and boxers. Not half as arousing.

“Oh. Oh, yeah, okay.”

Gene expected Ace to linger on the girl, make a come-on or encouraging quip, but he didn’t. Just winked at her—maybe at him, too, and turned them back around again. She’d raised her head. Gene could’ve sworn she’d mouthed his name as her hand raised to her own breast, pushed past the flimsy bra and squeezed. The man between her thighs kept going, his head shifting with every move of his tongue—Gene couldn’t see his face and didn’t want to; he was only the instrument she was using to get off.

“Didn’t think you were much of a voyeur, Gene,” Ace said. “I dunno why, when you always bring so many girls up to your room—you get ’em to fool around for you?”

“Sometimes.” Another step. Jagger still in the background, rambling about the Puerto Rican girls. Just dyin’ to meet you. Gene’s movements were a little more fluid now, with his eyes on the chick, the most important focal point in view. “Nothing… nothing too—”

“Wild?” Ace laughed. This close and he could smell his breath. No scent of alcohol at all. Like he was cleaning up, the way he’d do during recording sessions, except they weren’t recording. His wavy hair, half the black dye gone, brushed up against the side of Gene’s face. “C’mon, man, I know better. What’d they do for you?”

“Sometimes they’ll kiss each other.” They’d think they had a leg up on the competition if they did. They’d pair off, crush their lips together and then turn to see if he was still watching. “Sometimes take each other’s clothes off. Touch each other a little.”

“For a degenerate, you suck at descriptions.” The hand on his back tightened. “Do they get each other off? Or do they gotta wait on you for that?”

“They…” It wasn’t the conversation he wanted to have with his bandmate. Any of them, but Ace especially. The reporters, the press interviews, they were one thing. He could dance around with rife insinuations and implications. But he couldn’t discuss the girls with the other guys. Not at length. It just got too stupid, turned into dick-measuring and teasing from all sides until he was too fed up for it. “They’re too shy, mostly.”

“’S sweet.” Ace’s other hand, the one clasped in his, shifted slightly, fingertips circling his knuckles, catching on the rings there. “Y’know it goes both ways, right?”

“What?”

“Getting off to it.” The strobe lights flashing against Ace’s face were making Gene squint just to see him properly. That little, amused glint that Ace couldn’t hide from anyone was full on his face as he spoke. “Guys wanna see two chicks go at it, sure, that ain’t rocket science. But girls, they wanna see two guys just as bad.”

“Like I believe that.”

“You should.” Ace’s steps were wider now, encroaching on his space a bit more. Gene wasn’t moving back as much as he ought to, and he knew it. “Some kind of psychological shit. Even back… back in the Village, I had it figured…”

Gene’s hand slipped from Ace’s shoulder. There was a little sweat left behind, dampening Ace’s shirt, barely-visible. As if he’d actually exerted himself on what wasn’t even a dancefloor. He hesitated, pushing his focus back to the girl, still straddling the guy’s face. The look in her eyes as her hips twisted. The look in her eyes as she unclasped her bra, revealing hardened pink nipples and suntanned skin. The smirk when she tossed it toward him, though it only skidded the dirty floor.

“She’s giving you a show still, huh?” Soft, soft. Jagger’s tirade was almost over, the last of the saxophones fading out over the insistent pump of the bass. Another second and they’d drop another record downstairs. Gene pulled Ace forward, trying to keep him from stepping on the bra, and Ace complied easily, closing in on what little distance was left between them. Ace didn’t reach to take Gene’s other hand, didn’t try to place it back on his shoulder. Ace’s steps slowed, then stopped, voice barely a whisper. “Let’s give her one back. Least we could do, yeah?”

“Ace,” Gene started. The syllable sounded forced. A million responses were there in his brain. Ace, this is stupid, as though something being stupid had ever stopped Ace. Ace, you’re drunk, except for once, ridiculous as it seemed, Gene didn’t think he was. At least, he hadn’t had that champagne. And he’d turned down Steve Rubell’s offer of coke at the door. A minor miracle, as Ace’s long, thin fingers stroked the back of his palm before letting go, as languid and careless as if he was releasing a guitar pick. The Playmate was looking at him again, cupping her breasts in her hands, dark eyes smoldering—let’s give her one back—and Gene felt himself nod and he felt himself lean in, to meet a pair of lips he’d never touched before.

Ace tugged him in almost immediately. Pressed tight enough that he could almost hear the click of their belt buckles as Ace kissed him back, not cautious at all, just warm and easy. Gene could taste his lipstick, the sweet, faint remnants of soda on his mouth. Feel Ace’s arm wrap around him, his hand warm against the back of his neck.

He wasn’t looking at the girl now. His tongue was in Ace’s mouth, searching, wanting. He’d lapped Ace’s neck hundreds of times, tongue tracing the sharp outline of his throat, pressing against his pulse to the sound of the screaming crowd and the beat of Peter’s drums, but there was no comparison to the taste, the feel of him now. No comparison in the world.

It was Ace who broke the kiss, his cheek still against his jaw, lips at his ear. Just a soft mumble at first, almost inaudible.

“She ain’t getting a real good look.”

“I guess not.”

“You wanna give her one?” and Gene nodded, strangely emboldened. He never had participated in Ace and Peter and Paul’s stupid threesomes, where they’d have a groupie between them who’d suck one off while the other plowed her. He hadn’t wanted that kind of excess. Hadn’t wanted to be around his bandmates that much, to the point even sex got shared. But this was different. The girl wasn’t between them. No buffer. It wasn’t even for her that he grasped Ace’s hip and turned him, wondering, somehow, if this was how it had started, with Bobby, with Peter, wondering and not caring at all.

The Playmate—last October’s girl, if he remembered right—grinned widely once they were both in view. The man between her thighs shifted, turned his head, nose slick with her fluids, and caught a glimpse that Gene was too heady to give a damn about. Ace started back in without a pause, one hand sliding under Gene’s shirt, coursing up it as their lips met again and again. Just a show, except it wasn’t a show at all. It wasn’t a show at all unless he made it one.

Gene’s hand felt heavy and cumbersome, useless except to hold onto Ace’s hip, keep him steady as he rocked against him, the friction almost familiar. He’d let Ace grind against his leg during dozens of concerts. Let him rub up on him measure after measure during his solos. But feeling Ace’s hard-on against his own, their jeans the only barrier between them, and the girl on the floor the only pretense—traipsed right out of that play-pretend territory and into something deeper. Something more real than the thump of the bass and the dirty floor at their feet, more honest than superhero costumes and movie deals. Not debauched like he’d thought, but warm, too warm, as Ace’s lipstick smeared across his skin and Gene reached out, cupping his cheek, the look in Ace’s dark eyes far away and needy.

“You okay, Ace?”

Ace made a soft sound of assent. He kissed Gene again. Despite Gene’s hand on his hip, he was still pistoning them eagerly against Gene’s own, making Gene feel as if all his blood had suddenly pooled right to his cock. He was swallowing his own small groans as if the blaring music wasn’t covering them up, while Ace’s hand beneath his shirt traced and rubbed all over his back, like he was trying to memorize the pattern of his skin. Wanting, not claiming. Ace had never claimed anything that Gene had noticed. Nothing beyond his teasing brush and his costume leotards with his name stitched on the back. Everything else, he’d allowed others to own. Paul had lifted his name years before he’d known him, to no protest at all; Gene and Peter both had his songs, freely given, sung every night. Gene didn’t understand it. Laying ownership to what you wanted, what was yours, was essential. He’d learned that at six, selling fruit for pennies in Israel. Ace, at twenty-eight, hadn’t yet figured that out.

“Ace, c’mon, let’s—let’s go to the basement,” Gene panted out. He didn’t specify further. He didn’t need to. Ace knew what was down there as well as he did. A setup as unglamorous and obvious as any. Leftover decorations and set pieces littered the floor. No more than a couple dozen people were in the whole basement at a time, ever, all holed up in rooms with dirty mattresses on the floor. In a club designed for debauchery, the basement was the only place to fuck privately. Ace crooked a smile.

“What about the girl?”

“I’m not gonna—”

���You got way too much shame, man.” Ace slid his hand out from under Gene’s shirt, patted his back before peeling away from him. He gestured with his thumb, all amused, like Gene didn’t know the way. “All right. Let’s go.”

And down the stairs they went, stepping over passed-out ingenues and burn-outs, could’ve-beens and never-was. One grasped at Gene’s foot in recognition, but he managed to maneuver free without Ace’s help, though he laughed (“did you give her a baby, Geno? You’ve got way too many as-is”), having to grip the railing to keep from stumbling.

The doorman recognized them both immediately, letting them in the basement without a second’s hesitation. The shambles of the basement were before them then, the musty smell of sex almost overwhelming, but Gene didn’t care. He’d fucked in worse places. The rat-infested backstage of those old ballrooms. Their old practice space, covered with egg cartons. He grabbed Ace by the arm, unthinking, urgent, tugging him to the nearest room. The light was already on, the bare spring mattresses, stained with semen and glitter and, probably, traces of cocaine, spread on the floor. No different from last time he’d come.

He turned, seeing Ace lock the door behind them, and then they were at it again, Gene backing Ace up against the wall before long, not out of real intent so much as happenstance, like the dance steps Ace hadn’t taught. Ace was panting against him, struggling with his own belt, fingers that were so deft on his Les Paul, so tight against a glass or champagne or a bottle of beer, somehow useless against the leather. Gene helped him unbuckle it, but then Ace was scrambling to loosen Gene’s belt, almost desperate, as if the chance was evaporating in front of him. Gene let him, then, trying to keep his face straight, keep his ego in check. But Ace stopped just as suddenly, hands reaching out to Gene’s jeans only to stop at the zipper, not even yanking them down.

“You don’t fuck around with guys,” Ace said. Just a statement. No judgment. Gene looked at Ace, finally properly looked at him, the florescent but unchanging light almost a welcome reprieve from the strobes and spotlights upstairs. The lipstick was smudged, rubbed off in the center and smeared at the corners, foundation melting. The girl was four flights of stairs away. All Gene’s excuses for the evening were gone—except they didn’t matter. He didn’t want to use them.

“Not in general.”

“Not ever. I know. But you,” and Ace hesitated, mouth contorting oddly, “you gotta tell me you wanna—”

“I want to.”

Ace visibly relaxed. He slid down the zipper then, fingers locked around Gene’s belt loops, shoving his jeans down along with his underwear, only down to his thighs. He did the same with his own, yanking them down just enough to expose his erection. Gene inhaled sharply, feeling Ace’s eyes on him, still dark and impossible to figure out, as Ace reached for his dick, fingers twitching just before closing around him. Grunting, Gene leaned in, one hand pressed against Ace’s shoulder, the other lax at his side. He tilted his head, kissed Ace’s neck while Ace started to pump, quickly, moving up and down his shaft, the dry friction of his palm barely slickened by sweat. Gene jerked in his hand, breathing hard, feeling Ace’s hard-on up against his thigh, and then he reached out and grasped Ace’s dick.

Something in Ace’s face changed then. The inscrutable look in his eyes vanished, something open, almost raw replacing it. Like he really didn’t believe it. This close and Gene could feel him panting, those little, high intakes of breath as Gene began to stroke. Small, oddly soft curses spilled from Ace’s mouth when it wasn’t pressed to Gene’s. Gene had his doubts on his own technique, but Ace’s gasps and the roll of his hips were proof enough. A little faster, a little harder, the upstairs bass pounding in his ears, flooding everything in its own tempo, as Ace’s steady palm on his cock created a maddening rhythm all its own.

He was shuddering against Ace before long, only steadied by his grip on Ace’s shoulder. Ace came before he did with a quiet moan, spurting hot all over his hand and against him, staining his shirttail. Gene was too close himself to care, cursing and grunting, every thought beyond his own pleasure long since out of view. He dropped his hold on Ace’s dick, thoughtless, his damp hand reaching for Ace’s other shoulder, vying for something, some anchor to grasp onto while he shuddered into his orgasm, gasping for breath against the crook of Ace’s neck.

Ace didn’t let him go until it was over, down to that last thread of come. He looked bleary, out of it—no different from normal, at a cursory glance. But this close, there was more; this close, there was a strange easiness to him. Gene took his hands from Ace’s shoulders, looking at the stain he’d left behind, shaking his head.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll—”

“Nah, it’s cool.” Ace was grinning again, in that way that made him look like a kid. Dark eyes all lit up and almost mischievous.“Besides, I got you pretty good there, didn’t mean to.”

“What, my shirt? I’ll just tuck it back in.”

“It’s not just there.” Ace looked at his own hand, licking off Gene’s come almost absentmindedly, while pointing with his other hand, where the errant come was clotted on his thigh and hip. “Here… and right here, hang on, I’ll get it off you—I know they’ve got tissues—”

“I’ve got it,” Gene started, but Ace shook his head.

“Uh-uh. I said I’d treat you like a lady, didn’t I? I meant it.” Ace didn’t bother pulling up his jeans before crossing over to the other side of the room, coming back with a box of tissues. “Fucking swear, Gene. People begging to get in here every damn night and they ain’t even bothering with lube in the basement. Figures, yeah?”

“That would cut into their profit margin.”

“Profit margin,” Ace repeated, then giggled loudly, reaching to wipe the come off Gene. Gene tried not to move while he did it—nothing erotic in the touch, just oddly careful, oddly gentle as he ran the tissue across his skin. “There’s more important shit than that, y’know?”

“I know.”

Ace crumpled up the tissues when he was done, dropping them on the floor. He took a second handful and wiped himself off, too, not nearly as carefully, barely dabbing at the semen stain on his shirt. Gene watched him for a second before yanking his jeans back up and zipping up. He was buckling back his belt by the time Ace spoke again.

“Hey, Gene.”

“Yeah?”

Ace wasn’t quite looking at him, not directly. The old trick Gene had watched out of Paul a hundred times at least, staring an interviewer or a fan or even him in the mouth instead of the eye, just to quell his own anxiety. The exact same thing. Gene waited.

“You’re pretty good to dance with, man.”

Gene reached over on impulse. Ace didn’t freeze up when his hand closed briefly over his, and squeezed. The slow, bright smile was back on his face, and it stayed there long after Gene answered, long after they’d trudged up the stairs and sunk into the limo’s backseat, Studio 54’s neon lights fading in the rearview mirror. Long after. Long after.

“You, too.”

[sinister-bob]

Robert the Devil

There was once a duchess of Normandy who was tormented with a desire to have children and yet could have none. Weary of recommending herself to God, who will not listen to her, she betakes herself to the Devil, and her wish is speedily satisfied.

A son is born to her, a veritable firebrand. As an infant, he bites his nurse and tears out her hair; as a lad, he knifes his teachers; at the age of twenty, he becomes a bandit chief.

He is dubbed knight, in the belief that thus the wicked instincts raging within him may be overcome; but thereafter he is worse than he was before.

No one surpasses him in strength or in courage. In a tourney he overthrows and slays thirty opponents; then he goes roaming about the world; then he returns to his native land, and begins once more to play the bandit, robbing, burning, murdering, ravishing.

One day, after cutting the throats of all the nuns of a certain abbey, he remembers his mother and goes in search of her. Soon as they spy him, the servants take to their heels, scattering in all directions; not one tarries to ask him whence he comes or what he desires. Then, for the first time in his life, Robert is astounded at the horror which he inspires in his fellow-beings; for the first time, he becomes conscious of his own monstrous wickedness, and he feels how his heart is pierced by the sharp tooth of remorse. But why is he wickeder than other men? Why was he born thus? Who made him what he is?

An ardent longing seizes him to unravel this mystery. He hastens to his mother, and with drawn sword he adjures her to unveil to him the secret of his birth. Learning this, he becomes frantic with terror, shame, and grief. But his sturdy nature is not weakened; he does not yield to despair; instead, the hope of a laborious redemption, of a marvelous victory, urges and spurs on his proud spirit. He will learn to conquer Hell, to subdue himself, to thwart the designs of that accursed fiend who created him to serve his own ends, who has made of him a docile instrument of destruction and of sin. And he makes no delay.

He goes to Rome, casts himself at the feet of the pope, makes confession to a holy hermit, submits himself to the harshest kind of penance, and swears that henceforth he will taste no food that he has not first wrested from the jaws of a dog. On two separate occasions, when Rome was besieged by the Saracens, he fights incognito for the Emperor and gains the victory for the Christians.

Recognized at last, he refuses all rewards and honors, the imperial crown, even the monarch's own daughter, goes away to dwell with his hermit in the wilderness, and dies a saint, blessed by both God and men. In other accounts, he finally weds the beautiful princess who is deeply in love with him.